Imagine having psychometry and having to live at the mansion under Charles’ watchful eye because it drove you mad.
You sat on your bed, your knees pulled up to your chest as you stared forward blankly. Your room in the mansion was what could only be called spartan. You had a bed, a dresser, a small window, and a bookshelf. No technology. A simple desk and chair with ample paper to write on. A door led to a bathroom that included a toilet, sink and shower. The only thing that might have seemed odd was how the walls were plastered with papers covered in your cryptic rantings.
You looked up as the door to your room opened and Charles appeared, wheeling himself carefully past the threshold. “How are you today, [f/n]?” he asked softly and you tilted your head to the side, not speaking.
Charles moved to your walls, his eyes passing over some of the papers you had added since he last visited. “You’ve been busy,” he observed, glancing over to you. You just blinked back at him silently, your eyes wide and doleful. You began to rock back and forth slightly, mumbling softly under your breath.
Charles couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy rise up in his chest as he watched you. He had tried entering your mind once to better understand what you went through, and the experience had been one he would never be able to forget. It was little wonder to him that you had receded into your mind. You could barely stand being around other people for fear of your visions. It was why you lived so separate from the rest of the school where Charles could keep an eye on you.
“Lunch should be along in an hour,” Charles advised, keeping his voice as level as possible. “Do you have a preference for dinner tonight?”
You just continued to blink at him, rocking back and forth atop your duvet. Charles sighed and was almost out the door again when he heard you speak, your voice barely more than a whisper and your eyes fixed solely on him. “Pancakes?”
A small smile tugged the telepath’s lips, “I’ll see what I can do, [f/n].”
Cheguei numa fase da minha vida que vejo que a única coisa que fiz até agora foi fugir, fugir de mim mesmo, do meu nada, e agora não tenho mais para onde ir, nem sei o que vou fazer, fui péssimo em tudo.
Contudo, todos nós precisamos de fuga. As horas são longas e têm de ser preenchidas de algum modo até nossa morte. E simplesmente não há muita glória e sensação para ajudar. Tudo logo se torna chato e mortal. Acordamos pela manhã, jogamos o pé para fora da cama, colocamo-los no chão e pensamos ‘ah, merda, e agora?’