writing-prompt-s:

You’re the worst kind of psychic. Everyone can read YOUR mind. But they don’t always know it’s not their thoughts.

I’m the worst kind of psychic, unfortunately. And I’m pretty evil about it, too, in case you were wondering. Which you were, because I made you.

Now here’s a story. Picture this.

You’re working your graveyard shift at the El Cheapo gas station. It’s dead, as usual, and you’re scrolling through twitter on your phone because it’s not like the boss is there to stop you, or that he would even care.

You really want to open the cash register, you suddenly think. Well, it doesn’t hurt to pass time counting bills, so you open it. Your hand is just reaching for the $20’s when: now you really want to turn off the security cameras.

“No I don’t!” You accidentally shout out loud, but you know, you don’t want to get fired, and there’s no one in the store, anyway.

Yes you do! Your brain tells you. And if you don’t you’ll feel terrible.

“What-“ you start to say out loud, because what is your brain doing, but before you’ve finished the question, your head is suddenly killing you. It’s like someone is vaguely hitting it with a metal pipe.

I’m going, I’m going, you think angrily, for the moment not caring that your brain is being weird as hell, not when something as simple as turning off the security cameras could make the pain stop. You use the sleeve of your jacket to touch the computer, absentmindedly worried about finger prints.

And sure enough, as soon as the cameras go down, so does the pain.

You walk out of the back room, suddenly worried about how you’ve left the cash register open, when you see a shadow in the corner of your vision. A hand comes into view, holding a metal pipe, and then your world disappears.

You wake up to someone shaking your shoulder. It’s the boss’s daughter.

“Are you alright?” She asks, while helping you sit up.

You look at the cash register, which is still open, except that it’s completely cleared of cash. “I think we were robbed.” You say in a daze.

(And before you ask, yes, I had to hit myself with a metal pipe. No, it wasn’t fun. Yes, I have to do it if the mark isn’t cooperating. But you don’t care about that anymore. You just really want to send a picture of your credit card to the number that just texted you. You reeeeaaalllly want to. Trust me, I’m your brain.)