Chapter 6: Dr E. Walker, Psychiatrist Extraordinaire
~ Part 3: Getting Into It ~
“Many experts in forensics, whether they are criminologists, psychologists or psychiatrists, use the terms sociopathy and psychopathy interchangeably. To this day, experts still disagree on the pertinence of a differentiation between the two conditions.’ Mmmh…”
I pause my reading, raise an eyebrow and close the book, taking a look at the cover. It reads: Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, tenth edition, by the American Psychiatric Association. Call me sceptical, but this title evokes me more a forgotten rulebook for the Call of Cthulhu RPG. And I’m not about to put my trust in a group named after that flying bison from The Last Airbender, APA…
Or was it Appa? Right. I was wondering what bison have to do with psychology anyway. Aside, of course, for the insanity they induce in essay-writing because of their lack of a decent plural form. Seriously, why is the plural of “bison” also “bison”? Are bison in fact some sort of evolved species with a world-wide hive mind, making them in truth a single entity? That’d be ridiculously scary.
Though that is probably because the word comes from the old French bison, from the Latin bisōn, from Proto-Germanic wisundaz…
…
……
………
HOW DOES THAT EVEN WORK?!!
Okay. Caaaaaaalm. Take a deep breath. Okay. I’m fine. Let’s move on.
What about sheep?
DAMMIT!!!
…
After calming down, I open the book once again, at the table of content, while mumbling.
“How am I supposed to believe this when their opening statement is ‘sorry, but we’re not sure if this is pertinent’. Anyway, I’ve lost my page. Antisocial Personality Disorders… Antisocial… Antisocial… At least it’s in the A’s... Anticipation. No– Ah. Antisocial Personality Disorders. Page 1487. Holy Hufflepuff, that’s a lot of pages.”
I quickly skim through up to page 1487. I’m currently sitting on my bed, taking a break from the game after delivering Dorothy back to her scary-but-attractive-if-a-little-too-old adoptive mother.
By the way, if anyone is wondering why in the name of Tinky Winky I have this book in my bedroom, it’s because I took it from my old family house, where I’d kept it on my night stand. It made for odd reading habits as a child, but I think I turned out alright.
…
……
………
I blame most of my current dysfunctions on binge-watching/reading all Disney’s and fairy tales I could get my hands on as a teenager, when I finally discovered there was more to entertainment than my mother’s thesis reference list.
Don’t get me wrong. My Mom is a very loving mother. Just not a very competent one, on hindsight… I think.
“Sooo… ‘Sociopathy and psychopathy share many common behavioural patterns, which is why they are so often confused.’ Tsk. Great. Get your story straight, book. Is there or is there not a distinction?! Let’s suppose there is. What does this say next? ‘Both disorders include key common traits such as: One, a disregard for laws and social mores.’ …Alright. What’s a mores?”
I close the book again and walk around the VR-pod to my bookshelves and pick up a dictionary. I could have just looked it up online, but I do feel like I’m not using this dictionary often enough. Why, yes it’s a totally obsolete item, but I do feel some sentimental attachment to it. I used that brick a lot, back in primary school. Good ol’ Paperback Oxford English Dictionary. You don’t just throw the elderly away because they aren’t relevant anymore, do you?
“M… M… M… Mishap… Mistletoe. Skip that… Necrophilia. Too far… Ah. There. More. Moreish. That’s a word? Morel. ‘An edible fungus with a brown oval or pointed cap.’ Interesting. Morello. That sounds like that edible fungus started playing cello all of a sudden. Moreover. Ah. Mores. Mores: ‘Notions which are usually accepted as valid without question within a given community’…”
I lean back with my eyebrow raised even higher than previously.
Accepting a notion as valid without questioning it? In my book, I call people who do that “fa-na-tics”. And fanatics are baaaad people. Question what people tell you, kids.
I am about to put the dictionary back on the shelf, but stop and take it with me back to the bed. Who knows what absconds terminology I might encounter in this fascinating journey to knowledge? I put it on the duvet beside me and pick up the bison comity’s Cthulhu manual.
“Alright, so ‘a disregard for laws and social mores’? That’s actually a good thing. Well, I’d say those psychopaths and sociopaths are starting out as pretty great people so far. What’s next?”
I draw my finger over the page, down the short list of similarities. There are only four really.
