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sienamysticAngela is not considered, by any stretch of anyone’s imagination, to be
an angry person. She has been praised all her life for her calm strength,
for her serenity in the face of great odds. Her partners praise her for
always keeping her cool.
She knows it is all a lie. For too many years now, she has raged
silently, fists clenched, teeth bared, all unspoken. She does not know
precisely what set this black spot inside her soul, but she suspects it
bloomed there the first time she saw Isabelle strapped to a gurney and
screaming until her voice rasped away into nothingness.
Isabelle saw demons all around her. Now Angela sees them as well. They
terrify her in precisely the same way that Isabelle’s screams did. And
although she still has faith, rooted in a place so deep that she rarely
has to think about it consciously, sometimes she wants very badly to open
the door to her anger and let it fly out of her like a black bird.
Constantine’s lip is starting to bleed from where she has punched him
in the mouth. His eyes are surprised, wary, and much more respectful than
they had been three seconds ago. Her hand is throbbing, and she absently
shakes it, hoping she didn’t break anything.
When he grins at her, blood staining his chin, she smiles back, and
inside some small part of her rejoices.
an angry person. She has been praised all her life for her calm strength,
for her serenity in the face of great odds. Her partners praise her for
always keeping her cool.
She knows it is all a lie. For too many years now, she has raged
silently, fists clenched, teeth bared, all unspoken. She does not know
precisely what set this black spot inside her soul, but she suspects it
bloomed there the first time she saw Isabelle strapped to a gurney and
screaming until her voice rasped away into nothingness.
Isabelle saw demons all around her. Now Angela sees them as well. They
terrify her in precisely the same way that Isabelle’s screams did. And
although she still has faith, rooted in a place so deep that she rarely
has to think about it consciously, sometimes she wants very badly to open
the door to her anger and let it fly out of her like a black bird.
Constantine’s lip is starting to bleed from where she has punched him
in the mouth. His eyes are surprised, wary, and much more respectful than
they had been three seconds ago. Her hand is throbbing, and she absently
shakes it, hoping she didn’t break anything.
When he grins at her, blood staining his chin, she smiles back, and
inside some small part of her rejoices.