* Mentalist *
Sunshine bursts through dull grey-hued clouds, its rays filtering down onto Kyle's face.
Yes, he believed that there resided a little evil, a touch of cruelty, a hint of darkness within everyone. In fact, he relished acts, big or small, of twisted intentions. He always knew he was "strange" as put it by people who knew him. Unique, was what he rather be termed, perhaps bordering on "superior". Those comments didnt affect him, all they did was to consolidate the unrefutable fact that Kyle enjoyed in watching people suffer, writhe in pain, bathed in loneliness.
You see, Kyle has a special gift. At first he thought that it was just strokes of coincidences, but soon the frequencies of these small little coincidences were just way out of mathematical reasoning to term "coincidental". He couldnt really pinpoint what exactly this "gift" allowed him to do. This gift he possessed allowed him to will people into doing certain things. If he were to illustrate, it would be like he had a shiny steel crowbar with him all the time. He would mentally picture himself, slowly prying, wedging into minute cracks found on his victim's skull. Sometimes, he wouldnt be successful for long periods of time. He couldnt locate these almost unnoticable cleavages, searching it, scanning the victim's skull mentally. But Kyle always manges to succeed in the end.
Finding the sweet spot, the steel crowbar appears, positioned, inches from the opening, usually behind earlobes or near the spiral where hair sorts of grow out from. He slowly wedges the crowbar at the crack, teasing it artfully, taking care not to be too forceful. There was once, when Kyle was impatient and willed everything into the small opening at one go of an old brunnette. She flinched, much like from a pin pericing into the flesh behind her ear lobes. Swatting at an invisible insect that she thought might be bitting her. Kyle lost connection and was unususally exhausted, he felt like she had drained everything out of him.
So slowly and cautiously, he prys it apart. Once the small cleavage opens up, that is where he exercises his gift. He whispers, taking his time, elaborating, taking care not to miss any details of what he would like his victim to perform. Words leave his mouth, forming fine purple mists, swirl, whirl and snake into the black opening of the victim. The victim mostly feel nothing when all that happens, but sometimes, they feel a sudden shudder, like something, not sure if it was good or bad, was going to happen to them. Like a gentle current running down their spine, to their finger tips, down their thighs. Some quiver subconciously in enjoyment while others remain unmoved, unaware of the danger.
And then, smiling to himself with great satisfaction, he relents his tool and allows the opening to close back like a clam closing its shell after opening it slightly. Crossing his arm, he observes intently, with his weight all shifted to one leg. Soon, his victim twitches mildly, much an insect reacting after being sprayed with chemicals. And almost, with no explanation, Kyle's victim's start doing unexplainable things. Like throttling at full speed into a lamp post, scrapping the back of one's hand with a fork or simply jumping into a deep drain. The victims are momentarily in a trance, manipulated like a rag doll.
Kyle gets an overwhelming sense of fulfilment. It flows, courses, pumps through his veins, it feels so so good. It empowers him to do more, inflicting pain, misery. Smirking at his work, he takes a walk, almost breaking into a skip, home.
Sunshine bursts through dull grey-hued clouds, its rays filtering down onto Kyle's face.
Yes, he believed that there resided a little evil, a touch of cruelty, a hint of darkness within everyone. In fact, he relished acts, big or small, of twisted intentions. He always knew he was "strange" as put it by people who knew him. Unique, was what he rather be termed, perhaps bordering on "superior". Those comments didnt affect him, all they did was to consolidate the unrefutable fact that Kyle enjoyed in watching people suffer, writhe in pain, bathed in loneliness.
You see, Kyle has a special gift. At first he thought that it was just strokes of coincidences, but soon the frequencies of these small little coincidences were just way out of mathematical reasoning to term "coincidental". He couldnt really pinpoint what exactly this "gift" allowed him to do. This gift he possessed allowed him to will people into doing certain things. If he were to illustrate, it would be like he had a shiny steel crowbar with him all the time. He would mentally picture himself, slowly prying, wedging into minute cracks found on his victim's skull. Sometimes, he wouldnt be successful for long periods of time. He couldnt locate these almost unnoticable cleavages, searching it, scanning the victim's skull mentally. But Kyle always manges to succeed in the end.
Finding the sweet spot, the steel crowbar appears, positioned, inches from the opening, usually behind earlobes or near the spiral where hair sorts of grow out from. He slowly wedges the crowbar at the crack, teasing it artfully, taking care not to be too forceful. There was once, when Kyle was impatient and willed everything into the small opening at one go of an old brunnette. She flinched, much like from a pin pericing into the flesh behind her ear lobes. Swatting at an invisible insect that she thought might be bitting her. Kyle lost connection and was unususally exhausted, he felt like she had drained everything out of him.
So slowly and cautiously, he prys it apart. Once the small cleavage opens up, that is where he exercises his gift. He whispers, taking his time, elaborating, taking care not to miss any details of what he would like his victim to perform. Words leave his mouth, forming fine purple mists, swirl, whirl and snake into the black opening of the victim. The victim mostly feel nothing when all that happens, but sometimes, they feel a sudden shudder, like something, not sure if it was good or bad, was going to happen to them. Like a gentle current running down their spine, to their finger tips, down their thighs. Some quiver subconciously in enjoyment while others remain unmoved, unaware of the danger.
And then, smiling to himself with great satisfaction, he relents his tool and allows the opening to close back like a clam closing its shell after opening it slightly. Crossing his arm, he observes intently, with his weight all shifted to one leg. Soon, his victim twitches mildly, much an insect reacting after being sprayed with chemicals. And almost, with no explanation, Kyle's victim's start doing unexplainable things. Like throttling at full speed into a lamp post, scrapping the back of one's hand with a fork or simply jumping into a deep drain. The victims are momentarily in a trance, manipulated like a rag doll.
Kyle gets an overwhelming sense of fulfilment. It flows, courses, pumps through his veins, it feels so so good. It empowers him to do more, inflicting pain, misery. Smirking at his work, he takes a walk, almost breaking into a skip, home.