“Two, a disregard for the rights of others.’ …mmh. Please define ‘others’. Are those others supposed to be people I care about? Or the irrelevant rest of humanity? Come on. This supposed advanced psychology book is entirely too unspecific. Well never mind. Next? ‘Three, a failure to feel remorse or guilt.’ Okay, I’ll give you that. But you’d need to do anything warranting remorse or guilt in the first place. Which again is a very subjective concept. I can’t remember the last time I did anything I felt remorseful about. Last point… ‘Four, a tendency to display violent behaviours’? OH, COME ON!! That describes like ninety percent of… everybody!”
Nick, calm down.
I am calm! Don’t I look calm?!
“Ahhhhh…”
I stand up and go fetch the thick tome I just threw across the room.
That book seemed much better as a kid. That’s why you shouldn’t try to relive your childhood memories. You’ll only be disappointed.
Back on my bed, I resume reading.
“In addition to their similarities, sociopaths and psychopaths have their own unique behavioural patterns.’ There we go. ‘Sociopaths tend be unstable, volatile, and prone to emotional outbursts.’ … ‘They do not fit very well within society as they have no regard for society itself in general or its rules. While it isn’t impossible for a sociopath to form emotional attachments with others, it is nevertheless difficult and will happen most often towards a specific community, or even a single individual.”
And that, in my book, is a yandere.
Shush, I’m reading.
“From an unrelated observer’s standpoint, sociopaths will appear as very disturbed and disturbing creatures, whose actions seem and often are random, disorganized and… spontaneous… rather… than… err… planned…”
I tilt my head in puzzlement.
Is it my imagination, or does this feel familiar?
It’s your imagination.
Oh. Good then.
“Contrary to sociopaths, people suffering from psychopathy are completely incapable of forming emotional attachments of any sort, simply because they lack any form of empathy. Paradoxically, they often have charming and engaging personalities. They are manipulative by nature and can easily gain people’s trust, because they learnt to mimic emotions, despite the fact they are actually unable to feel any themselves.”
So basically they seem normal, more so than sociopath. They even often lean towards appearing like calm, cool and meticulous individuals, but in truth they are empty robots.
Thus, if you ever meet a jolly murderer laughing as he or she repeatedly stabs a decapitated corpse with a bloodied toothbrush while invoking the Wrath of Tinker Bell upon the World… don’t call him a psychopath. That person is most likely a sociopath.
…
In fact, don’t call them. Call the police.
And run.
Fast.
Alright. That was most informative. Anything else?
I scan through the page, trying to find any other relevant information.
“Criminal psychopaths will carefully plan out every detail of their felony in advance, with multiple contingencies ready, unlike their more unpredictable sociopath counterparts. Their crimes, no matter their nature, usually leave little evidence behind. The also make excellent con artists due to their cool charisma.”
Interesting titbit, but not very pertinent to my current babysitting issue. Is there any information about toddler psychopaths?
Surprisingly, there isn’t.
The one last detail that retains my attention is about the matter of causality.
According to the book, the reasons for psychopathy and sociopathy are usually believed to be different. Sociopathy would result from environment, upbringing, abuses, trauma, et cetera, while psychopathy is said to originate from a genetically underdeveloped brain, more specifically the part of the brain responsible for impulse control and emotions.
“Nurture” versus “nature”, if you will.
Well, well, well… Ain’t that fancy sounding?
A bit restrictive too, those definitions. I don’t think Dorothy fits the typical profile of a psychopath, although she does have the charming personality and general lack of empathy as far as I can tell. But I’m more inclined to think that rather than absent, her emotions are being repressed along with her memories.
Maybe she couldn’t handle her parents’ death, and her subconscious decided to quarantine everything instead of risking a general breakdown. That seems plausible. Despite my utmost respect for Martha’s parenting skills, she doesn’t strike me as a great emotional support for a grieving child. At least, I can’t come up with any other decent explanation that would cover Dorothy’s amnesia.
Compartmentalization, is it? What a long word. But of course, there’s also the possibility that the kid was fucked up in the head in the first place.
But I refuse to believe she was. Because in that case, then whatever I would try to – I quote – ‘help her regain her lost happiness’ is obviously fated to fail.
Short of heavy drugs.
Not an ideal solution.
But a solution nonetheless. At least from a chemical standpoint.
