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tamingthemuse2017-04-23 10:48 pm
dragonyphoenix) wrote in tamingthemuse2017-04-23 10:48 pm
Entry tags:
Prompt 561 - Phobia - Giles as the Big Bad - Dragon's Phoenix - BtVS
Title: In a Corner of My Soul - scene from chapter 7: I Robot; You Jane
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: 561 - Phobia
Word Count: 1299
Preceptors, those men who trained Potentials, being concerned with civilizing girls whom, if Called would effectively have a demon forced into their psyche, were trained to depend on the wisdom of Falconers, more currently known as Field Watchers, said wisdom being provided in the form of Journals. Kris, thirteen when she'd discovered her Preceptor's cache of Journals, had been fascinated by the writings of Isiah Marcellus Sirk, a nineteenth century Watcher whose Slayer, a girl who'd had particularly intense visions and had been found only after she'd been Called, had spent five months locked up as a lunatic.
When she'd learned that Catherine Madison had been transferred to St. Jude Thaddeus, which had been described as a rest home, Kris had known enough to read between the lines. Any institution named for the patron saint of hospitals and hopeless cases was more likely a hospice or sanitarium than a rehabilitation facility. And so Kris, under the influence of Sirk's writings, had expected a Gothic structure, cold gray stones guarded by gargoyles under a clouded sky. She'd found stucco walls, almost blindingly white even in the afternoon sun, and roofs of red tile, almost the color of blood but made more cheerful than macabre by the brightness of the day.
The interior also diverged from Sirk's descriptions. Patients, some in robes and others dressed seemed free to roam, not at will but they weren't locked down as they'd been in Sirk's day. The nun leading her through the maze of hallways – “Sister Hyacinth Gilman but everyone calls me Cindy” – wore khaki pants and a cute, if conservative top.
When the man accosted her, grabbing her by the arm, Kris, put off by the formality of his navy pinstripe suit and gold tie, stood and stared instead of knocking his hand away. “You mustn't go out there, especially at night. They come out at night, you see, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch.”
“That's enough Mr. Sharp.” When Cindy pulled at his arm, Mr. Sharp released Kris' arm but turned on the nun.
“I must warn her. You know that. You'll be safe enough, staying here, but that young lady's going back out there, into the world. She won't be safe. She has to know.”
Kris hadn't seen Cindy page anyone, but a young man, dressed in scrubs, looking more big than intelligent, came round the corner and took Mr. Sharp by the arm. “Come 'round now. No need to bother the nice lady.”
He started leading Mr. Sharp away but the older man broke free and ran back to Kris. “Don't go out at night.”
Charlie, catching up, yanked Mr. Sharp off of Kris and dragged him down the hall. “Never invite anyone in! Keep garlic on you at all times. Churches … churches are safe. Watch out. Protect yourself.”
Kris could see that Cindy expected her to ask. “That was … different. Who was that man?”
“Dr. Sharp, a brilliant surgeon. It's a sad story. His wife died. There was some kind of accident with a barbecue fork. He became paranoid, certain there were creatures out to get him, and then agoraphobic but his phobia had, well, unusual symptoms. Dr. Andrews, one of our psychiatrists, believes it's projected guilt. He'd been unable to save his wife, so in his fantasy he's trying to protect others.”
“How long ago did this happen.”
“Oh, four … no, five years back now. Some of our sisters believe he's a hopeless case, but I, well I know it's not all that scientific, but I pray for him each night.”
Kris breathed a sigh of relief as Cindy continued to lead the way down the hall. The attack – it must have been vampires – had been before her time. Not her fault. This one, not her fault.
Catherine Madison's room had no personal effects. Not one photo of her daughter. Not one card of condolence. Kris recalled the time she'd visited the woman in the hospital, when she'd brought flowers as a cover for her visit. She wished she'd thought to bring flowers this time. The sparseness of the room was too painful, too strong a reminder of her own life when she'd been in training as a Potential. She'd had little of her own. Her clothes had been chosen for her. Her food, studies, and training dictated by tradition. Only a small pin, a butterfly set out in shimmering jewels, which she'd later learned were fake, had been her own, and she'd found that, picked it up off the ground, and kept it hidden.
Kris turned her attention to Mrs. Madison. The last time Kris had seen her, Catherine Madison had looked … lost maybe? The woman hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound. Now her tongue reached out from her mouth, moving about as if she were searching. “She's always like this around meal times,” Cindy said. “At first we thought it might be a sign of cognitive function, but it hasn't gone beyond these motions.”
