Rachel has spent the whole of her life inside, looking out. Privy to all the goings-on of other people but unable to experience life for herself, unable to travel, to make mistakes, to be human.
She steps out of the car into the dark field, looking up at the sky away from all the light pollution of downtown. The night sky is enormous, uninterrupted by buildings or even trees, spitting out myriad colors that conflict with everything she’s ever known about the sky. It should just be black - shouldn’t it?
Perhaps Sarah had seen stars like this in Iceland, where there was nothing for miles but them. Perhaps Cosima had seen stars like this on childhood boating expeditions. Perhaps Alison had seen stars like this when she and Donnie were camping in the woods. Or perhaps, for once in her life, Rachel has something that is entirely her own.
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@valiantprincess replied to your post “tbh it makes me feel really uncomfortable when white actresses talk...”
askfjak oh my god do ppl actually say that? yikes
lmao…… yeah. i was thinking of a very specific quote from an actress that everyone stans, i just looked it up and she literally said “I dyed my hair dark and stayed out of the sun to get pale, because I hated looking like everyone else, all blonde hair and tanned skin” and it just ????? makes me really uncomfortable. but idk i just have issues with my skin tone and Looking Different and shit so… whatever girl you do you
She tears through the streets, her feet slapping on the pavement as random bystanders go out of their way to collide with her; she doesn’t care about them - all she can think about is home.
She calls for S before she even manages to wrap her fingers around the doorknob. From the lamplight, she can see the shape in S’s chair, leaning slightly to the left. Asleep.
Sarah grips the doorknob like an anchor, letting herself slow down, proceed quietly. She’s only asleep. Sarah doesn’t need to charge inside in a panic and ruin any semblance of peace. But the door’s not locked. A chill creeps up Sarah’s spine.
Home can mean a person, rather than a place. Home can mean the person who carried Sarah on her wings, who raised her, who protected her.
A choked sound escapes Sarah’s throat before she realizes that she’s opened her mouth.
The whole front of S’s shirt is slick and dark, stained. Her face and hands pale white, ghostly. But her expression is peaceful. From the shoulders up, she would appear to be only sleeping. But there’s an emptiness about her. Like there’s nobody home.
Sarah crashes to her knees on the hardwood floor, the shock of impact moving straight to her skull and setting her vision askew. “Mum,” she tries, faintly, taking Siobhan’s cold, waxy hand. “Mum?”
She doesn’t even notice the other empty shell behind her until Felix comes home.
Send me character(s) and a letter, and I’ll write you a short fic!
Sarah dreams often of Helena - the shape of her ripped messily out of Sarah’s life, leaving a jagged, bleeding hole behind. But she remembers the two of them as wolves, circling, sniffing the air, smelling... familiarity. She remembers them as humans, waking side-by-side, as identical as two people can be when one of them has a bad dye job.
Mostly, she remembers those few moments of silence between when Helena turned and when she did. Helena’s wolf stood to Sarah’s chest: a mass of fur and fangs, hackles bristling with bloodlust and the very anti-wolf feeling of containment. When Sarah, naked and trembling with the onset of the change, gagged with a cheap bandana shoved deep in her throat, cold with winter chill seeping through her thin, still-human flesh, was enveloped in warm fur.
Helena’s wolf twined itself around Sarah like a cat, hardly fearsome at all to look at. It kept Sarah’s weak, human body warm until the fur sprouted. It let Sarah’s human hands grip its flesh when Sarah’s muscles contracted with the pain. It huffed in her ears as she panted through the gag, trying desperately to scream, and she buried her face in its fur until she, too, was no longer human-shaped.
Hardly monstrous. And now... gone.
Beth remembers the moments after the bullet. The purposefully mis-aimed bullet that saved Sarah’s life. She remembers the way Sarah’s screams of pain and anguish ricocheted off of the metal and concrete warehouse. But then she remembers the silence after she dug the silver bullet out of Sarah’s leg, after Sarah was no longer lying in her arms, but instead transformed. She remembers the long fur that could envelop her whole hand.
The wolf with those ethereal eyes and the fangs as long as her fingers lay down beside her, mourning. And she covered its massive body with hers. Feeling Sarah somewhere inside, calling out.
As she reaches her front door on the night of the full moon, she wonders if the warehouse is still ringing with Sarah’s screams - or if it’s quiet, like home.
