Monstrous Things (Crowley x Reader)

Chapter III - Stomach It

tw: self-harm

Chapter III - Stomach It
// 8.0

A.D. ...

You never thought you would enter Hell in a cramped waiting line that shuffled an inch every two minutes. You had expected instant chains, nails digging into your skin, voices wailing, pain searing. Instead, your left shoulder brushed against a wall while your right wrist rubbed against a stanchion. The idea of gorey torture almost sounded better than this boring line dance you were currently trapped in.

Although, it was almost symbolic. It gave time to reflect on all the wrongs committed, or the life that had been left behind. It offered a chance to accept your fate, if you already hadn't. People behind and in front of you seemed to be doing a lot of that - reflecting. They walked on some sort of command, trapped in their heads and the slight movement in their feet. You, however, found yourself unbelievably free.

Everyone's eyes remained trained on the polished floor, but you looked up to survey the walls of what, oddly, looked to be the inside of an office building. Signs hung above doors, labeled "File Room...," and hallways led off to other sections your sight couldn't perceive. In one hand, you held a ticket that you had taken from a bright red dispenser at the back of the line. It was the only thing in this vomit-lit hallway that seemed to really have color. The ticket number was so long that it ran off of the paper, "88115271..." Dragging your fingers along the fabric of the stanchion, you considered unlatching it from its post and travelling down one of those corridors. The sound of stomping boots growing nearer kept you in line and you retracted your fingers, stopping your gaze from wandering. You had become professional at maintaining a dead face, and you used that skill to your advantage now.

"What are you smiling about?" You couldn't stand it anymore. Every time you were happy, she sneered at you. Every time you cried, she sneered at you. She couldn't accept you feeling anything unless she was the one who made you feel it. You were her puppet. You couldn't stand it anymore.

You curled into yourself on the loveseat, hoping your smallness would cause her to forget that you were there. You didn't dare look her in the eyes, all you would see is a glassy fog caused by the vodka and Sprite. Looking at her meant acknowledging, and you couldn't stand it anymore.

"Hello? Do you even hear your mother?" And now he spoke, Henry. His voice grumbled like gravel under tires. Everyone thought he was so scary, you thought he was pathetic. Leaving his wife and kids for your mother, pushing them out of his life. Your mother begged you to love him because his own children couldn't. You wondered if they ever felt sorry for you. You wished you could tell them how lucky they were not to be around him every day.

"(Y/N)." His voice raised now, warning. Your shoulders tensed, nose burning. Your legs itched, begging to run away. Why couldn't you just run away? "I'm tired of this disrespect. Why don't you ever do anything about it?" he mumbled to your mother.

At last, you pulled the headphones from your ears. "What?" you said, even though you had heard everything. Henry scoffed. You couldn't tell if it was from disappointment, or disbelief. "What?" you said again, more demanding this time, looking up at them.

"It would be nice if you actually spent time with your family," he grumbled. It sounded more like droning white noise. You had heard this spiel so many times before. "Instead of spending all your time in that laptop. I have to yell to get your attention most of the time and I'm tired of it."

"Okay," you said. It's all you could say. You had learned not to respond with, "I know," because they complained every time you did. "No, you don't know," they would chide. And you couldn't rebuke their statement with your own opinions. That would only cause them to send you to your room, take away everything you had. What you felt didn't matter.