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apocalypsos) wrote2008-02-22 01:39 am
apocalypsos) wrote2008-02-22 01:39 am
Entry tags:
Fic: I Open My Mouth And The Words Just Come Out (PG) - SPN
Title: I Open My Mouth And The Words Just Come Out
author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
trollprincess
fandom: Supernatural
rating: PG
Pairing: None
Spoilers: Jus In Bello
Summary: Bela was always on no one else's side but her own. Especially now.
Author's note: SNOW HARDER, DAMN IT. *ahem* I mean, I just had to get this out of my head. Hmm.
* * * * * *
I Open My Mouth And The Words Just Come Out
* * * * *
You'd be amazed how easy it is to make a person vanish from your life.
It's not something you can brag about, of course, or would want to brag about for that matter. You get yourself a nice cozy flat with a cat who doesn't like anybody but you and some very unwise white furniture. You decorate the walls with fragile heirlooms you never would have dared to display before. You put things in storage and pretend you don't give a bloody damn at all.
If nothing else, it's easier to clean.
Some days you sit in your too-quiet flat with your too-small cat, with your legs artfully crossed over your uncluttered floor, and you smile and sigh and think, This must be what going mad feels like.
It's not bad, actually. You could enjoy this if you go far enough over the edge.
* * * * * *
She lets you live.
That's the deal. She doesn't kill you and you just go on with your life, stealing from hunters and selling to the rich and generally fattening your bank accounts. She leaves you alone to do what you do best. She doesn't come to see you unless she needs you, and she gives you fair warning, and if you're a little bit drunk when she arrives, you both ignore it.
You know your lore and your myths, your religion and your philosophy, but you also know the curve of her lips and her warm little palm on your cheek. Somewhere in the middle everything crashes together and fuses, a great throbbing junk heap in your brain.
She lets you live. Maybe that's your punishment.
* * * * * *
Once upon a time a hundred years ago or so, you twirled around the ballroom in your family home with her in your arms, small and warm and laughing like a mad thing, and it was some awful eighties pop song you were singing at the top of your lungs and it didn't fit with her frilly nightgown and your vintage Givenchy dress and it didn't matter, didn't matter, didn't matter.
* * * * * *
You have nightmares.
You can never remember the song you were singing when you wake up, but you shoot up in bed sweaty and breathing heavily, trembling and cold and a thousand different things all at once.
Sometimes the phone is ringing, but you don't answer it.
* * * * * *
She plays sometimes at not being herself, which means she comes to your place and puts small neat fingerprints on everything you own. She ignores your deep breaths and the fear in you, the way you don't tremble or shake because it's either stand still or shatter.
She could make you not exist anymore, just like that, but instead she says, “Take me to the zoo, Mummy?”
When she takes your hand, it burns, and when she vanishes into the crowd at the zoo on you, laughing all the while, she leaves your palm a terrifying shade of pink.
But she lets you live. There's always that.
* * * * * *
Most little girls want a pony for Christmas or some cheap plastic doll, not an antique gun and the Winchesters cursing your name.
But most little girls are little and girls, not evil and angry and nightmares in Mary Janes.
* * * * * *
Once upon a time she fit into your arms just barely, tucked into the curve of your elbow and smelling so sweet, and she had your eyes and his smile and the smallest baby fingers in the world, and you whispered to her the myths of the masks on her nursery wall, and she curled into you just so like she was trying to burrow back in.
* * * * * *
The only person who knows her name and isn't you is Bobby.
“Mina,” he'd said. He'd huffed and handed you back the photo you'd dropped, looked you in the eye in that disconcerting way of his and said, “She has your eyes.”
You should have said thank you, in retrospect, while he was still right about that.
* * * * * *
Once upon a time you came home to a small bloody handprint on your wall and a little girl's giggling on your answering machine, and you didn't stop vomiting for a good half hour.
* * * * * *
She's dead, you think sometimes, but she'll let me live.
