Black Water ↠ Stiles Stilinski [Teen Wolf, Vol. One]

Requiem

"I don't know where I am."

Unlike the muffled cries, the words had a distinct source.

Charlie's head snapped up. A few doors down stood a little girl, no more than six years old. A T-shirt several sizes too big hung from her shoulders, dirty and frayed at the hem, rips and iron-on patches marked her jeans, her hair was pulled back into uneven braided pigtails, and a stuffed animal sat under her arm. Her head sagged towards the ground, tears streaking down unseen cheeks. Fighting her own weight, Charlie hauled herself to her feet.

"Hey," Charlie whispered, her tone soft and comforting. "Hey, it'll be okay. Don't worry. I'll take care of you." Her steps towards the girl were careful and slow. The girl took a small step forward to match. "Where are your parents?" Charlie asked. "Where's your dad?"

"Gone," the girl replied simply. Her head still tipped forwards, hiding her face from view.

Charlie took another step forwards. So did the girl. "Well, we can find them."

"No, we can't," the girl murmured.

Charlie shook her head. "Of course we can."

They slowly approached each other, falling into step. Soon Charlie stood directly before her. The part of her hair was jagged and chunks stuck out of her braids at odd angles. A Rolling Stones print and old grease stain decorated the shirt. It looked familiar. As did the toy under her arm, a stuffed kangaroo named Leonard. Charlie reached out to place a hand on the girl's shoulder, but her fingers met cold, hard, and smooth. Her palm pressed further, flattening against the surface. Charlie jerked her hand back in surprise. As she stumbled backwards, so did the girl. The hallway in front her stood identical to the one behind her, but with the image reversed. Her fingers moved forward again, brushing the chilled glass. It was a mirror.

"What the hell?"

The girl before her shook with sobs. She wore a T-shirt that belonged in her dad's dresser and clutched Leonard like he belonged in her arms. The child lifted her head. Black tears leaked from those wide, hazel eyes—Charlie's own eyes ten years prior. Hot, wet beads tracked down Charlie's own cheeks. She flicked them away. Her fingers came back stained with ink.

"I've been here so long," the little girl—Charlie—whispered. "I've been alone this whole time."

"Shut up." Charlie spat the words out like a bitter taste on her tongue. "I don't want to hear it. Shut up."

The child looked up with huge, watery, coal-smeared eyes. "They left me alone. Why do they keep leaving me all alone?"

"I said shut up," Charlie snapped. "Shut up and stop crying."

The tears continued to flow. Charlie's hands balled into fists. Crying solved nothing. It didn't bring people back. It didn't make them find you. Her own tears still stung her face like steaks of acid. A brick appeared at her feet. She didn't hesitate to pick it up. It was heavy and rough in her hand. Her eyes fixed on the mirror, on the girl reflected in it, and she threw. Glass shattered, the small shards falling like raindrops.

And then, as the remains of the mirror skittered across the floor, she found a third set of eyes behind it. They shone red.

------------------------------------------------

"That was cinematic as fuck."

Charlie rolled her eyes at Donald's reaction to her dream, unable to enact any other demonstrable and/or offensive gestures of disapproval. Three separate blankets cocooned her where she sat on the living room sofa. The chenille throw draped itself casually over her shoulders, while two fleece ones worked in tandem, pinning her arms to her sides and capturing her legs in a tangle more convoluted than a straight jacket. She had been sitting there since the early hours of the morning when Mel saw fit to swaddle her, because apparently the trauma of a near-death experience meant she must be cold. Only her hands remained free, working feverishly on her Xbox controller. She may have spent days locked in that apartment, but at least Master Chief could roam free.