Post by paintedmusic on Jan 18, 2008 1:46:04 GMT -5
Disclaimer: With a heavy heart I admit that I own nothing of Charmed except for a few measly DVDs and an autography from Holly Combs. 
Notice Me
He doesn’t notice a thing I do for him. I jumped in front of an energy ball once, you know, to protect him. I’m sure he could have dodged it or, more likely, wouldn’t even have had to; but that’s not really the point.
He healed me and didn’t fail to laugh at my irrationality. Why on earth would I risk my life when I knew he was more than capable of handling himself?
I remember shaking my head, wondering how to admit that I didn’t know. “I guess I was just too freaked out about that energy ball to think,” I had blushingly replied.
I don’t think he understood the implication behind my words – I was too afraid for him, for his life, to think. Instead, he shook his head pityingly and replied, “Try not to be so stupid, kid. Next time, you might not have me around to heal you; and then where will you be?”
He says he’s not worried that I’ll betray him because he can read my mind. I’ve seen – or, rather, felt – his telepathy firsthand. There were times when he didn’t trust anyone, especially me – someone who had been so devoted to the greatest paragons of good that ever lived. There were days when I would wake up to see him towering over me, eyes narrowed. He would demand that I tell him where I had been the night before, why I was out so late.
When he would use telepathy, it was like sharpened claws attacking my mind, scrabbling for any buried secrets I might possess. I would be sore for days after his scrutinizes, migraines pounding as loudly in my ears as an incessant jackhammer.
After a few months of this repeated performance, he slowly came to the conclusion that I was, in fact, trustworthy. He loosened up around me, and we became brothers again. Whatever that means.
Once, a few weeks after he learned to trust and believe me again, I was trying to make up for lost hours of sleep, hours stolen from the bitter cold that seemed to accompany his minions wherever they emerged. I always hated the cold.
The next thing I knew I was being shaken awake with a solid hand gripping my shoulder. I was dragged to my feet and unceremoniously dumped on the smooth, stone floor. Groaning, I glanced at my brother’s shoes then slowly raised my defiant gaze to meet his.
Before I could speak my mind, he informed me that he was sending me out to dig up information about the small, scattered bands of witches, demons, and mortals that refused to accept his reign.
Needless to say, I was exhausted and pissed. I let slip the first words that swirled through my mind, never the brightest idea when in his presence. “How do you know I won’t betray you and help them?” I challenged. I winced almost the instant I closed my mouth, expecting his eyes to darken lividly and his powers to slam me against the wall across the room.
When I built up the confidence to look up again (which, mind you, wasn’t for a few seemingly endless moments), I was more than surprised to see him smirking maliciously, as if finding my sarcasm mildly amusing.
His tone was low and calm, a voice no one would dare refute. It meant he wasn’t willing to tolerate impudence for much longer. “Because,” he whispered menacingly, “I’ll always know. You know I can check in your mind without you even knowing; you wouldn’t dare…”
Blushing, I hung my head, wishing he didn’t know me so well.
He said he could see what I was thinking without my realization, but he must not be paying very close attention. Either that or he hasn’t checked up on me in quite a while. He tells me he knows I wouldn’t (dare) betray him, but I’ve been working with the opposition for seven months now and he hasn’t breathed a single word about it.
I sneak past his guards, my left arm curled around my abdomen like a serpent, where a large, angry burn throbs painfully. My right hand clutches the wall desperately, as I stumble forward through the shadows.
I slip into a large cavern, assuming it’s safe to relax. None of the minions would dare enter unless summoned. I’m the only one who has the nerve to enter the private quarters. I also happen to be the only one who won’t pay dearly for doing it, too.
I hear slow, even breaths behind me and whirl around, my heart beating frantically in my ears. I don’t know why I’m surprised to find him sitting on a smooth, level boulder. A crack of light (from where, I wonder) falls diagonally across his face like a jagged scar. Immersed in the magical spell book cradled in his arms, he doesn’t seem to notice my silent approach.
