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surrealobsession
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Apr 21, 2013
Boredom.
To a woman like Roberta Cart, it was a word that meant death. Yet, it was a sensation she was never able to shake. People going about their boring lives, talking about their boring problems, their boring families, their boring hopes and dreams. It always made her hate them, watching normal human beings mill about without any concept of fun.
Of course, she managed to get her amusement, from time to time. Her special little ability came in handy for shaking things up, bringing on a bit of excitement. She never stopped to consider that they might not want it; they just didn't know better. When she put on the charm, they always ended up liking it. At least, until the spell wore off and their life was left in ruins. But Bobby was long gone by then.
That was what she was: a hurricane. She flitted in and out of people's area, their personal scope, ripping up the very foundation that their dull little existence was built on. For some, she would be the only escape from the mundane of their day to day. Shouldn't she be thanked for that?
She was out of liquor, her glass empty. Resisting a sigh, she looked over at the barman. He was pretending not to stare at her from the mirror hanging over the back of the bottle racks. They always pretended not to stare, but she could always feel their eyes. Several more sets were trained on her now, and she plucked the olive from her empty tumbler and sucked on the rounded, bitter end.
The man stiffened (she was sure in more imperceptible ways than just his shoulder), and he immediately began to make her another drink. She didn't have to ask, she already had her talons in him. She felt a wave of disdain, quickly hidden in her beautiful features.
It had not been until she hit puberty that she discovered the bizarre - and rather subtle - mutation. Her family, bigots until the end, never would have accepted her had her abilities come with physical side effects, or been easier to prove. But by the time she understood what she was, they had been just as easy to manipulate as anyone else.
For years, she had experimented with the desires of others. Until one day she had been able to shift the perceptions and loyalties of the people around her so easily that they bent to her will in seconds. Eventually, her ruse had been discovered thanks to contact from some 'school'. That had alerted her parents to what their daughter was, and she couldn't take them all at once, not at that point of her youth. So she had left with every cent to their name, and set off to travel the world.
Now, at the age of twenty-nine, it was completely under control. Though the secondary side effect that had not kicked in until a couple of years out of her teens, the one that seemed to slow (or completely eliminate, she wasn't sure) the process of aging would raise eyebrows even in her own forgotten brood.
Taking the drink when the bartender shakily gave it to her, she smiled up at him without any warmth. Her fingers brushed his hand, and she watched him shiver. "Thank you," she said, and he numbly nodded, eyes glassy. She sneered slightly at his back when he turned again.
Pathetic.
"You -- you think you might need another of those?"
The man, a middle aged, twitchy fellow, had been watching her from a few seats down for awhile. She didn't bother to look at him; she wasn't interested. Pulling her thick, dark hair over one shoulder, she could almost feel him sweat at the sight of olive skin barely covered by the little red dress.
"No," she said with cold disinterest. The man looked at her for a moment, apparently deciding if he should say anything to argue. Then he shambled away, crestfallen.
God, she fucking hated them.
To a woman like Roberta Cart, it was a word that meant death. Yet, it was a sensation she was never able to shake. People going about their boring lives, talking about their boring problems, their boring families, their boring hopes and dreams. It always made her hate them, watching normal human beings mill about without any concept of fun.
Of course, she managed to get her amusement, from time to time. Her special little ability came in handy for shaking things up, bringing on a bit of excitement. She never stopped to consider that they might not want it; they just didn't know better. When she put on the charm, they always ended up liking it. At least, until the spell wore off and their life was left in ruins. But Bobby was long gone by then.
That was what she was: a hurricane. She flitted in and out of people's area, their personal scope, ripping up the very foundation that their dull little existence was built on. For some, she would be the only escape from the mundane of their day to day. Shouldn't she be thanked for that?
She was out of liquor, her glass empty. Resisting a sigh, she looked over at the barman. He was pretending not to stare at her from the mirror hanging over the back of the bottle racks. They always pretended not to stare, but she could always feel their eyes. Several more sets were trained on her now, and she plucked the olive from her empty tumbler and sucked on the rounded, bitter end.
The man stiffened (she was sure in more imperceptible ways than just his shoulder), and he immediately began to make her another drink. She didn't have to ask, she already had her talons in him. She felt a wave of disdain, quickly hidden in her beautiful features.
It had not been until she hit puberty that she discovered the bizarre - and rather subtle - mutation. Her family, bigots until the end, never would have accepted her had her abilities come with physical side effects, or been easier to prove. But by the time she understood what she was, they had been just as easy to manipulate as anyone else.
For years, she had experimented with the desires of others. Until one day she had been able to shift the perceptions and loyalties of the people around her so easily that they bent to her will in seconds. Eventually, her ruse had been discovered thanks to contact from some 'school'. That had alerted her parents to what their daughter was, and she couldn't take them all at once, not at that point of her youth. So she had left with every cent to their name, and set off to travel the world.
Now, at the age of twenty-nine, it was completely under control. Though the secondary side effect that had not kicked in until a couple of years out of her teens, the one that seemed to slow (or completely eliminate, she wasn't sure) the process of aging would raise eyebrows even in her own forgotten brood.
Taking the drink when the bartender shakily gave it to her, she smiled up at him without any warmth. Her fingers brushed his hand, and she watched him shiver. "Thank you," she said, and he numbly nodded, eyes glassy. She sneered slightly at his back when he turned again.
Pathetic.
"You -- you think you might need another of those?"
The man, a middle aged, twitchy fellow, had been watching her from a few seats down for awhile. She didn't bother to look at him; she wasn't interested. Pulling her thick, dark hair over one shoulder, she could almost feel him sweat at the sight of olive skin barely covered by the little red dress.
"No," she said with cold disinterest. The man looked at her for a moment, apparently deciding if he should say anything to argue. Then he shambled away, crestfallen.
God, she fucking hated them.