Not helpful.
Objectively, since the quest wording itself hints at a happiness to be regained in the first place, she shouldn’t have been emotionless or crazy in any way before her incident. Otherwise I might as well hand the girl back to Martha and recommend to train her as a slasher or something…
Awww~ Wouldn’t that be cute? Continuing the family business?
An image crossed my mind, of a giggling Dorothy, still in her blue gingham dress but splattered with red, holding a bloodied axe in one hand and a severed head in the other…
She would be all: “Look Onii-chan, I killed him aaaaall by myself! Praise me! Praise me!” And we would chuckle and reply: “Aaaww~ That’s my girl–
Ah! No, bad, baaaad Nick. This is NOT the objective. No, this is not.
Tsk.
Focus…
Concentration…
It might be fun though.
No! Focus…
Breathe…
A murder a day keeps the doctor away.
Breathe…
Especially if the doctor is the victim.
Inhale…
Exhale…
…
Chase the evil thoughts…
…
Think inner peace…
…
One with world…
…
One…
…
Peace…
…
One piece…
Pirates…
Criminals…
Murderers…
Dorothy slaughtering passer-byes with a katana.
DAMMIT BRAIN!!
I raise a hand and massage the bridge of my nose. I feel tired all of a sudden. Am I really planning on helping someone else with their mental issues? Me? Really? I can’t even discipline my own bloody mind for five seconds!
Bloody indeed. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get that stuff off the curtains. A nightmare. And I’d just change them too.
This therapy thingy isn’t going well at all.
*sigh*
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Okay. I can do this.
Breathe…
With a surge of willpower, coming from the Great Old Ones know where, I firmly push aside any thought of rampaging twin-tailed lolis and brought the current issue at the forefront of my tortuous mind.
So, based on my rather arbitrary deductions, unlocking Dorothy’s repressed memories of her traumatizing past should hopefully rekindle the little girl’s dormant emotions… Meh. What could possibly go wrong?
Now, how do I go about that?
…I might have an idea.
▼ ▼ ▼
One week later (in-game time), in a discreet area away from prying eyes, at the edge of the Kansan clearing.
“Big Brother, are you sure it won’t hurt?”
“Don’t worry Dorothy. Big Brother has plenty of experience.”
“I’m a little scared.”
No, you’re not.
Shush you.
“It’s normal to be scared. I had my first time too. Relax. Just entrust your body to me and let me guide you, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good Girl. Now spread your legs so that I can put this in there.”
“AH!”
“Sorry. It’s too large. I had to force a bit.”
“No, it’s alright, Big Brother. I was just surprised.”
“Alright. You really are a good girl.”
“Heehee~”
I keep a smiling face, but can’t repress a tired mental sigh as I battle with yet another uncooperative leather buckle on Dorothy’s gear! Stupid thing. Why is it so absurdly complicate to adapt an adult-sized harness to an eight-year-old?! Who’s the gauche pauper who designed that thing in the first place?!?!
…Oh. Right. That was me.
*sigh*
By the Satanic Soul of Mickey Mouse, where is that strap supposed to– Ah. There.
“Dorothy, please lift your right arm now,” I usher and she complies with a giggle.
“Hihihi… It tickles~”
“Yeah yeah…” I sigh. Even to my own ears, my voice sounds tired. I’m beginning to have second thoughts about my master plan. Or is it the master plan of the voice in my head? Does it matter? We’re essentially the same person, I think, despite her love for violence and tendency to speak crass.
Maybe hang-gliding is a tad pushing it?
Yeah. Probably… But I’m getting out of ideas here.
Sorry, I’m coming out empty too.
Well, obviously.
My stay in Kansas has exceeded a week already, a week spent solely on helping the diminutive mental case– Dorothy. I have barely had the chance to get acquainted with the other villagers.
So far none of my attempts have brought any success whatsoever. This is most frustrating. Maybe I have the wrong approach? But then again, with me being less competent in psychiatry than an ostrich is competent in floral arrangement, and generally as tactful, the treatment I can realistically provide for the little girl is rather limited.
So I defaulted to a method which I knew is likely to yield at least some results.
The Shock Therapy.
Now, as to what those results would be… Errrr… hehehe… Optimism for the win?
Really, good or bad. I just want something to happen by this point.
