Halfamoon ficlet
Feb. 4th, 2009 09:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vivienPosted for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
halfamoon
Fandom: Supernatural
Character: Bela Talbot
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own this character or her universe. I just like to play in it when I can.
Summary: Layers barely seen in a life half-lived
Notes: Pre-canon, concurrent with end of season 1
(This is a ficlet modified slightly from a Conversations with Dead People plot entry in the RPGmilliways_bar, where I've played Bela since last March.)
One would think that a person with Bela's life choices and paranormal experiences would have nightmares on a regular basis. This is not the case for Bela. She tends to sleep and dream normally, even if her dreams contain content that might terrify anyone else.
She does have nightmares, though. Tonight she is walking through darkness, which is how many of them begin. They've increased a bit in frequency in the past few months. They will likely become more and more frequent as May 2008 approaches.
She shifts and twists under her designer sheets, frowning as she walks forward in her dream. The darkness takes on light. A yellow glow, as if from candles illumines a high-ceilinged space, and she steps into the benches of the ladies' gallery of her grandparents' synagogue.
Her father was Jewish. Or, to be more precise, his parents were Jewish. Her father was nothing, and her mother was a Christmas-and-Easter Anglican. But her stern grandfather and her shy grandmother were Jewish, and took it upon themselves to expose her to her heritage whenever she visited them in Liverpool.
Bela runs her fingers along the dark wood of the railing. It smells of lemon furniture polish, and in her dream, she thinks how odd it is that she can smell anything. She loved sitting here with Miriam, her grandmother, and the other women, safe and silent and surrounded by a mystery bigger than she could understand.
A figure emerges from the shadows, and for a moment, Bela thinks she must turn and run. Her father will be displeased by her behavior, and her mother will be furious she's here.
“Hello, Abigail.” Her grandmother stands before her, wearing the mink coat and navy blue suit she always wore to Temple.
Bela didn't remember that her grandmother had a trace of an accent. Where was she from? Austria? Germany? She couldn't remember, and there was no one left to ask. There were still Fischers in Liverpool and London, but they wouldn't know her any longer and she couldn’t know them.
“Grandmother?”
“Yes, liebling. Come, take my hand. I've been watching for you.”
She hesitates before she reaches out her hand. You have to be wary of ghosts that manifest like this. But this is a dream, and her father and his father are sitting in the gallery across from them, and Bela is scared. Her grandfather pinches her if she doesn't sit still and quiet, and those pinches leave marks. Her father... her father always leaves marks.
Miriam takes her hand, and she's wearing sunglasses now, to hide the black eye from "running into a door". Bela ran into doors often enough. Or fell down stairs. Or tripped on flagstones. Like her grandmother, she always wore long sleeves, too.
“I was always afraid, liebling, and I didn't know I could say no. It wasn't right to interfere, and you didn't say no in my day.”
They're standing outside now, beside a babbling brook, the trees tall and golden all around them. Leaves float down to form rustling piles on the ground. Miriam's palm is full of pebbles, and she throws them one by one into the water.
“I've watched over you, Abby, but there is little we can do here but watch -and remember. We all make mistakes in life. We all stay silent when we should not, and speak when we should stay silent.” She picks up the last pebble and hands it to Bela. It's as black and smooth as sin.
Bela (Abby) takes the pebble but she does not cast it into the running water. Miriam smiles sadly, and they are in the Fischers' large kitchen. Snow is falling outside, and her grandmother, gaunt and hollow-eyed, six months away from dying of the cancer that was eating her from the inside out, rolls out dough for apple dumplings.
Abby looks down at her red sweater patterned with embroidered bells and holly. Her mother told the nanny to pack only red and green clothes for this December visit. She remembers the look of dismay in Miriam's eyes when she unpacked her suitcase, but she didn't understand why then.
Abby's mother hated her in-laws almost as much as she hated her daughter.
She looks down again, and her sweater is blue. She smiles. When it was just her grandmother and herself, safe and quiet in the kitchen or the parlor or the sun room, Abby was happy. Her mother only let her visit two or three times a year, though, and Miriam died when Abby was eight.
“It's too late,” Abby says, and she crosses her arms in front of her chest, hugging herself. “It's too late, and I won't find a way out of my deal, and I don't know if I deserve to anymore.” Her voice wavers. She cannot talk about this with anyone living.
“It's never too late, liebling,” Miriam says, and she's tucking Abby into bed. The blankets are soft, and no one will wake her in the night with slaps and screaming. “You are braver than I ever was, and it's never too late.” Miriam presses a kiss to Abby's forehead, and Abby breathes in her perfume. “There are people who can help you. Let them, Abigail Ruth. Let them.”
“Can I stay here with you? Please?” Abby (Bela) asks, and her grandmother fades away.
Bela's eyes open wide. Her sheets are soft, and no one will wake her in the night with slaps and screams. Not anymore. But there are tears slipping down her cheeks anyway. She sits up, her eyes casting about her beautiful, empty bedroom. She folds her legs up, and wraps her arms around them. She feels small and alone, but it's never too late.
