SPN Fic: Angle of Refraction (Gen, PG-13)
Title: Angle of Refraction
Author: dotfic
Rating: Gen, PG-13
W/C: 716
Disclaimer: Not mine, although that doesn't stop me any.
a/n: Coda for "Time Is On My Side." Written for the Women of Supernatural Gen Flashfic Challenge prompt #9 at spn_xx, Hell is more like boredom, or not having enough to do, and too much time to contemplate one's deficiencies. - Dorothy Gilman. Thank you to pheebs1 for looking it over for me.
Summary: Bela has too much time on her hands.
After the hounds tore her to shreds, and the world went not so much dark, as utterly blank, Bela snapped back to consciousness thinking that she had always been a cat person for a reason.
She lay with her eyes closed, felt no heat, heard no screams. She'd read extensively on what Hell might be, but of course none of the theologians or philosophers, with their self-important ramblings, could possibly know. Still, she'd expected heat and screaming, and there was none, only this empty quietness.
Bela sat up, discovered she was still wearing the same clothes as when she'd died, including her leather coat, and pushed her hair back from her face.
It was a room. An empty room, with blank white walls, so smooth she could barely see the joins where floor met walls, walls met ceiling. Bela walked to the wall, her shoes tapping in the hollow silence, and carefully touched the surface, which was cold like stone, but smooth under her skin.
She bit her lower lip. She'd be damned -- oh, that was rich, that one -- she'd be damned if she would give in to the impulse to call out. Hugging herself, she walked the perimeter, which was about eight meters by eight meters.
Moved to the center of it, shivered.
Time passed.
Nothing happened, no one came.
She amused herself by reciting out loud every poem she could remember. She kicked off her shoes. She found the small silver-plated pen in her pocket. She scribbled what she recalled of Hell's hierarchy on the pristine white surface. She didn't think about Dean Winchester. She hoped Beatrice liked the no-kill animal shelter where Bela had left her and would get a new home quickly. She took off her coat and did stretches.
Time passed.
Her voice went hoarse from reciting. Her throat went dry but there was no water.
Time passed.
Bela paced the room meticulously, trying to assess its exact size, and thought of what she could say, how to negotiate, when someone or something finally appeared. Everyone -- every thing -- wanted something and it was merely a question of finding out or guessing what and exploiting it. She had little to trade, but she would use what she had. She quelled a shudder.
When the poems she had memorized ran out, she started reciting all the Latin she knew.
Including the exorcism ritual.
She knew better, and yet was disappointed when that drew no results. The room only echoed the consonants back at her. She recited it again to make sure and because she didn't exactly have anything better to do, now, did she?
Her voice shook with rage on the last string of syllables.
Time passed.
She lay on her back and stared up at the blank ceiling and pressed the palm of her hands against her ears to block out the memory of her father's ponderous breaths. Her mother's too-soft voice, telling her how young ladies behaved. They didn't tell lies, they didn't swear, they were grateful for what they had, they wore their skirts long to cover the knees.
Time passed.
When she had no voice left, she stopped trying to entertain herself and stood staring at the white walls.
There was no sound left in her when she launched herself forward, her mouth forming the curse words even if all that came out were barely whispers as she beat her fists bloody against the smooth surface.
Could have told the maid or a teacher.
(No one would have believed her.)
Could have run away when the girl's eyes flashed that unnatural scarlet.
(She hadn't been capable of killing him herself.)
Could have told the Winchesters, I made a deal, the hounds will come for me, do you have anything for that? They wouldn't have even asked her for money, probably, which just made it all that much more sickening. Oh, yes, because their hands were so clean.
They would have believed her.
(But by then it had been too late for belief, and all she'd had left was pride.)
Bela wondered, if she hadn't shut Abby away in a box, would she be in this blank room with no windows or doors or seams or day or night or wind?
Time passed.
~end
Author: dotfic
Rating: Gen, PG-13
W/C: 716
Disclaimer: Not mine, although that doesn't stop me any.
a/n: Coda for "Time Is On My Side." Written for the Women of Supernatural Gen Flashfic Challenge prompt #9 at spn_xx, Hell is more like boredom, or not having enough to do, and too much time to contemplate one's deficiencies. - Dorothy Gilman. Thank you to pheebs1 for looking it over for me.
Summary: Bela has too much time on her hands.
After the hounds tore her to shreds, and the world went not so much dark, as utterly blank, Bela snapped back to consciousness thinking that she had always been a cat person for a reason.
She lay with her eyes closed, felt no heat, heard no screams. She'd read extensively on what Hell might be, but of course none of the theologians or philosophers, with their self-important ramblings, could possibly know. Still, she'd expected heat and screaming, and there was none, only this empty quietness.
Bela sat up, discovered she was still wearing the same clothes as when she'd died, including her leather coat, and pushed her hair back from her face.
It was a room. An empty room, with blank white walls, so smooth she could barely see the joins where floor met walls, walls met ceiling. Bela walked to the wall, her shoes tapping in the hollow silence, and carefully touched the surface, which was cold like stone, but smooth under her skin.
She bit her lower lip. She'd be damned -- oh, that was rich, that one -- she'd be damned if she would give in to the impulse to call out. Hugging herself, she walked the perimeter, which was about eight meters by eight meters.
Moved to the center of it, shivered.
Time passed.
Nothing happened, no one came.
She amused herself by reciting out loud every poem she could remember. She kicked off her shoes. She found the small silver-plated pen in her pocket. She scribbled what she recalled of Hell's hierarchy on the pristine white surface. She didn't think about Dean Winchester. She hoped Beatrice liked the no-kill animal shelter where Bela had left her and would get a new home quickly. She took off her coat and did stretches.
Time passed.
Her voice went hoarse from reciting. Her throat went dry but there was no water.
Time passed.
Bela paced the room meticulously, trying to assess its exact size, and thought of what she could say, how to negotiate, when someone or something finally appeared. Everyone -- every thing -- wanted something and it was merely a question of finding out or guessing what and exploiting it. She had little to trade, but she would use what she had. She quelled a shudder.
When the poems she had memorized ran out, she started reciting all the Latin she knew.
Including the exorcism ritual.
She knew better, and yet was disappointed when that drew no results. The room only echoed the consonants back at her. She recited it again to make sure and because she didn't exactly have anything better to do, now, did she?
Her voice shook with rage on the last string of syllables.
Time passed.
She lay on her back and stared up at the blank ceiling and pressed the palm of her hands against her ears to block out the memory of her father's ponderous breaths. Her mother's too-soft voice, telling her how young ladies behaved. They didn't tell lies, they didn't swear, they were grateful for what they had, they wore their skirts long to cover the knees.
Time passed.
When she had no voice left, she stopped trying to entertain herself and stood staring at the white walls.
There was no sound left in her when she launched herself forward, her mouth forming the curse words even if all that came out were barely whispers as she beat her fists bloody against the smooth surface.
Could have told the maid or a teacher.
(No one would have believed her.)
Could have run away when the girl's eyes flashed that unnatural scarlet.
(She hadn't been capable of killing him herself.)
Could have told the Winchesters, I made a deal, the hounds will come for me, do you have anything for that? They wouldn't have even asked her for money, probably, which just made it all that much more sickening. Oh, yes, because their hands were so clean.
They would have believed her.
(But by then it had been too late for belief, and all she'd had left was pride.)
Bela wondered, if she hadn't shut Abby away in a box, would she be in this blank room with no windows or doors or seams or day or night or wind?
Time passed.
~end