Title: Twisted Little Masqurade
Author: Serpentine Wisdom
Fandom: Supernatural
Status: One-shot drabble
Pairings: None.
Word Count: 367
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or anything related to it and I'm not making any profit out of this nor do I intend to.
Summary: A look into the mind of a shapeshifter.
Author notes: I just recently found this old unfinished drabble on my computer, I had totally forgotten about it. I cleaned it up and rewrote some parts. Because I began writing it before season 6 it doesn't mention anything revealed after that season like 'alphas' (which was something I didn't like about the series anyway).
OoOoOoO
It bothers him sometimes, that he can't quite remember what he used to look like. It's like trying to recall a single photo he'd seen only once decades ago, the memory so blurred he can only remember that it once existed. He tries sometimes, shifting back, but there's always something missing, something wrong.
It makes him grind his teeth. They're always too tall or too short. The hair colour stranger than he remembers. Was his face really that long and his eyes really that dark? When he thinks more deeply about it he starts to wonder just who he was, where he was born. Was he an Asian woman born in San Francisco? Was he a white man from Los Angeles? An Old World colonist or an edo period samurai?
He has too many memories, too many thoughts, crowding his head. Somewhere in the fog of whispering minds he loses everything; his name, his age, even his past disappears in the murky mix of the thoughts and feelings of all the people he is but isn't.
He's fractured and he knows it. Walking the world through the decades (or was it centuries?) never wearing his own face, he lives and breathes with the people in a way no other creature can. The quiet simmering rage hiding in his heart as he hides among families and friends that were never his.
Only his victims, sometimes, realise he's even there - if only because he wants (needs) them to. He loves their pain, their screams, or he thinks he does. He can never be quite certain what he feels or wants is really his own but he knows, knows it in his blood and bones somehow, that their suffering is the only balm his wounds will ever have.
What does a true form mean to something like him anyway? He's the monster with a thousand faces. He's anyone he wants to be. He's everybody.
He tells this to himself, holds the thought to him like a little child clings to its safety blanket. He swaggers through life with the confidence of someone who'll never have to face any consequences but deep down he knows the truth.
He's no one.
The End.