The overall plan was to place Dorothy in situations which might mirror her lost memories. Hopefully, recognition would strike and recall those figments of past from whatever abyss of oblivion they had sunken in.
Hopefully, the subsequent shock would awake her dormant emotions.
And, hopefully, this would heal her.
And, hopefully, the traumatism would not turn Dorothy into an irreparable nervous wreck nor into a disabled drooling vegetable…
Hopefully.
Hahaha… ha… ha…
I’m very hopeful.
I have to be.
Hope is a beautiful thing.
And, hopefully, I could outrun Martha…
Hahahahahaha… As if.
For once, I might just recommend suicide.
After one last tug on a particularly rigid strap, I step back and contemplate my oeuvre d’art.
Twin tails swinging in the gentle wind and a composed look of puzzlement adorning her pretty face, Dorothy is now standing on the ground, set inside an oversized harness made up of countless incoherent strappings. Truthfully, those straps aren’t supposed to be incoherent, but the leather gear was originally “me”-sized. After all the adjustments, the little kid ended up looking like a leathery mummy, or maybe something far more inappropriate.
Behind the paedophiliac bondage imagery– I mean Dorothy, lies a folded contraption of wood and cloth that is solidly attached to the harness. A long rope circles the child’s waist, its other extremity resting at my feet.
The contraption is a pliable glider, built by yours truly once upon a crash test.
More fairy tales should begin once upon a crash test.
For this latest attempt at pseudo-therapeutics, I intend to lift the child in the air, kite-style. With some–… Okay, with a lot of luck, maybe seeing the world from above would trigger something.
Maybe.
Hopefully.
And maybe pigs will grow wings and we will start calling them “airporks”.
You’re not helping.
I’m helping you not to get your hopes up.
I sigh for what feels like the ten millionth time. My legendary positive thinking is beginning to slip. My bald scalp is showing traces of abrasion from being rubbed too often by my frustrated hand. The dark bags under my bloodshot eyes have little to envy to suitcases. And my doctorously handsome lab coat – an attempt at looking vaguely legitimate in my therapeutic effort – is hanging awkwardly on my shoulders. I am every cliché of the scientist whose research had hit a bottleneck.
Truly, this has been a most thwarting endeavour. Triggering a recollection of her birth-parents in the traumatized orphan has turned out to be unexpectedly arduous.
For one, after further consultation with the Elder, I discovered that Dorothy’s decimated family was not, in fact, native from Kansas. Which means nobody in the village actually knows anything helpful about the child’s late progenitors.
“TELL ME THOSE THINGS EARLIER!! You brainless dishevelled scarecrow!” was on the tip of my lips, but I held it in.
Probably sensing my growing fondness for senicide, the old chief admitted to being the one who had brought back an unconscious Dorothy to Kansas, a few years ago, after the incomplete slaughter of her family. A slaughter perpetrated no doubt by an inept bunch of undead, which had somehow killed two strong adults – Dorothy’s parents – yet failed at finishing off a toddler and a geriatric prankster.
Of course I have my theories about that unlikely scenario, but despite my subtle probing, the wizened old man remains as tight-lipped as a fresh mussel on anything related to his supposed elderly OPness. I’m still not giving up however. Bob did say power was closer than I thought.
With no substantial information to work with, I thus resorted to trying out a bunch of random activities with my self-proclaimed little sister.
Fortunately, random is my specialty.
At first, I tried to think “logically” about what would be considered “normal” activities for a medieval family. Amongst other things we tried…
Playing catch, marbles, hide-and-seek and make believe – I’m quite convincing in the role of Philibert, the giant squinting earthworm.
Telling bedtime stories.
Lulling Dorothy to sleep.
Dancing with her on my toes.
Singing Christmas carols – with neither winter nor Christ, but it’s the spirit that mattered.
Bed-sharing.
Piggyback riding.
Finger painting.
Clay sculpting.
Scarf knitting.
Hair combing.
Messy gardening.
Bugs collecting.
Doing laundry.
Washing dishes.
Mattress jumping.
Downhill rolling.
Merciless tickling.
Treehouse building.
Cooking, picnicking and stargazing – with Martha tagging along mind you, though I didn’t let her anywhere near the stove.