So you steal the Colt and the rabbit's foot and that damn old hand, you do what you've done since you were tall enough to pick a lock, you steal and rob and barter on the blackest market around. You burn all the photos and sell all the homes, get rid of small shoes and white dresses and dolls. You don't flinch when kids you pass call out for their mum and force yourself not to wonder who's watching her now, because she might be dead but she's letting you live.
For now, anyway, she's letting you live.
author:
trollprincessfandom: Supernatural
rating: PG
Pairing: None
Spoilers: Jus In Bello
Summary: Bela was always on no one else's side but her own. Especially now.
Author's note: SNOW HARDER, DAMN IT. *ahem* I mean, I just had to get this out of my head. Hmm.
I Open My Mouth And The Words Just Come Out
* * * * *
You'd be amazed how easy it is to make a person vanish from your life.
It's not something you can brag about, of course, or would want to brag about for that matter. You get yourself a nice cozy flat with a cat who doesn't like anybody but you and some very unwise white furniture. You decorate the walls with fragile heirlooms you never would have dared to display before. You put things in storage and pretend you don't give a bloody damn at all.
If nothing else, it's easier to clean.
Some days you sit in your too-quiet flat with your too-small cat, with your legs artfully crossed over your uncluttered floor, and you smile and sigh and think, This must be what going mad feels like.
It's not bad, actually. You could enjoy this if you go far enough over the edge.
She lets you live.
That's the deal. She doesn't kill you and you just go on with your life, stealing from hunters and selling to the rich and generally fattening your bank accounts. She leaves you alone to do what you do best. She doesn't come to see you unless she needs you, and she gives you fair warning, and if you're a little bit drunk when she arrives, you both ignore it.
You know your lore and your myths, your religion and your philosophy, but you also know the curve of her lips and her warm little palm on your cheek. Somewhere in the middle everything crashes together and fuses, a great throbbing junk heap in your brain.
She lets you live. Maybe that's your punishment.
Once upon a time a hundred years ago or so, you twirled around the ballroom in your family home with her in your arms, small and warm and laughing like a mad thing, and it was some awful eighties pop song you were singing at the top of your lungs and it didn't fit with her frilly nightgown and your vintage Givenchy dress and it didn't matter, didn't matter, didn't matter.
You have nightmares.
You can never remember the song you were singing when you wake up, but you shoot up in bed sweaty and breathing heavily, trembling and cold and a thousand different things all at once.
Sometimes the phone is ringing, but you don't answer it.
She plays sometimes at not being herself, which means she comes to your place and puts small neat fingerprints on everything you own. She ignores your deep breaths and the fear in you, the way you don't tremble or shake because it's either stand still or shatter.
She could make you not exist anymore, just like that, but instead she says, “Take me to the zoo, Mummy?”
When she takes your hand, it burns, and when she vanishes into the crowd at the zoo on you, laughing all the while, she leaves your palm a terrifying shade of pink.
But she lets you live. There's always that.
Most little girls want a pony for Christmas or some cheap plastic doll, not an antique gun and the Winchesters cursing your name.
But most little girls are little and girls, not evil and angry and nightmares in Mary Janes.
Once upon a time she fit into your arms just barely, tucked into the curve of your elbow and smelling so sweet, and she had your eyes and his smile and the smallest baby fingers in the world, and you whispered to her the myths of the masks on her nursery wall, and she curled into you just so like she was trying to burrow back in.
The only person who knows her name and isn't you is Bobby.
“Mina,” he'd said. He'd huffed and handed you back the photo you'd dropped, looked you in the eye in that disconcerting way of his and said, “She has your eyes.”
You should have said thank you, in retrospect, while he was still right about that.
Once upon a time you came home to a small bloody handprint on your wall and a little girl's giggling on your answering machine, and you didn't stop vomiting for a good half hour.
She's dead, you think sometimes, but she'll let me live.
So you steal the Colt and the rabbit's foot and that damn old hand, you do what you've done since you were tall enough to pick a lock, you steal and rob and barter on the blackest market around. You burn all the photos and sell all the homes, get rid of small shoes and white dresses and dolls. You don't flinch when kids you pass call out for their mum and force yourself not to wonder who's watching her now, because she might be dead but she's letting you live.
For now, anyway, she's letting you live.