Pseudo-Psycho and Magic Stuff.

Author's note: Hey guys, so this a story I kinda just cobbled together in a couple days, thought the premise was cool and it sorta just evolved from there. Hope you guys enjoy.

PS. The sex is at the end.

~

My name is Alan.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm a sociopath. I meet new people, or even people I know, and I throw on a mask like I'm playing some part in a theater production. I'm not me.

I'm never me.

I'm what I think they think they want me to be. Take a second to digest that.

I guess it's because I want them to like me. No... I need them to like me. Why do I need that? Good question. I don't know.

Sometimes though, the water runs over the lip of the glass. It's a little too much, and I just fall flat emotionally. I kinda stop caring for a bit. I'm drained, drained from switching masks, drained from acting differently for different people all day, and I just end up going cold on the outside. I sit there, not giving a shit about anything except my what I really care about. I sit there, in my head, just thinking. No more bullshit. I realize I like thinking.

And that's when I also realize what I've been doing. I become aware of it, so to speak. Sitting behind these facades, coldly calculating what I think somebody is trying to say and whether they want me to agree with them or not, figuring out whether they have this position or that position on any particular argument, and plastering my face with fake emotion, just to make sure I don't piss them off.

It just sucks out so much energy. I hate it. I'm starting to wonder if it's really necessary. If I could just quit it. What would the consequences be?

I'm only 19. I model, go to college, and do extra retail on the side. If I just stopped giving a shit, and said what I really think, what's the worst that could happen?

Fuck it. That's what I'mma fucking do.

Time to take a shit.

-----------------------

She's fucking gorgeous, is my first thought. I continue scrolling through the Bumble profile. Jesus. Fucking. Christ. She has an obviously athletic body, supposedly being a D1 volleyball player, according to her bio, (and boy do those cups look like real Ds, if past experience is anything to go by), but she's only 5'9, which is short for a volleyball player. Then again, she could be a labaro. Unless she's got mad hops. I glance down and barely register her name amidst my appreciation for her pictures. Jasmin.

Flawless facial symmetry is accompanied by high cheekbones and ample, juicy red lips. But the real kicker is the eyes. Two different colors. One dark green, one light blue, but both surrounded by thick black lashes. I forgot the word for it, heterochrome-something. Her face has my judgement flipping between "too good; def photoshop" and "Natural fucking beauty" a hundred times a minute.

She must be fake.

I swipe right anyway. Why fucking not.

I continue going through more profiles for the better part of five minutes, then put down my phone and sigh. Time to get off the toilet.

I flush, and while I'm washing my hands my phone buzzes on the ground. I finish, then pick it up, opening the door.

I have a new bumble connection. Cool.

I walk out, head to my favorite spot on the couch, then plop down, throwing my phone to the side and picking up my new favorite novel. Jesus I'm tired. Spent the day trying to learn basketball (not easy), helping out my housing family, and incessantly checking my email, hoping for a new modeling gig. Not much.

My phone buzzes again. I ignore it, and reach for the chips as I flip open to my page, only to remember I gave those up last week as my hand grasps empty space. Fuck.

I grind my teeth for a moment, legitimately considering driving out to the nearest convenience store just to buy chips, but only for a moment. I'm too lazy.

I read for about an hour, then remember my phone. Right. Bumble.

I pick it up and open it, walking to my room while waiting for the little loading symbol to go away. I used to feel excited every time I opened a bumble connection, get that little high thinking about the possibilities of the people I could meet, but over time that kinda faded away.

That missing excitement came flooding back when I read the name of the new conversation.

Jasmin.

See, on bumble girls write first. So you can match with a girl, but if she doesn't write you, you guys might as well not have matched in the first place.

But hey, she wrote me, and her glorious first text is...

"Hey."

Well. I'd be lying if I said that wasn't a little bit disappointing. I go to her bio to try and figure out some creative comment to try and impress her, as per my normal routine, but then I stop. I said I was going to stop the bullshit, and this is no exception. Why don't I just say what I'm really thinking?

But she's so hot though, just do what you normally do. It's the only thing you know that works! Says one half of my brain. Fair point.