This last combo held some hope, but all I got out of it is Martha’s compliments on my chef skills, which I still ain’t sure how to take. It felt like a blind person had suddenly acknowledged my painting skills. The intention was nice, but…
After the cookout fiasco, I begun to improvise more wildly, throwing this useless concept of “logic” through the metaphorical window, like I should have done in the first place. That thing never brings anything good.
I started with playing baseball with a goblin femur.
Then went on to juggling [Fireballs].
Jumping on trampoline made of entangled [Binding Vines].
Skate-boarding in a half-pipe of bended [Earth Wall].
Digging out and filling a swimming pool, soon turned into hot springs.
Launching fireworks.
Teaching her sword-fighting and martial-arts – and nearly being stabbed. The kid was surprisingly handy with a dagger.
Surfing on a [Water Shield].
Making sandcastles.
Destroying sandcastles.
Dressing-up like royalty, with authentic royal outfits stolen– borrowed from diverse courts around Pandore.
Playing bowling, tennis, badminton, ping pong, football, soccer, volley, beach-volley, snow-volley, boules, hockey…
Skiing, ice-skating, funambulism…
I exhausted all my knowledge, imagination and magical abilities, all three pretty damn extensive if I may say so myself. I made sure never to directly cast a spell on Dorothy. However nothing seemed to bring forth the awaited results. Nor any result really, which might just be a blessing in disguise. Who knows? She might have spontaneously combusted for all I knew.
So, here I am now, firmly holding onto rope linked to an eight-year-old girl harnessed to a glider and floating high in the sky above me, carried by the wind.
*sigh*
I’m not even sure what I’m hoping to accomplish with this reckless idiocy anymore.
“Well, who knows, maybe her parents had a tame harpy who used to give her ride… Hop! And a loopin– Eeeek!!”
My mumbles wrings into a squeak as icy cold fingers gently settled on my shoulder. Sweat floods my back and my whole body goes rigid then begins to shake. I’m also pretty sure frost spread over my skin.
In the tensed silence that follows, four curtly polite words rise from behind me.
“Sir. A word. Alone.”
Ow that’s gonna fucking hurt.
…Mommy.
* * *
A couple hours and repressed memories later, I am back, black and blue under the blue roof of Mistress’ home, sitting at the dining table in silence and pain, feeling a little dead inside. Anyone looking at me would have noticed the distant horror haunting my gaze, like in the eyes of veterans of wars having witnessed the unspeakable. I wonder if I’ll get PTSD.
“Aaahhh. Dish shucksh…” a dejected sigh escapes my swollen split lips.
As I am fighting against shivers, I am also conscientiously applying a healing spell to my newly gained panda-eyes, while pondering on the best way to reattach the five uprooted teeth I hold in my palm.
I’m in pain… and sulking… and in pain.
Did I mention pain?
You did. Four times.
Ever heard of rhetoric?
Yes?
Never mind…
On the same depressing note, gliding didn’t get any particular reaction out of Dorothy either. A failure. Again. This is depressing. Although, to be fair, I can’t say it achieved “nothing”… No, this umpteenth unsafe undertaking did achieve something.
It called forth the Ice Goddess’ Wrath.
In other words, I pissed Martha off.
Remember when I first met her and thought that, if her expression at the time was her “overjoyed” mode, then I’d better avoid ever making her “mildly discontent. Well, she was far beyond “mildly discontent” earlier today. Do you know what Doom sounds like? Neither did I. But now I do. It sounds frighteningly polite whilst it crushes you into a sobbing pile of nothing, emotionless if not for a slightly arousing note of disdain.
…
……
………Uh?
Gods. I did NOT just think that...! Backwards search… Oh, fudge. I did. Great. She must have hit my head harder than I thought. Yes. Let’s go with that excuse, or next thing I know, I will start fantasizing about her stepping on me with heeled leather boots and swinging a horsewhip, while glaring down at me tied-up naked on the floor with those icy-cold blue eyes of hers, and finishing all her sentences with “zamasu~”.
…
Actually, now that I think about it–
Nope.
So much nope.
I do not need these kinds of thoughts in my head. Too many fucked-up things are already squatting my top floors.
With mussels.
Then again, if she was wearing glasses…
…
Nope.
…yes?
Maybe.
Perhaps?
I don’t knooow!?
*sigh*
Well, it’s not like I ever had much of a control on whatever ideas my brain decides to toy with, so no use torturing myself over it. There’s only so much you can do and come what may.
