(always an) angel (never a god) [fallon x mallory]
Mar 10, 2024 23:27:33 GMT -5
Post by clover ❁ on Mar 10, 2024 23:27:33 GMT -5
Mallory Wraith.I am a summer child, but you wouldn’t guess it.
The night it happened was one with a spell on it — a vicious, storybook curse of a storm, complete with wind howling like wolves. Bare braches scratched against the windows, and the rain came down like it didn’t ever mean to stop, a true torrent rapping on the glass. I loved it. I ran barefoot from room to room, remarking at the impressive qualities of each lightning flash, relighting candles that had dramatically blown out, extinguished by a draught. It was nights like this that made the old building feel alive again. I imagined the storms it had seen over the years; surely many more fierce than this one, before I was born, before mother was born, before even the rebellion, before Panem, before anything I can conceive. It calmed me, this assurance that the house would stand the test of this storm and a hundred more.
Everyone but me went to bed early, following the early sunset. I prentended, then, that I was alone. A lonely spinster wandering forlornly around her oversized quarters, pondering on a fortune stolen from her. Then, after that, an orphaned child, seeking comfort in the dark. I grew bored eventually, and moved to the window with the best view; a sprawling window seat on the top floor, overlooking the gardens and vineyard. I liked the way it lit up light daylight with each flash, only to be immediately plunged back into pitch darkness, leaving behind it an impression of what was there in my field of vision, like the negative of a photograph.
I am careless; I fall asleep, rocked by the lullaby of the house, creaking in the storm. I do not know how long I was curled there, but when I opened my eyes it was still dark, and the storm continued. I was glad that Mother had not found me there in the morning - she would have scolded me sternly. Her voice rang in my head, exasperated - “You’ll catch your death!” but I felt comforted that I was, in fact, alive, just groggy, a dream lingering around my temples and blurring the edges of my vision. I shifted my weight onto my elbow, coaxing myself back into my body. It was then that I heard it; amongst the noise of the storm it was almost imperceptible, but it stuck out to me as inconsistent. Still, I listened for a long moment, holding my breath to focus. There it was again, surely, the close of a door, several footsteps, the squeak of the cellar closing.
“Vanessa?” I whispered, although I was upstairs and there was no chance of her hearing me. I started downstairs, ready to find my sister, perhaps mock her gently for her childish fear of storms. Another lightning strike lights up the corridor, and I am startled by my own reflection in the mirror; for a moment it looks like a stranger standing before me. I shake my head at myself, catch my breath, allow my heartbeat to slow again. I am not afraid of the storm. I will not allow it to capture me in this way, not like Nessa does. Despite this, I pause at the hatch that leads down to the cellar, and find myself hesitant to open it. I consider going to bed. The voice in my mind that tells me off sounds unnervingly like my mother, so I throw the door open wide and hold my candle out in front of me. There, see? Nothing to fear.
There is nothing on the other side of the door, not even Vanessa. Only the cool cellar air, fresh against my cheeks. That is when I hear another sound, close by, and I cannot help myself but to go stiff.
“Vanessa?” I imagine her poised behind one of the wine shelves, laughing at me. (See? You are scared? I’m not!)