“So you don't believe she'll understand me?”
Cindy shook her head. “There's no sign she will, but, well, if I were her, I'd want to know.” Cindy's smile was full of, not pain, compassion. “I'll leave you to it.”
Kris reached out to take one of Catherine Madison's hands. At the first touch, the woman jerked her hand back. As Mrs. Madison's limbs started thrashing, as if an unskilled puppet master was pulling strings, Kris stood and stepped back, raising one hand to her mouth. Kris was about to call for help when she realized the thrashings, as uncoordinated as they looked, were purposeful. As Mrs. Madison crowded against the bars of her hospital bed, Kris realized the woman, afraid of that touch, was moving away from her.
The two women sat still, almost as if frozen, and Kris couldn't lose the thought that whatever was in Mrs. Madison's mind wasn't human, but no, that couldn't be. The body slackened, remaining at the far edge of the bed without trying to adjust itself. The tongue reached out again, stretching as far as it could in a searching pattern and Kris wondered if this was Mrs. Madison trying to communicate in the only way she could.
Kris sat again, moving slowly so as not to upset the woman. She didn't reach out. “Mrs. Madison,” she said softly. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news. It's about your daughter and your husband, ex-husband. I'm afraid they've passed on.”
The woman's tongue kept darting out and pulling back as if reaching for something. “I'm sorry,” Kris said. “Whatever happened to you, it's my fault. I told myself I was gathering information, learning the situation, but I knew you see. I knew about the demons and you didn't and now you're …” Kris put her hands over her own face and sat there breathing into them, and then, with a shudder, pulled her hands away. “Your daughter and your husband, my fault. I was afraid and now they're dead. If I'd acted, if I'd gone patrolling.”
Then what? a voice in Kris' head asked. You think you're the Slayer now? If she couldn't save them, what do you think you could do? “I'm better than her,” Kris muttered, speaking to herself this time. “She doesn't have the discipline. She's not serious. She distracts herself with school, with friends.”
It wasn't fair. Kris'd never had friends. She'd had duty, dry as dust and in the end that duty had failed her. “She doesn't deserve it. She doesn't have the discipline. She abandons her duty.” Kris watched Catherine Madison, a woman lost in a nightmare. “I let you down. I let your daughter down. But I won't let it happen again. I'll protect Sunnydale. I promise.”
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: 561 - Phobia
Word Count: 1299
Preceptors, those men who trained Potentials, being concerned with civilizing girls whom, if Called would effectively have a demon forced into their psyche, were trained to depend on the wisdom of Falconers, more currently known as Field Watchers, said wisdom being provided in the form of Journals. Kris, thirteen when she'd discovered her Preceptor's cache of Journals, had been fascinated by the writings of Isiah Marcellus Sirk, a nineteenth century Watcher whose Slayer, a girl who'd had particularly intense visions and had been found only after she'd been Called, had spent five months locked up as a lunatic.
When she'd learned that Catherine Madison had been transferred to St. Jude Thaddeus, which had been described as a rest home, Kris had known enough to read between the lines. Any institution named for the patron saint of hospitals and hopeless cases was more likely a hospice or sanitarium than a rehabilitation facility. And so Kris, under the influence of Sirk's writings, had expected a Gothic structure, cold gray stones guarded by gargoyles under a clouded sky. She'd found stucco walls, almost blindingly white even in the afternoon sun, and roofs of red tile, almost the color of blood but made more cheerful than macabre by the brightness of the day.
The interior also diverged from Sirk's descriptions. Patients, some in robes and others dressed seemed free to roam, not at will but they weren't locked down as they'd been in Sirk's day. The nun leading her through the maze of hallways – “Sister Hyacinth Gilman but everyone calls me Cindy” – wore khaki pants and a cute, if conservative top.
When the man accosted her, grabbing her by the arm, Kris, put off by the formality of his navy pinstripe suit and gold tie, stood and stared instead of knocking his hand away. “You mustn't go out there, especially at night. They come out at night, you see, the jaws that bite, the claws that catch.”
“That's enough Mr. Sharp.” When Cindy pulled at his arm, Mr. Sharp released Kris' arm but turned on the nun.
“I must warn her. You know that. You'll be safe enough, staying here, but that young lady's going back out there, into the world. She won't be safe. She has to know.”
Kris hadn't seen Cindy page anyone, but a young man, dressed in scrubs, looking more big than intelligent, came round the corner and took Mr. Sharp by the arm. “Come 'round now. No need to bother the nice lady.”