…bad choice of words.
*cough*
What saddens me most about this painful experience – blatant sexual frustration aside – is the loss of my glider. The poor contraption perished… mysteriously. I discovered its mutilated remains near me in the form of a pile of wrecked wood and cloth when I woke up from unconsciousness. For the life of me, I can’t remember when or how that had happened.
That said… I find the several head-shaped indentations in the broken frame highly suspicious.
Yes… As is the presence, on my person, of numerous splinters in places I’d rather not disclose.
Ouch.
Watermelons.
*shiver*
So, after… errr… “educating” me on the errors of my ways?
That sounds about right. Or “disciplining” maybe.
After disciplining me, Mistress Martha once again disappeared gods knew where. Left alone – probably to die – I crawled my way back to the house, where Dorothy had been waiting for me, unharnessed and apparently alone. Apparently. I know better than to presume of Her absence. For She is everywhere… always watching… always listening… always… always… always… always… always…
*shiver*
“Big Brother? Are you alright?” comes a concerned childish voice. The note of concern lacks depth somehow, but I’m used to it by now.
My mind screams: NO!! Big Brother wants to cry and eat comfort ice-cream! Leave me alone!
“Yes, yes don’t worry,” my mouth lies instead.
She won’t. Worry I mean. I know she can’t. But that doesn’t stop her from looking at my heavily bruised, smashed, and tattered self with disarming upturned eyes. What did that book say again? Psychopath have charming and engaging personalities? For a half-baked psycho, she has that point pretty much down.
“Are you sure? You look like you’ve been tortured.”
I have… I think… and I don’t even want to know how you know what torture means. In fact I don’t need to. Like eighty percent of the questions I’ve asked the girl, the answer would undoubtedly be “Mama told me.”
Seriously, Martha, what are you teaching this kid?
Dorothy is still looking at me with a frown. I think she got used to me. She isn’t buying my lies as easily as before. It’s actually scary how fast she picks up on things.
Stop that. You’re not even really concerned about me…
*sigh*
Without my conscious awareness, my right hand reaches out to reassuringly pat the girl’s head, and her worrying expression turned into one of quiet contentment.
Damned, I chuckle silently when I notice. She has me tamed.
The number of people out there who would kill for that ability.
The genuine affection I have developed for the young NPC came a bit unexpectedly. Not because of her status as an artificial intelligence. I don’t really care. But I simply don’t warm up to people so quickly. Oh, sure, I can act friendly, and I do, because the alternative is much more bothersome when people take issue. So many confuse indifference for disdain. And so many feel insulted when you don’t give them the attention they think they deserve simply because they decided to talk to you.
I’m not ashamed of it, nor particularly proud. I know I’m not a good person. Though I wouldn’t call myself a bad person either. I’m a normal “nice” person. You can be nice to people without caring about them. No need to be mean for no reason. Who goes out of their way just to kick in every single rock they pass by? Maybe I’m kind of self-centred too, I reckon. But who isn’t really? I’m a big believer in the fact “charity begins at home.”
It often stops there too.
So why can’t I help but smile at this little girl, who probably doesn’t see me as anything but a strange but inexhaustible source of entertainment?
Maybe it’s because, despite everything, Dorothy looks so cute and dependent on me. A bit like a kitten. Nobody can not love kittens… Even psycho kittens... Even psycho kittens with deep knowledge of assassination, torture and dual-wielding daggers, as well as a surprisingly high tolerance to strong poisons… Meh.
The world needs more psycho kittens with lethal abilities.
It shall be Rule 374… if I remember to write it down.
I’ll remind you.
Thanks.
Anyway. I really do want to help Dorothy, but weirdly, very weirdly, I’m out of ideas. This has almost never happened to me before. It’s confusing. And very uncomfortable, like I’m naked in a crowd of clad people or something. It also surprisingly hurts. Like a spear of disappointment stabbing at my heart.
That’s a broken rib.
…Oh. Well, never mind then. It’s still disquieting.
*sigh*
I’m so tired. Too tired. All the energy I’d gather from my last nap has been spent. My exhaustion probably plays a big part in why just thinking is proving so difficult. Although I reckon a pair of swollen black eyes, a pounding headache and an exhaustively trashed body likely isn’t helping either.
