No Such Thing as Psychics

by RoseUK

What if Jane really did have a 'gift? Each chapter will be based on an episode title and an incident of clairvoyance (call it what you will), using some of the symbolism we see throughout the seasons. Not stories, just fragments. (Because I'm a butterfly that can't focus on any one thing for long.) Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own The Mentalist.

2. Chapter 2 - Strawberries and Cream

Chapter 2: Strawberries and Cream

1985. Carnival, Idaho.

Patrick loves nights like these. Magical midsummer carnivals full of sparkle and noise and atmosphere, when even his notoriously callous father is in good spirits and finally releases him from duty with a rough clap on the back and maybe even a couple of extra bills stuffed into his palm (if he's lucky). Then Patrick can wander aimlessly with his best girl Angela, just the two of them, partaking in all the pleasures of the fairground, almost like regular people. Tonight the sky is a deep inky warmth punctuated by myriad twinkles of silver and gold and the brash rainbow flares of the fairground lights. Shouts of laughter rise like heat into a wide benevolent sky, the old metal rides squealing and screeching in excited pleasure, like the little kids shrieking in thrilled terror in the Ghost House.

"Oh look, Patrick!" cries Angela, her eyes brightening. "Fruit stall! Mm! Let's go get some strawberries!" And Patrick smiles, because he too loves strawberries, all lush red flesh and summertime, and steps forward. A delicate fragrance fills his nose: sweet and simple and innocent as a child. He feels suddenly content. At peace, even. Full of pure, sublime love. He glances over at his beautiful Angela, whose rosebud lips are already closing down around a bright red berry. Suddenly, desperately, he wants her to stop. Suddenly, desperately, the immaculate love is transmuted into an unbearable shuddering sadness: so strong, so consuming, so animal that it nearly paralyses him. It is unbearably familiar, like a memory, only it's not a memory he can see or hear, only smell. And it reeks of gunshot and tears. He reaches down deeper, fumbling for clarity in his panicked mind, but there's nothing down there except a terrifying blankness.

"What is it? What's wrong?" says Angela in alarm, staring at him, the poisoned fruit poised half-eaten between her fingers.

"What? Nothing, nothing," he lies with a hasty grin, to Angela's quite obvious suspicion, and soon the lie becomes the truth. He walks forward unsteadily and flips the seller a quarter for one of the man's sun-ripened oranges. He has always liked the scent of zesty orange. He thinks it smells of life.

Note: Terrible at maths (sorry for incorrect timeline/costing!)