If he finds out that a witch injured me – whether it was purposely or accidental (it was the latter, in case you were wondering) – he will completely lose his temper. I know him as well as he knows me, and I know perfectly well that he will rampage first and ask questions only after carcasses litter the floor. Another massacre will take place, another couple thousand deaths that will be on my head. To protect them, those innocents, I know I have to conceal my abrasion. I cannot put them at risk.
I let out a slow, weary breath and remain rooted to the spot, watching my brother carefully. Whether it’s to wait for him to make a move or to locate the soul that’s been gone for years now, I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if it’s really gone or if it’s just buried so deep that even he can barely see it.
Briefly, he glances up from the ancient tome he’s processing, his cold, calculating eyes passing over me like water. Though I’m relieved that he notices nothing out of the ordinary – like my unusually pallid complexion or the way my knees shake in an effort to support my weight – I can’t help but feel that tiny twinge of annoyance. I am his brother, after all; is it really too much to ask to just look?
Engrossed in his thick, bound volume once again, he mumbles an irritated, distracted, “Where were you?”
“Out,” I reply brusquely, and I blame him for not hearing the infuriation in my voice or the way it quavers weakly.
For a single, fleeting moment his eyes pause on the page, and I think – just maybe – he will look up with a frown and repeat his question with maybe an ounce of concern. Just maybe his eyes will connect with mine and see past the icy, masked stare that mimics his own. Perhaps he will instead discern the guilty conscience that gnaws, unrelenting, at my soul; my shame; my anger; my trepidation and apprehension; and my utter admiration for him, despite the path of evil he has chosen.
Shortly, he nods; and any tiny flame of hope I might have possessed is snuffed in an instant. Resigned, I glide past him into the next chamber. Without even noticing I’m doing it, I wait to hear if he decided to follow me.
The room echoes with an accusing silence.
My energy and will gone, I weakly slide down against the wall, leaning my head back against it. My eyes flutter shut, and a rush of images flash through my mind of when Wyatt was different – of when he actually cared.
When we were younger, I was always able to deduce when my brother was stressed or tense. I was also always able to force a smile, however small, out of him. He would shake his head at me, roll his eyes, and punch me playfully in the arm. I would just roll my eyes right back at him and retort, “You need to lighten up.” He always did, too.
Now? Now I don’t even know him anymore.
I try to squelch that iridescent spark of faith that tells me he can still be saved. If I don’t firmly believe that he’s already gone, I know I’ll never be able to attack him if – when – the time comes. But I can’t shake the thought that I can still turn him back to the way he used to be, to the way we used to be. Somehow.
If only he would just notice me. If only he could see what I see every single time I look at him: memories. Like the time we both collapsed in fits of giggles after magically dyeing the neighbor’s hair hot pink. Does he even remember that? Does he remember how, by the time our laughs subsided, we were wiping away the tears streaming down our cheeks?
Do you remember? I want to scream. Do you? Do you?
As I stand stoically at the back of the room, demons and witches alike crowd around my brother. He stands before them in all his glory, his eyes scanning the room, examining each and every face as if he actually cared.
I know his expression of interest is spurious, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting him to give me that same look. I want him to look at me like something more than just a stone pillar in the room. What I want is some recognition, some form of familiarity from my brother.
As his gaze sweeps the room, it paused on me just like it did for everyone else. I’m nothing special; he gave everyone else the exact same look he’s giving me.
I know he doesn’t really see me; to him I’m just another face in his horde of followers. I know that when he looks at me he doesn’t see his brother the way I see in him. He doesn’t notice me.
And even though I’m fighting with the people who are against him, I still can’t help but want what we used to have. I’m selfish, I guess; but I still want my brother to notice me.
I close my eyes as if my long buried tears might escape if I don’t, but I don’t think he notices. I’m not surprised. Does he ever?