“YAAA-ah! Ahaow-ow-ow…”
Ouch. Okay. Notre to self: No yawning when my jawbone is in more than one piece.
Self acknowledges. And agrees.
A few quick spluttered spells take care of the fractures, both ribs and jaw and everything I overlooked before, but a dull ache and generalised numbness remains. At least I can yawn again. Small accomplishment, but I take what I can at this point. I press my hands over my eyes and recline against the backrest of my chair.
Truthfully, it’s no wonder I’m on my knees both physically and mentally. I have barely logged out for the past seven in-game days, let alone slept in either world, spending my whole time online, either preparing activities for the twin-tailed psycho kitten or carrying them out.
Typical me. I have a track record of getting suck into my own obsessed pace and I’m now suffering the ineluctable aftermath of neglecting my body’s needs in favour of my mind’s desires. I can’t continue like this. I’ll take a solemn resolution right here, right now. Never again! Never again will I get so engrossed in something that I’ll feel like a dehydrated geriatric sloth afterwards! Never again!
Right. Like you’d ever follow through with that kind of resolution.
Sadly, I was right. If there was one person to whom I never held my promises, it was myself.
That is the deepest most pathetic statement I ever heard.
Oh, shut up.
While using the tip of my tongue to test the solidity of my reattached teeth, I keep wondering what to do next with Dorothy. Everything I’ve tried so far has failed, and everything I can vaguely imagine would certainly set the schedule for a loving rendezvous between my forehead and a flying axe, courtesy of the sexy dominatrix Viking milf.
My impeded bruised gaze wanders slowly across the room, skimming over Dorothy, calm as ever, and eventually settling the window. Outside, sunlight is dimming and the green glow of the mountain is slowly taking precedence. The idea of a warm bed, warm milk, warm cookies, and jerki– couple dozen hours of sleep suddenly appears to me like the blessed cherry atop a cake of heaven.
I am about to capitulate for the day and drag myself to my virtual mattress then, from there, to my real bed, when Dorothy’s high-pitched voice breaks my lack of concentration.
“Big Brother Elric?”
I force myself not to cringe and my eyes to focus on the girl.
“What is it, sssh-*pop*-hrweet’art?”
Shit. Damn you, first premolar!
Language.
Shit you too.
“Will you tell me a story tonight?” she asks sheepishly. Probably she is acting shy because I have been deliberately avoiding bedtime stories for the past three days. I can’t recall why exactly, but I still feel vaguely reluctant. Besides, I’m so tired…
“Big Brother?” the question comes again, hesitantly. I make the mistake to glance at the little devil again.
Argh. Don’t look at me like that, criminally cute brat.
Wild Dorothy uses Puppy Dog Eyes. It’s super effective!!
Damned… She is way too adorable for an emotionless killer’s emotionless daughter. Telling her no is just too hard.
“A shhtor… damn… Wait two shecondsh. *cough* I call forsh je power off najture, reat’assh disshr limb that wash from me shever’t. [Orkanic Glue]!”
The spell quickly takes effect despite the approximately delivered incantation, and fortunately doesn’t summon a dozen of orcs wielding glue sticks. My last lose tooth finally fixed, I testily roll my tongue against the insides of my mouth, checking the outcome. Satisfied, I reattempt my previously spluttered reply.
“A story? Do you really want me to?” I can’t mask the unwillingness in my voice.
Not that she cares apparently, because she nodded sheepishly.
I humph. Sheepish my grass. But still an indulgent smile lifts the corners of my mouth.
Resistance is futile.
“Alright,” I sigh.
With a smile of her own, the little demo– little girl spins around and dashes for her room. I get up and follow after her. She probably doesn’t even truly want me to tell her any story, but I can’t deny those cute upturn eyes looking at me with fake sisterly adoration.
I might have already said it, but this girl will go far. Amnesiac or not.
Besides, maybe she does want a story. She might not truly enjoy it like a normal kid, but her interest is probably genuine, be it only from a purely intellectual point of view. She does have a very curious and critical mind after all. People say that sometimes emotions get in the way of rational thinking. Her inquisitiveness is such, in fact, that I can’t place two sentences of my stories without her interrupting me with a ques…tion…
Aw damn.
I just remembered why I had stopped with the bedside stories.
Urgh. I am sooo sticking to lullabies after this.
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