𝐏𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑 | SUPERNATURAL ¹

𝟎𝟑𝟕. 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧

❝IT ALL FELL DOWN❞
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⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ chapter thirty-seven, season two

[ tw: lot of sadness, death of major
character ]

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𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟐𝟗𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟕
―୨୧⋆ ˚ MARLEY'S POV

𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆, 𝐈𝐓 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒. In middle school, kids would always make that crappy joke of, "If you look in the mirror, it'll crack because you're ugly", and then everyone would laugh. Well, I find that joke to be true. The longer I stare at the mirror, my face distorts in a way that has me questioning what I really look like.

   Frail, cracked, and numb, I stare at my face. I stare at every freckle, bone, and indent on my face. When I was younger, I could feel the bone of my cheek, and I'd always run my thumb across it. As a kid, I was too skinny and malnourished, and now I just look exhausted and unrecognisable.

I can feel the sharpness of my jaw as I smooth my palm across it. I've always thought my jawline matched that of Sam and Dean's. I always wanted to look a little like them growing up, and if I only have one matching feature with them, I guess that's okay. It's better than nothing.

I connect my freckles together, playing a silly game of dot-to-dot which is something I often did with Sam and Dean. I always liked my freckles. I thought they were pretty, and they matched my face in an odd way. I then slide a hand through my hair, grimacing at the feel of it against my clean hands. That isn't pretty.

   It's said that the brain is not used to seeing a static imagine of oneself for extended period of time so your brain produces distortions. I've been staring at myself for too damn long, and the mirror is cracking right before me. It's laughing at me and saying that I'm ugly, and it isn't wrong.

   The mirror is supposed to break because you're ugly, and it's doing that for me. Every ugly, filthy truth is laid out in front of me, peppered across my face, and whacked into the mirror, creating this crack right down the centre of my face. As I stare longer, I realise my brain is creating pictures── distortions. It wants me to see the worse parts of me, and it does.

   Standing behind me, distorted and tall is my mother, all red hair and freckles. She leans close to me, a cold hand against my shoulder, and she whispers, "It's coming."

   I don't know what it is, and I don't ask. I don't know why I can't ask, but I don't open my mouth. I just stare forward at the mirror, my finger tracing the red outline of my charred lips. Heavy purple bags rest under my eyes, and I now understand why the mirror is smashing before me.