Disclaimer: I own no one.
Pamela Lillian Isley. A once-human, no longer human. The glass between you and her is thick, chilled to the touch. You pass her holding cell without the intention of stopping; you have other business in this hellhole, and she was but another demon lurking there.
You have encountered her before, many a time in fact, under the darkness of the same black cowl you wear now. This time however holds an unexplained difference for reasons that are not altogether comprehendible. You cast her a passing glance, a rolling browse. She is sitting on the hard titanium floor with her legs to the side and her gaze outward, a yearning gaze directed to her one true lover, the warm embrace of the afternoon sun. You pass, and your stare meets hers.
You stop.
Why did you stop?
There is something incredible in her forest emerald eyes. Something you've never seen there before, never seen anywhere before. Something beautiful and frightening and rhythmic to the final sigh of an old woman. An old, sick woman, who wanted more than anything to die. Bittersweet, a light and gentle smile as the world comes caving in, as the sky cracks and the earth crumbles and everything buckles over like a drunken man in a city that's stopped caring about him.
And that something bittersweet is accompanied by a certain something old. Older than those crystal green eyes, older than the cowl and cape, older than the city and the country and the democracy on which it's built. Older than people. It paints her skin, her mind—what? What is it? It runs through her, buried deep in her veins, deep into the furthest recesses of her being and deeper still. It has become her. A guardian who has grown tired and weak with age, an infection that claimed its host in a time of great sorrow (Woodrue's work), a curse of greatest virtue. It consumed her heart and flesh and turned her into something else. Less human.
From a distance, her's is a dangerous song, a siren's whisper and a madman's scream, a tender gravity that pulls you close and drags you to the ground. Through the ground. But in the confinement of glass and plastic and metal, in a cold and lonely place that is the opposite of her, where the insane cackles fill the melodies of others', her song is a quiet and sorrowful one. A single, angel's voice, surrounded by demons. A war-worn angel that, in a mess of new wounds and old scars, took on the appearance of a demon; whose wings have been ripped forth from her body and halo shattered with her mind. A goddess, whom mortal men defiled and polluted and broke irreparably. A twisted, diluted, spirit, whose tune has been heard throughout the eras of time, whose voice people now ignore. A mother turned angry and vengeful by the deaths of her children.
There is something incredible in her eyes, and as that green skinned woman looks into the white lens of your cowl through the glass and the shadows of a madhouse in which she does not belong, you catch a single glimpse of it. It is a knowing, the whisper of a secret long forgotten to mortal ears. A promise, and a regret. A passing of time. A silent prayer to be heard.
And a human. There is a human in those eyes.
Fin
A/N: 16th birthday's coming up. Wish me luck.