I know it’s stupid, but when I meet his gaze I smile. Just in case.
Author's Note: All right, you know the drill -- please let me know what you think!
Notice Me
He doesn’t notice a thing I do for him. I jumped in front of an energy ball once, you know, to protect him. I’m sure he could have dodged it or, more likely, wouldn’t even have had to; but that’s not really the point.
He healed me and didn’t fail to laugh at my irrationality. Why on earth would I risk my life when I knew he was more than capable of handling himself?
I remember shaking my head, wondering how to admit that I didn’t know. “I guess I was just too freaked out about that energy ball to think,” I had blushingly replied.
I don’t think he understood the implication behind my words – I was too afraid for him, for his life, to think. Instead, he shook his head pityingly and replied, “Try not to be so stupid, kid. Next time, you might not have me around to heal you; and then where will you be?”
He says he’s not worried that I’ll betray him because he can read my mind. I’ve seen – or, rather, felt – his telepathy firsthand. There were times when he didn’t trust anyone, especially me – someone who had been so devoted to the greatest paragons of good that ever lived. There were days when I would wake up to see him towering over me, eyes narrowed. He would demand that I tell him where I had been the night before, why I was out so late.
When he would use telepathy, it was like sharpened claws attacking my mind, scrabbling for any buried secrets I might possess. I would be sore for days after his scrutinizes, migraines pounding as loudly in my ears as an incessant jackhammer.
After a few months of this repeated performance, he slowly came to the conclusion that I was, in fact, trustworthy. He loosened up around me, and we became brothers again. Whatever that means.
Once, a few weeks after he learned to trust and believe me again, I was trying to make up for lost hours of sleep, hours stolen from the bitter cold that seemed to accompany his minions wherever they emerged. I always hated the cold.
The next thing I knew I was being shaken awake with a solid hand gripping my shoulder. I was dragged to my feet and unceremoniously dumped on the smooth, stone floor. Groaning, I glanced at my brother’s shoes then slowly raised my defiant gaze to meet his.
Before I could speak my mind, he informed me that he was sending me out to dig up information about the small, scattered bands of witches, demons, and mortals that refused to accept his reign.
Needless to say, I was exhausted and pissed. I let slip the first words that swirled through my mind, never the brightest idea when in his presence. “How do you know I won’t betray you and help them?” I challenged. I winced almost the instant I closed my mouth, expecting his eyes to darken lividly and his powers to slam me against the wall across the room.
When I built up the confidence to look up again (which, mind you, wasn’t for a few seemingly endless moments), I was more than surprised to see him smirking maliciously, as if finding my sarcasm mildly amusing.
His tone was low and calm, a voice no one would dare refute. It meant he wasn’t willing to tolerate impudence for much longer. “Because,” he whispered menacingly, “I’ll always know. You know I can check in your mind without you even knowing; you wouldn’t dare…”
Blushing, I hung my head, wishing he didn’t know me so well.
He said he could see what I was thinking without my realization, but he must not be paying very close attention. Either that or he hasn’t checked up on me in quite a while. He tells me he knows I wouldn’t (dare) betray him, but I’ve been working with the opposition for seven months now and he hasn’t breathed a single word about it.
I sneak past his guards, my left arm curled around my abdomen like a serpent, where a large, angry burn throbs painfully. My right hand clutches the wall desperately, as I stumble forward through the shadows.
I slip into a large cavern, assuming it’s safe to relax. None of the minions would dare enter unless summoned. I’m the only one who has the nerve to enter the private quarters. I also happen to be the only one who won’t pay dearly for doing it, too.
I hear slow, even breaths behind me and whirl around, my heart beating frantically in my ears. I don’t know why I’m surprised to find him sitting on a smooth, level boulder. A crack of light (from where, I wonder) falls diagonally across his face like a jagged scar. Immersed in the magical spell book cradled in his arms, he doesn’t seem to notice my silent approach.