Is it?
halfamoonFandom: Supernatural
Character: Bela Talbot
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own this character or her universe. I just like to play in it when I can.
Summary: Layers barely seen in a life half-lived
Notes: Pre-canon, concurrent with end of season 1
(This is a ficlet modified slightly from a Conversations with Dead People plot entry in the RPG
milliways_bar, where I've played Bela since last March.)One would think that a person with Bela's life choices and paranormal experiences would have nightmares on a regular basis. This is not the case for Bela. She tends to sleep and dream normally, even if her dreams contain content that might terrify anyone else.
She does have nightmares, though. Tonight she is walking through darkness, which is how many of them begin. They've increased a bit in frequency in the past few months. They will likely become more and more frequent as May 2008 approaches.
She shifts and twists under her designer sheets, frowning as she walks forward in her dream. The darkness takes on light. A yellow glow, as if from candles illumines a high-ceilinged space, and she steps into the benches of the ladies' gallery of her grandparents' synagogue.
Her father was Jewish. Or, to be more precise, his parents were Jewish. Her father was nothing, and her mother was a Christmas-and-Easter Anglican. But her stern grandfather and her shy grandmother were Jewish, and took it upon themselves to expose her to her heritage whenever she visited them in Liverpool.
Bela runs her fingers along the dark wood of the railing. It smells of lemon furniture polish, and in her dream, she thinks how odd it is that she can smell anything. She loved sitting here with Miriam, her grandmother, and the other women, safe and silent and surrounded by a mystery bigger than she could understand.
A figure emerges from the shadows, and for a moment, Bela thinks she must turn and run. Her father will be displeased by her behavior, and her mother will be furious she's here.
“Hello, Abigail.” Her grandmother stands before her, wearing the mink coat and navy blue suit she always wore to Temple.
Bela didn't remember that her grandmother had a trace of an accent. Where was she from? Austria? Germany? She couldn't remember, and there was no one left to ask. There were still Fischers in Liverpool and London, but they wouldn't know her any longer and she couldn’t know them.
“Grandmother?”
“Yes, liebling. Come, take my hand. I've been watching for you.”
She hesitates before she reaches out her hand. You have to be wary of ghosts that manifest like this. But this is a dream, and her father and his father are sitting in the gallery across from them, and Bela is scared. Her grandfather pinches her if she doesn't sit still and quiet, and those pinches leave marks. Her father... her father always leaves marks.
Miriam takes her hand, and she's wearing sunglasses now, to hide the black eye from "running into a door". Bela ran into doors often enough. Or fell down stairs. Or tripped on flagstones. Like her grandmother, she always wore long sleeves, too.
“I was always afraid, liebling, and I didn't know I could say no. It wasn't right to interfere, and you didn't say no in my day.”
They're standing outside now, beside a babbling brook, the trees tall and golden all around them. Leaves float down to form rustling piles on the ground. Miriam's palm is full of pebbles, and she throws them one by one into the water.
“I've watched over you, Abby, but there is little we can do here but watch -and remember. We all make mistakes in life. We all stay silent when we should not, and speak when we should stay silent.” She picks up the last pebble and hands it to Bela. It's as black and smooth as sin.
Bela (Abby) takes the pebble but she does not cast it into the running water. Miriam smiles sadly, and they are in the Fischers' large kitchen. Snow is falling outside, and her grandmother, gaunt and hollow-eyed, six months away from dying of the cancer that was eating her from the inside out, rolls out dough for apple dumplings.
Abby looks down at her red sweater patterned with embroidered bells and holly. Her mother told the nanny to pack only red and green clothes for this December visit. She remembers the look of dismay in Miriam's eyes when she unpacked her suitcase, but she didn't understand why then.
Abby's mother hated her in-laws almost as much as she hated her daughter.
She looks down again, and her sweater is blue. She smiles. When it was just her grandmother and herself, safe and quiet in the kitchen or the parlor or the sun room, Abby was happy. Her mother only let her visit two or three times a year, though, and Miriam died when Abby was eight.
“It's too late,” Abby says, and she crosses her arms in front of her chest, hugging herself. “It's too late, and I won't find a way out of my deal, and I don't know if I deserve to anymore.” Her voice wavers. She cannot talk about this with anyone living.
“It's never too late, liebling,” Miriam says, and she's tucking Abby into bed. The blankets are soft, and no one will wake her in the night with slaps and screaming. “You are braver than I ever was, and it's never too late.” Miriam presses a kiss to Abby's forehead, and Abby breathes in her perfume. “There are people who can help you. Let them, Abigail Ruth. Let them.”
“Can I stay here with you? Please?” Abby (Bela) asks, and her grandmother fades away.
Bela's eyes open wide. Her sheets are soft, and no one will wake her in the night with slaps and screams. Not anymore. But there are tears slipping down her cheeks anyway. She sits up, her eyes casting about her beautiful, empty bedroom. She folds her legs up, and wraps her arms around them. She feels small and alone, but it's never too late.
Is it?