He started leading Mr. Sharp away but the older man broke free and ran back to Kris. “Don't go out at night.”
Charlie, catching up, yanked Mr. Sharp off of Kris and dragged him down the hall. “Never invite anyone in! Keep garlic on you at all times. Churches … churches are safe. Watch out. Protect yourself.”
Kris could see that Cindy expected her to ask. “That was … different. Who was that man?”
“Dr. Sharp, a brilliant surgeon. It's a sad story. His wife died. There was some kind of accident with a barbecue fork. He became paranoid, certain there were creatures out to get him, and then agoraphobic but his phobia had, well, unusual symptoms. Dr. Andrews, one of our psychiatrists, believes it's projected guilt. He'd been unable to save his wife, so in his fantasy he's trying to protect others.”
“How long ago did this happen.”
“Oh, four … no, five years back now. Some of our sisters believe he's a hopeless case, but I, well I know it's not all that scientific, but I pray for him each night.”
Kris breathed a sigh of relief as Cindy continued to lead the way down the hall. The attack – it must have been vampires – had been before her time. Not her fault. This one, not her fault.
Catherine Madison's room had no personal effects. Not one photo of her daughter. Not one card of condolence. Kris recalled the time she'd visited the woman in the hospital, when she'd brought flowers as a cover for her visit. She wished she'd thought to bring flowers this time. The sparseness of the room was too painful, too strong a reminder of her own life when she'd been in training as a Potential. She'd had little of her own. Her clothes had been chosen for her. Her food, studies, and training dictated by tradition. Only a small pin, a butterfly set out in shimmering jewels, which she'd later learned were fake, had been her own, and she'd found that, picked it up off the ground, and kept it hidden.
Kris turned her attention to Mrs. Madison. The last time Kris had seen her, Catherine Madison had looked … lost maybe? The woman hadn't moved, hadn't made a sound. Now her tongue reached out from her mouth, moving about as if she were searching. “She's always like this around meal times,” Cindy said. “At first we thought it might be a sign of cognitive function, but it hasn't gone beyond these motions.”
“So you don't believe she'll understand me?”
Cindy shook her head. “There's no sign she will, but, well, if I were her, I'd want to know.” Cindy's smile was full of, not pain, compassion. “I'll leave you to it.”
Kris reached out to take one of Catherine Madison's hands. At the first touch, the woman jerked her hand back. As Mrs. Madison's limbs started thrashing, as if an unskilled puppet master was pulling strings, Kris stood and stepped back, raising one hand to her mouth. Kris was about to call for help when she realized the thrashings, as uncoordinated as they looked, were purposeful. As Mrs. Madison crowded against the bars of her hospital bed, Kris realized the woman, afraid of that touch, was moving away from her.
The two women sat still, almost as if frozen, and Kris couldn't lose the thought that whatever was in Mrs. Madison's mind wasn't human, but no, that couldn't be. The body slackened, remaining at the far edge of the bed without trying to adjust itself. The tongue reached out again, stretching as far as it could in a searching pattern and Kris wondered if this was Mrs. Madison trying to communicate in the only way she could.
Kris sat again, moving slowly so as not to upset the woman. She didn't reach out. “Mrs. Madison,” she said softly. “I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news. It's about your daughter and your husband, ex-husband. I'm afraid they've passed on.”
The woman's tongue kept darting out and pulling back as if reaching for something. “I'm sorry,” Kris said. “Whatever happened to you, it's my fault. I told myself I was gathering information, learning the situation, but I knew you see. I knew about the demons and you didn't and now you're …” Kris put her hands over her own face and sat there breathing into them, and then, with a shudder, pulled her hands away. “Your daughter and your husband, my fault. I was afraid and now they're dead. If I'd acted, if I'd gone patrolling.”
Then what? a voice in Kris' head asked. You think you're the Slayer now? If she couldn't save them, what do you think you could do? “I'm better than her,” Kris muttered, speaking to herself this time. “She doesn't have the discipline. She's not serious. She distracts herself with school, with friends.”
It wasn't fair. Kris'd never had friends. She'd had duty, dry as dust and in the end that duty had failed her. “She doesn't deserve it. She doesn't have the discipline. She abandons her duty.” Kris watched Catherine Madison, a woman lost in a nightmare. “I let you down. I let your daughter down. But I won't let it happen again. I'll protect Sunnydale. I promise.”