Psychic (Creepypasta fanfiction)

Chapter 60

"Morrell, don't you think it's kind of... bad?"

"What's bad?" I turn my head to the side to see this focused, and yet, curious look on his face. It wasn't the first time I saw a sign of emotion on his features, but it's been so long you could mistake him as a dead person.

"That there are two men that are centuries old who get to decide what happens to a person's life, and they aren't aware that they exist." he continued, eyes still trained on whatever he's drawing on his sketchpad.

"Where are you getting at?" I questioned, hopping down the steps of the ladder, each creaking as my shoes hit them. I walked over to where he was at, sitting against the shelf with papers all around him, scattered across the floor. I know, for a fact, that he was some sort of proper gentlemen and he'd rather sit on a chair, or anything he could sit on, and not on the floor.

I guess his mind is all over the place. He did wake up not as good as we all thought. The three, Lyra, Death, and Conner himself, didn't tell me why. I know there's a reason why he's different, there's always a reason, otherwise, he would be himself; a dead ass old man in a body of a twenty year old.

He's been drawing a lot. It was his main forte other than our job, writing. But what I mean by that, is that he's been drawing non stop. He doesn't bother to do anything else, didn't even help me in writing the last part of Kira's book. He looks so stressed, he looks like a depressed college student on the edge of his sanity. He always had his hair fixed and top ironed, but it was all a mess. He even has dark circles around his eyes.

I don't know what's happening. He couldn't be dying, right?

I decided not to dwell on that thought and moved some papers, which were drawings he wasn't very proud of, and sat down next to him. His black hair was in his eyes, probably not helping him much.

"Just, thinking. It's a pity that people from Earth believe in this... entity that supposedly created everything around them, but they never really know us until they die and get here. They deserve some truth, to know who's killing who and who's actually in charge of their lives," he said, eyes looking up to me and back to his soon to be masterpiece.

"What do you want me to do? Knock on somebody's door and tell them, 'Would you spare some time to talk about our true lords and saviors, my brother and I'?" I joked, smiling at him.

Sometimes I forget that I'm older than him. I should be 'wiser', and 'smarter', and more 'mature', but he's the one who always has to babysit me. I wonder what mom and dad would have felt about this. They're probably so disappointed in me, probably disowned me in some other afterlife.

It's just a random thought.

After responding with silence, we simply just sat there. It was awkward, but it was better than not seeing him at all. After some minutes, that felt like terrible, terrible hours, he said,

"I'd like to think that you're carrying a comic book instead of some bible."

I'm ashamed of saying this, but I'm glad that he's experiencing whatever he's experiencing. It gave me an opportunity to see my old brother.

* * *

Growing up as the old, young Jack, I was told to follow my instinct the moment it came to mind. I could barely recall the time when my mother, a mere figure whose face I forgot, told me so. That was years ago, when I was still innocent, still a normal individual. When I was a human.

I did follow my instinct. I thought that if I studied hard, I'd be looked at with happiness. I thought that if I got into college, maybe I'd be satisfied.