If he finds out that a witch injured me – whether it was purposely or accidental (it was the latter, in case you were wondering) – he will completely lose his temper. I know him as well as he knows me, and I know perfectly well that he will rampage first and ask questions only after carcasses litter the floor. Another massacre will take place, another couple thousand deaths that will be on my head. To protect them, those innocents, I know I have to conceal my abrasion. I cannot put them at risk.
I let out a slow, weary breath and remain rooted to the spot, watching my brother carefully. Whether it’s to wait for him to make a move or to locate the soul that’s been gone for years now, I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder if it’s really gone or if it’s just buried so deep that even he can barely see it.
Briefly, he glances up from the ancient tome he’s processing, his cold, calculating eyes passing over me like water. Though I’m relieved that he notices nothing out of the ordinary – like my unusually pallid complexion or the way my knees shake in an effort to support my weight – I can’t help but feel that tiny twinge of annoyance. I am his brother, after all; is it really too much to ask to just look?
Engrossed in his thick, bound volume once again, he mumbles an irritated, distracted, “Where were you?”
“Out,” I reply brusquely, and I blame him for not hearing the infuriation in my voice or the way it quavers weakly.
For a single, fleeting moment his eyes pause on the page, and I think – just maybe – he will look up with a frown and repeat his question with maybe an ounce of concern. Just maybe his eyes will connect with mine and see past the icy, masked stare that mimics his own. Perhaps he will instead discern the guilty conscience that gnaws, unrelenting, at my soul; my shame; my anger; my trepidation and apprehension; and my utter admiration for him, despite the path of evil he has chosen.
Shortly, he nods; and any tiny flame of hope I might have possessed is snuffed in an instant. Resigned, I glide past him into the next chamber. Without even noticing I’m doing it, I wait to hear if he decided to follow me.
The room echoes with an accusing silence.
My energy and will gone, I weakly slide down against the wall, leaning my head back against it. My eyes flutter shut, and a rush of images flash through my mind of when Wyatt was different – of when he actually cared.
When we were younger, I was always able to deduce when my brother was stressed or tense. I was also always able to force a smile, however small, out of him. He would shake his head at me, roll his eyes, and punch me playfully in the arm. I would just roll my eyes right back at him and retort, “You need to lighten up.” He always did, too.
Now? Now I don’t even know him anymore.
I try to squelch that iridescent spark of faith that tells me he can still be saved. If I don’t firmly believe that he’s already gone, I know I’ll never be able to attack him if – when – the time comes. But I can’t shake the thought that I can still turn him back to the way he used to be, to the way we used to be. Somehow.
If only he would just notice me. If only he could see what I see every single time I look at him: memories. Like the time we both collapsed in fits of giggles after magically dyeing the neighbor’s hair hot pink. Does he even remember that? Does he remember how, by the time our laughs subsided, we were wiping away the tears streaming down our cheeks?
Do you remember? I want to scream. Do you? Do you?
As I stand stoically at the back of the room, demons and witches alike crowd around my brother. He stands before them in all his glory, his eyes scanning the room, examining each and every face as if he actually cared.
I know his expression of interest is spurious, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting him to give me that same look. I want him to look at me like something more than just a stone pillar in the room. What I want is some recognition, some form of familiarity from my brother.
As his gaze sweeps the room, it paused on me just like it did for everyone else. I’m nothing special; he gave everyone else the exact same look he’s giving me.
I know he doesn’t really see me; to him I’m just another face in his horde of followers. I know that when he looks at me he doesn’t see his brother the way I see in him. He doesn’t notice me.
And even though I’m fighting with the people who are against him, I still can’t help but want what we used to have. I’m selfish, I guess; but I still want my brother to notice me.
I close my eyes as if my long buried tears might escape if I don’t, but I don’t think he notices. I’m not surprised. Does he ever?
I know it’s stupid, but when I meet his gaze I smile. Just in case.
Author's Note: All right, you know the drill -- please let me know what you think!
