Death Sentence
Title: Absolution
Author: veiledndarkness
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 200
Pairing: None - Billy Darley centric
Summary: That room, the one room is his alone, his sanctuary.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made, no harm intended.
Prompt number 25 - Tears
XX
He thinks as he kneels before the alter, the room aglow in red light, he thinks that maybe he'll die like this someday, sprawled on the floor of a filthy chapel, a wooden cross hanging over him.
He thinks of the life he's spent in this hell, that he's not fit for a life outside this world, his world, everything he knows. He smiles, blood running down his back, trickling down his cheek, his newest scars.
He looks up at the cross, eyes prickling from unshed tears. He sniffs and holds his hands before his chest, the way he saw a girl do once in a church, her eyes closed, head tilted in silent reverie. He prays as a drop of blood falls from his cheek and lands on the cracked marble below the cross.
He'll die in this room, he thinks it's a certainty, and he'll deserve it. He thinks of what he'll face, if there truly is a hell worse than the life he's known. He wishes he could weep, or ask for forgiveness, absolution for the things he's done.
He prays again, staring up at the cross before him. If he's to die, let it be here.
XX
Author: veiledndarkness
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 200
Pairing: None - Billy Darley centric
Summary: That room, the one room is his alone, his sanctuary.
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit made, no harm intended.
Prompt number 25 - Tears
XX
He thinks as he kneels before the alter, the room aglow in red light, he thinks that maybe he'll die like this someday, sprawled on the floor of a filthy chapel, a wooden cross hanging over him.
He thinks of the life he's spent in this hell, that he's not fit for a life outside this world, his world, everything he knows. He smiles, blood running down his back, trickling down his cheek, his newest scars.
He looks up at the cross, eyes prickling from unshed tears. He sniffs and holds his hands before his chest, the way he saw a girl do once in a church, her eyes closed, head tilted in silent reverie. He prays as a drop of blood falls from his cheek and lands on the cracked marble below the cross.
He'll die in this room, he thinks it's a certainty, and he'll deserve it. He thinks of what he'll face, if there truly is a hell worse than the life he's known. He wishes he could weep, or ask for forgiveness, absolution for the things he's done.
He prays again, staring up at the cross before him. If he's to die, let it be here.
XX