Yeah but you fucking promised yourself. Follow through. Says the other. True. I don't break those. Especially not the ones to myself.

Fuck. Here goes nothing.

"Well, that's fucking boring." I text back. Instant regret.

What. The fuck. Did I just do. I match with the hottest girl on bumble, then decide to pretty much throw it away. She's gonna ghost me. I throw my phone into the pile of pillows on the bed, moping already.

It buzzes.

I frantically dig through the mountain to grab my phone.

"It's not like you contributed anything interesting either."

I laugh out loud in relief, elated just by the fact that she didn't ghost me.

"Fair enough." I type, then on a whim add "A guy called Lord Byron brought a pet bear to the trinity college cambridge when he found out dogs were banned."

No reply for a minute or two. Fuck. I fucked it up.

"You call that interesting?"

Or maybe I didn't.

"Well how many people do you know that brought a bear to college?" I text cheekily.

"Fair enough." She echoes my earlier text. Hah. Then nothing. Dead end.

"So, you got anything better?" I ask, attempting to perform resuscitation on the conversation.

No answer. A few minutes tick by before I realize she's done with me. The bitter voice in the back of my head taunts me, calling me worthless, an idiot, a moron, but I ignore it, shutting off my phone. She was probably catfishing anyway.

Time to sleep. I put my phone on my bedside table, turn off the light, looking at my alarm. 1:30 AM. Fuck.

I have class at 7:30 AM tomorrow.

Gah.

-----------------------

I jerk awake in my chair at the end of the class, a spot of drool on my desk. Everyone is already getting up to leave. This shit always happens to me in math. I vaguely remember stumbling in on time, half asleep, and listening to a couple concepts before promising myself I'd only take a five minute break while proceeding to dump my head on my desk. Guess I'll have to ask somebody for their notes again.

I gather my stuff, trying to escape the evil eye of the professor on my way out. God I hate math. I mean I'm not necessarily bad at it, but for some reason I always end up falling asleep while doing it.

I'm trying to not tumble down the steps of the entrance to the building when a frisbee nearly hits me in my face. In my slumberous state I have no idea how I dodge it but I do, my body just moving on its own. And then I realize it's in my hand. Oh.

I didn't just dodge it, I caught it. I kinda just stare at it for a moment.

"HEY! BUDDY!" I look up and see the owners of the frisbee, waving for me to throw it. Right. They want it back. I toss it, still not really comprehending what just happened. I follow the path of the frisbee—

And I double take. It's her. Across the park , walking on the main path. The girl from bumble, but no longer just a picture. She's walks slowly, her attention in a thick book that looks huge in her dainty hands. I kinda just stare at her as she walks. She's everything promised by her pictures and more. What the fuck.

Then she looks up in my direction, and she's.. sniffing?

Ok so that's a little weird but whatever.

Her eyes search around in my direction until she sees me, looks me up and down, and then her eyes grow a little in recognition. Yep. Definitely the same girl. I can see the different colors from here. Her eyes finally settle on mine, and I have two very opposite almost uncontrollable urges at the same time.

1. Look away. Shrink. Run away. Scary.

2. Hold your goddamn fucking ground you worthless piece of shit.

With some conscious control I opt for the second, and to top it off, I throw in a small smirk, like a, yeah-I'm-that-guy-so-what, kinda look. Her eyebrows raise in surprise, and she looks me down again, then bites her juicy bottom lip.

Fuck. Many hormones. Cannot deal. Jesus.

Luckily she turns away before I can start drooling, and continues walking, of course though now I get to register her extremely great, uh, posture. Yes of course. Posture.

Who am I kidding. That ass keeps the entirety of my attention all the way until she disappears around the corner.

I let out a breath. Well. That's a first. That's not to say I'm unattractive, I mean, I am modeling on the side (who would've thought), but it's a fairly... recent development.

Generally-speaking, I never got attention from those type of women. As in not only women who are extremely attractive, but also confident. That suave movie scene where the extremely attractive guy and girl communicate through subtle sexual signals and then all at once crash into each other to have sex was never my experience.

I still always get those urges to run and hide every time I have to talk to beautiful member of the opposite sex, though thankfully they are fading away.

