Tiny fic
Written for the Saturday-Picture Perfect Day in the Writer's Lounge
The blood was dripping down the wall like a gruesome Rorschach ink stain of red and pain, sliding down, escaping view, like a thing of shame.
THIS THING OTHER THAN HUMAN
The blood was dripping down the wall like a gruesome Rorschach ink stain of red and pain, sliding down, escaping view, like a thing of shame.
A crown, a flower bouquet, the end of a life.
The thing’s eyes were still open but the light was gone from them; the green was gone, replaced by nothing more than a deep black pit; everything was gone but the glint of unnatural essence, staring back at him. Looking right through him.
Dean neared the shapeshifter’s form, tossed blithely over a velvet bench like a broken doll, so real and perfect that he expected the thing to blink and charge back at him.
Dean forced himself to find the differences between him and this thing, like in those Sunday newspapers games, two identical images at first glance, hidden mistakes setting the two apart for the sake of killing some time.
Dean couldn’t find any.
The thing that lived in the margins of society, the thing that could never have a normal life, the thing that was forced to borrow the identities of others to walk amongst society… this thing, this being other than human, was just like him.
With his necklace around its neck, the shapeshifter looked more like Dean than Dean himself. With those dead eyes that could see no more and feel no more, that thing other than human was more Dean than Dean was.
Maybe Dean was the copy, the fraud. The freak.
Dean snapped the string from around the dead thing’s neck and held it in his hand, claiming back his identity, himself.
Maybe he was a fraud and a freak. But he was the one still breathing.
The blood was dripping down the wall like a gruesome Rorschach ink stain of red and pain, sliding down, escaping view, like a thing of shame.
THIS THING OTHER THAN HUMAN
The blood was dripping down the wall like a gruesome Rorschach ink stain of red and pain, sliding down, escaping view, like a thing of shame.
A crown, a flower bouquet, the end of a life.
The thing’s eyes were still open but the light was gone from them; the green was gone, replaced by nothing more than a deep black pit; everything was gone but the glint of unnatural essence, staring back at him. Looking right through him.
Dean neared the shapeshifter’s form, tossed blithely over a velvet bench like a broken doll, so real and perfect that he expected the thing to blink and charge back at him.
Dean forced himself to find the differences between him and this thing, like in those Sunday newspapers games, two identical images at first glance, hidden mistakes setting the two apart for the sake of killing some time.
Dean couldn’t find any.
The thing that lived in the margins of society, the thing that could never have a normal life, the thing that was forced to borrow the identities of others to walk amongst society… this thing, this being other than human, was just like him.
With his necklace around its neck, the shapeshifter looked more like Dean than Dean himself. With those dead eyes that could see no more and feel no more, that thing other than human was more Dean than Dean was.
Maybe Dean was the copy, the fraud. The freak.
Dean snapped the string from around the dead thing’s neck and held it in his hand, claiming back his identity, himself.
Maybe he was a fraud and a freak. But he was the one still breathing.