Into Mirrors
Title: Into Mirrors
Prompt/Summary: Written for the fifth challenge of Round 1 at spn_las. The prompt was to write the whole story in 1st person POV.
Characters: Charlie (from "Bloody Mary")
Rating: G
Wordcount: ~500
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Warnings: None
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I am still working my way through the secondary characters of the show. They seem to be a really good way of interpreting the prompts.
Neurotic Author's Note #2:Also, something from Charlie's POV was on my to-do list, so it was a way to kill two birds with one stone. Yes, I'm a little obsessed with that episode. I think this is the fourth fic in which I've referenced it, directly or indirectly.
After Mark committed suicide, his mother hated me. No one blamed me for his death except for her. And me, of course, but I hardly count.
“How can you even look at yourself in the mirror?” she'd spat, and I'd taken her at her word.
I didn't look in a mirror for two weeks after that. All I could see was his face, staring back at me. His voice rang in my ears all day long, screaming at me that he was going to kill himself and it would be all my fault.
“I love you, Charlie! Why can't you see that?”
It feels like nothing much has changed, except that now, it's a woman's face in the mirror. Mary looks how I felt for all those months, a living corpse. If I could have screamed at my own reflection back then, I would have. I'm almost grateful to her, except that all I can picture in my mind now is Jill lying in a pool of her own blood, empty eye sockets gaping at the ceiling.
They say that it's a myth that ostriches bury their heads in the sand when they feel threatened, but it feels like that's exactly what I'm doing. It feels useless to curl up on my bed with my eyes shut, fingers laced behind my head like someone' holding a gun on me. The gun might be preferable. Sam is talking to me, and I think he's trying to reassure me, but his words all melt together.
I can hear him and Dean moving about the room. They've covered up all the mirrors, turned the smaller ones to the wall, draped blankets and towels over every reflective surface in my house, including the windows. As if it'll help. I can't stay like this forever, and they know it. Eventually I'll catch sight of my reflection in a puddle of water, or in a chrome faucet, and that'll be the end of me.
“It's okay, Charlie,” Sam says, hand on my shoulder. It takes everything I have not to flinch away. “We'll take care of it, okay?”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, although his tone isn't nearly as understanding. He's impatient, I think, maybe eager to just get out there and do exactly what his brother just said they would. “Hey,” his voice goes soft. “Don't cry. It's terrible when cute chicks cry. Your faces get all blotchy.”
“Dean,” I can practically hear Sam rolling his eyes, but it has the desired effect of making me snort and giggle, and the tears dry up.
I don't want to cry. I can't open my eyes to make sure I'm not weeping blood. I don't want them to leave me all alone in this house, but there's no choice. Their footsteps on the floor are heavy, grow distant, fade altogether with a final slam of the front door.
Then there's nothing to do but wait, alone in the dark, for the light to return.
Prompt/Summary: Written for the fifth challenge of Round 1 at spn_las. The prompt was to write the whole story in 1st person POV.
Characters: Charlie (from "Bloody Mary")
Rating: G
Wordcount: ~500
Disclaimer: Still not mine.
Warnings: None
Neurotic Author's Note #1: I am still working my way through the secondary characters of the show. They seem to be a really good way of interpreting the prompts.
Neurotic Author's Note #2:Also, something from Charlie's POV was on my to-do list, so it was a way to kill two birds with one stone. Yes, I'm a little obsessed with that episode. I think this is the fourth fic in which I've referenced it, directly or indirectly.
After Mark committed suicide, his mother hated me. No one blamed me for his death except for her. And me, of course, but I hardly count.
“How can you even look at yourself in the mirror?” she'd spat, and I'd taken her at her word.
I didn't look in a mirror for two weeks after that. All I could see was his face, staring back at me. His voice rang in my ears all day long, screaming at me that he was going to kill himself and it would be all my fault.
“I love you, Charlie! Why can't you see that?”
It feels like nothing much has changed, except that now, it's a woman's face in the mirror. Mary looks how I felt for all those months, a living corpse. If I could have screamed at my own reflection back then, I would have. I'm almost grateful to her, except that all I can picture in my mind now is Jill lying in a pool of her own blood, empty eye sockets gaping at the ceiling.
They say that it's a myth that ostriches bury their heads in the sand when they feel threatened, but it feels like that's exactly what I'm doing. It feels useless to curl up on my bed with my eyes shut, fingers laced behind my head like someone' holding a gun on me. The gun might be preferable. Sam is talking to me, and I think he's trying to reassure me, but his words all melt together.
I can hear him and Dean moving about the room. They've covered up all the mirrors, turned the smaller ones to the wall, draped blankets and towels over every reflective surface in my house, including the windows. As if it'll help. I can't stay like this forever, and they know it. Eventually I'll catch sight of my reflection in a puddle of water, or in a chrome faucet, and that'll be the end of me.
“It's okay, Charlie,” Sam says, hand on my shoulder. It takes everything I have not to flinch away. “We'll take care of it, okay?”
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, although his tone isn't nearly as understanding. He's impatient, I think, maybe eager to just get out there and do exactly what his brother just said they would. “Hey,” his voice goes soft. “Don't cry. It's terrible when cute chicks cry. Your faces get all blotchy.”
“Dean,” I can practically hear Sam rolling his eyes, but it has the desired effect of making me snort and giggle, and the tears dry up.
I don't want to cry. I can't open my eyes to make sure I'm not weeping blood. I don't want them to leave me all alone in this house, but there's no choice. Their footsteps on the floor are heavy, grow distant, fade altogether with a final slam of the front door.
Then there's nothing to do but wait, alone in the dark, for the light to return.