I try to shake of the small tremors that are running through me after that encounter. Definitely awake now.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's from Jasmin.

"Nah. I'm a very uninteresting person." Cheeky. My previous promise to not give a shit flashes through my head, and I preemptively decide to continue my trend of being completely and utterly honest.

"To whom?"

"Don't you mean who?"

"Nope." My mother was an english teacher and literally drilled everything about correct grammatical usage into my head.

"To most people."

"I find that hard to believe." No way with her looks and obvious self-confidence.

"Why?"

"Because I don't know anything about you and you're already interesting."

"Most people would say that's exactly the reason why you find me interesting."

"Most people would be wrong."

"Please explain."

"Over a coffee?" I hold my breath waiting for her answer. I mean I think that was pretty smooth, but then again when I reread these things a day later I tend to end up asking myself how I could be so idiotic.

"I know a place. I'll be there at around 1 tomorrow." This is followed by an address.

Yesssss. I google it, it's not too far from my host family's house.

I head home feeling proud of myself.

-----------------------

Fuck I'm nervous. Jesus.

I pace up and down the street outside the coffee shop. It's only 12:30, but I couldn't wait at home any longer. Kept imagining arriving late.

Stupid nervous anxiety plagues me everytime I envision how the coffee is gonna go. It gets worse the closer it gets to 1. I check my phone.

12:45 PM.

Fuck my life. Why can't I just choose to not let my body do this to me. Honestly, what's the point, biologically? I've already thought of a hundred different ways it could go.

12:55 PM.

Five minutes. I watch a Youtube guided meditation and try adopting meditative breathing. It does nothing.

1:00 PM.

I look around, but she's nowhere to be found. I check inside the coffee shop, thinking even though I've been standing outside the door for thirty minutes maybe she snuck in before me. Nothing.

I'm way to hyped up.

Another five minutes pass. Then another. I take a deep breath in, then let it out. Hmph. I take off my backpack and sit down on the sidewalk. I pause, then do the only thing I know will slow down my brain.

I pull out a book and begin to read.

It's one of my all-time favorites. Jumper, by Steven Gould. I get pulled deep into the storyline for the 30th or so time, and everything else kinda fades into the background.

Till somebody taps me on the shoulder.

"Hey. So we gonna get this coffee or what."

I look up to see Jasmin staring down at me with a raised eyebrow. Her different colored eyes are gorgeous.

"Eh...." I say, my brain still 11 chapters deep in Jumper. I glance at my phone. It's 2:15 PM. I was reading for a full hour.

"You're late." I manage, struggling to get my brain in gear.

"No I'm not. I said around 1 dipshit." With that elegant remark she turns and gracefully sways her way into the coffeeshop.

I sit there like an idiot for a full second before I close my book and run after her. She's already sat down, and she's staring at the coffee choice menu like it offends her. I see her eyes flicker in my direction before going back to staring at the menu.

I sit down opposite her, slightly annoyed, which in a weird way puts my anxiety at bay. I can actually think.

"So, when you say around a specific point in time, what exactly are your error margins?" I ask, letting a little of my annoyance run into my tone. She looks up from the menu in surprise, as if she hadn't noticed my entry. I almost get lost in her different colored eyes, but I hold myself back.

"An hour and fifteen minutes." She deadpans me.

"Interesting." I say with a half smile. "I'd venture if it was 2:30 at the moment your answer would have been 15 minutes different."

She ignores my probe and checks her phone. I think I see a flash of worry pass over her face before she returns her attention to me, tucking her phone away.

"Speaking of interesting, you have a stance on that particular topic to explain."

"And which stance would that be?" I ask in mock surprise. I know exactly what she's referring to, but in my humble opinion I think I've earned the right to make her wait at least a little.

She tilts her head. "Your assertion that most people would be wrong in the assumption that boring people are only interesting when you don't know them."

I shake my head, laughing. "That's not my stance. That's not my stance at all."

She narrows her eyes, confused. "Then what is your stance?"

"That most people would be wrong in the assumption that I only find you interesting because I barely know anything about you."

