Ficlet: Blink and You'll Die in the Dark
Title: Blink and You'll Die in the Dark
Author: stellaluna_
Fandom: CSI:NY
Rating: PG for implied violence
Summary: Stella, in the dark. Quite possibly, though not necessarily, BSI 'verse.
Disclaimer: None of these are mine. Characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS, and Alliance Atlantis.
Notes: Written by request for hannahrorlove in the Give me the title of a piece of fic that you think I should write meme.
Stella stands in the dark, hands clutched tightly around her gun to keep them from shaking. Her feet are braced in one of the shooting stances that she learned way back at the Academy. The safety on her gun isn't even off, and she knows that if she has to shoot she won't have time to worry about whether or not she's in the proper stance, but right now it centers her, helps her feel like she's regained some sense of equilibrium, however shaky.
She would like to believe that all of this is a dream, a nightmare, that she'll open her eyes and find herself in her own bedroom, blankets tangled around her and maybe soaked in sweat, heart racing hard; and she'll be grateful when the realization crashes in on her that it was only a dream, it wasn't real. It would be very easy to think this, standing here in dark that's so absolute that she can't see anything but solid blackness stretching before, here in an apartment building that seems to have shrunk in on itself as she's been walking the hallways, that seems to have changed its very architecture in order to turn her around and mislead her.
But to believe the lie would be dangerous, would be death, and so she doesn't let herself fall into it. There are enough solid details to steady her, to remind her that this is the real world, however much she might like to deny that: the cold metal of her gun pressed against the palms of her hands, the way the trigger feels on her finger. The stink of cordite in the air from the shots she fired earlier and the fainter smell of blood on her face, the cold stickiness on her cheek trickling from the open wound on her forehead. The pain of the wound itself, and the cool plaster of the wall behind her as she presses herself more tightly into the corner. The sick, knotted tension in her stomach.
No one is going to come for her. No one is going to save her. No one ever saves anybody, and she wouldn't even want them to try, but she reminds herself of this anyway. She wants to shut her eyes and pray. Instead, she opens them wider and stares into the dark. Her vision should have adjusted to the blackness by now, but it hasn't. She keeps on watching even so, and prays inside her head.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou, amongst women...
She wishes for a rosary, tries to imagine the beads sliding between her fingers.
...and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God...
Marble floor echoing beneath her footsteps. Sunlight through stained glass. The creak of a wooden pew in her memory. Sanctuary. Safety. She wishes for it.
...pray for us sinners...
A door or a window slams open somewhere, and suddenly there's a thin seam of light before her vision, so blinding after the dark that she has to squint and turn her face away. She bites her lip to stop herself from calling out.
The light might be nothing but the pupil of her own eye, splitting in two. Dilating. An inner door opening to God knows where.
She stares at it. A light is supposed to mean sanctuary, salvation. A port in a storm. A lighthouse showing the way. But after what she's been through tonight, what she's seen...
...Now, and at the hour of our death.
She thinks of the old days, port towns. Men who would hang lights on cliffs during storms, to lure ships aground, so that they could claim what goods they could after the wreck. After the crew had all drowned.
No one is coming for her.
Amen.
She has herself.
She turns her gaze away from the light, and starts to inch her way along the wall, moving deeper into the house. The silence is too deep to be real.
Her fingers tremble on her gun as she starts the prayer over again. This time, her lips move as she forms the words silently. Her eyes are wide open in the darkness, and maybe the blood on her face, her own blood, will somehow light her way.
Feedback is always appreciated.
Author: stellaluna_
Fandom: CSI:NY
Rating: PG for implied violence
Summary: Stella, in the dark. Quite possibly, though not necessarily, BSI 'verse.
Disclaimer: None of these are mine. Characters are the property of Anthony Zuiker, Jerry Bruckheimer Television, CBS, and Alliance Atlantis.
Notes: Written by request for hannahrorlove in the Give me the title of a piece of fic that you think I should write meme.
Stella stands in the dark, hands clutched tightly around her gun to keep them from shaking. Her feet are braced in one of the shooting stances that she learned way back at the Academy. The safety on her gun isn't even off, and she knows that if she has to shoot she won't have time to worry about whether or not she's in the proper stance, but right now it centers her, helps her feel like she's regained some sense of equilibrium, however shaky.
She would like to believe that all of this is a dream, a nightmare, that she'll open her eyes and find herself in her own bedroom, blankets tangled around her and maybe soaked in sweat, heart racing hard; and she'll be grateful when the realization crashes in on her that it was only a dream, it wasn't real. It would be very easy to think this, standing here in dark that's so absolute that she can't see anything but solid blackness stretching before, here in an apartment building that seems to have shrunk in on itself as she's been walking the hallways, that seems to have changed its very architecture in order to turn her around and mislead her.
But to believe the lie would be dangerous, would be death, and so she doesn't let herself fall into it. There are enough solid details to steady her, to remind her that this is the real world, however much she might like to deny that: the cold metal of her gun pressed against the palms of her hands, the way the trigger feels on her finger. The stink of cordite in the air from the shots she fired earlier and the fainter smell of blood on her face, the cold stickiness on her cheek trickling from the open wound on her forehead. The pain of the wound itself, and the cool plaster of the wall behind her as she presses herself more tightly into the corner. The sick, knotted tension in her stomach.
No one is going to come for her. No one is going to save her. No one ever saves anybody, and she wouldn't even want them to try, but she reminds herself of this anyway. She wants to shut her eyes and pray. Instead, she opens them wider and stares into the dark. Her vision should have adjusted to the blackness by now, but it hasn't. She keeps on watching even so, and prays inside her head.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou, amongst women...
She wishes for a rosary, tries to imagine the beads sliding between her fingers.
...and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God...
Marble floor echoing beneath her footsteps. Sunlight through stained glass. The creak of a wooden pew in her memory. Sanctuary. Safety. She wishes for it.
...pray for us sinners...
A door or a window slams open somewhere, and suddenly there's a thin seam of light before her vision, so blinding after the dark that she has to squint and turn her face away. She bites her lip to stop herself from calling out.
The light might be nothing but the pupil of her own eye, splitting in two. Dilating. An inner door opening to God knows where.
She stares at it. A light is supposed to mean sanctuary, salvation. A port in a storm. A lighthouse showing the way. But after what she's been through tonight, what she's seen...
...Now, and at the hour of our death.
She thinks of the old days, port towns. Men who would hang lights on cliffs during storms, to lure ships aground, so that they could claim what goods they could after the wreck. After the crew had all drowned.
No one is coming for her.
Amen.
She has herself.
She turns her gaze away from the light, and starts to inch her way along the wall, moving deeper into the house. The silence is too deep to be real.
Her fingers tremble on her gun as she starts the prayer over again. This time, her lips move as she forms the words silently. Her eyes are wide open in the darkness, and maybe the blood on her face, her own blood, will somehow light her way.
Feedback is always appreciated.