She goes to say something, but then her eyes unfocus, she sniffs and looks out the window. I follow her gaze to see four...men? More like musclebound apes. They look like they're about to burst out of the suits they're wearing. And they seem to be heading straight for the coffee shop. And they're all gazing unwaveringly at us, even through traffic. And one is holding a crowbar.

I switch my gaze to find Jasmin standing, her jaw clenched, hands curled into fists.

"I thought I'd have more time." She mutters, barely loud enough for me to hear.

"Uh...what's going on?" I ask, slightly creeped, my gaze switching between her and the dudes rolling up to the door.

She stands another second, then seems to make a decision, grabbing my wrist and pulling me out of my chair, saying, "C'mon, time to go."

I stare at her. I'm 190 pounds of lean muscle, and she just pulled me like a sack of paper. What.

"What? Where? Who are those guys?" I finally find my voice, but now she's dragging me to the back. She ignores me, hesitating between the kitchen door and the men's bathroom, ultimately choosing the latter, barreling through and pulling me in behind her.

"Hello?" I try to stand my ground, but it's like pulling against a pillar. A gorgeous pillar with a great ass that's dragging me into a stall in the men's bathroom. There are worse things.

She pushes me to the back, then closes and locks the door. Needless to say, I'm feeling a little more than slightly uncomfortable.

She proceeds to pull a stick of white chalk out of her purse, and begins drawing symbols on the door, talking to me all the while.

"I haven't been entirely honest with you," She admits.

"No shit." I put in dryly. She shoots me an irritated glance.

"Those men are...not really men. And they do not like me very much," She resumes, now bending down to furiously scribble drawings on the bottom corners of the door, connecting them to a large symbol like an hourglass in the middle. "And I may need your help."

I'm starting to suspect this girl might not have all her marbles in one place, but then again, when she leans down like that...

"There." She straightens, leans back, and inspects her handywork, which looks to be one large collection of crazy-looking hieroglyphics around the door with a double-lined hourglass in the middle.

"Not great, but it'll have to do." She mutters, frowning.

"You said something about needing my help?" I ask, a little hesitant.

"Not yet." She replies distractedly, hand raised to keep me back. Her eyes flicker along the tapestry of chalk.

I hear the door to the men's room crash open, jolting my attention away, followed by the telltale squeak of boots on tile. A bead of sweat forms on my neck, and a deadly sense of worry shivers down my spine all in one moment, but then she snaps.

A weird wave of energy, almost imperceptible, replaces the worry in my spine. I wait for the door to come crashing down, or at least for one of the monkey men to peek his oversized head overtop the cubicle door but nothing happens.

She turns to face me in one swift, violent movement.

"Why."

"Why what?" I ask, perplexed, looking past her at the door. The chalk is...glowing. I look back at her and realize her previously-dark green left eye, which is partially hidden behind hair, is now a swirling black. What the fuck.

"Why would most people be wrong in the assumption that you only find me interesting because you barely know anything about me?"

Uh...what?

"What?"

"Why. Would. Most. People. Be—" She starts enunciating each syllable as if I'm mentally incompetent.

"—Yes I understood that." I interrupt waving my hand, my irritation returning in the blink of an eye, "What I don't get is why you're asking that now, considering there's weird not-men stalking outside this door, you've writen a whole lot of crazy glowing hyrogliphics on said door of a men's bathroom stall which you dragged me into, and... wait...oh yes, and your left eye is now a swirling fucking pit of darkness."

"Because it's important to me." She talks to me impatiently, as if I'm the one who's slow.

"Ok how about this," I start slowly, returning the favor by speaking as if I'm talking to a child, "If you tell me what the fuck is going on, I'll answer your question."

She stares at me for a solid second, then rolls her eyes.

"I can manipulate time to a certain extent. Some people don't like that, or they don't like that I won't do it for them. They send people after me from time to time, so I created a time pocket in this bathroom stall to give us thinking time." She explains casually.

Time pocket. Right. Okay. Let me just... process that.

She's batshit insane.

"Why did you bring me with?"

"Because they saw you with me. They would have hurt you. And...I think I like you. Plus I think you can help me." I furrow my brow, thoroughly confused. I peer behind her at the door and the crazy glowing hieroglyphics.