TITLE: Dear Angel (1/1)
AUTHOR: Karen "Powrhug" Wood
E-MAIL: powrhug@sky.net
RATING: PG
CATEGORY: K/A angst, Kate POV
SPOILERS: Season two? I guess. You have to know who Kate is and know she left! LOL
NOTES: Written on 2/7/02, the day after I broke my own glass. (I guess you could read it literally, but I'm not sure *why* Kate would actually write Angel an actual letter about breaking a glass! LOL So we're talking metaphores here folks.)
SUMMARY: Kate breaks a glass and writes Angel a letter.
ARCHIVE: Sure, if you want it just take it...but let me know where so I can come visit! Anyone I've said okay to before doesn't need to ask.
DISCLAIMER: The usual. I don't own Angel or Kate or any of the characters portrayed on Angel: the Series, they are the property of the producers/creators/writers. I'm just writing my thoughts down and sharing. Without profiting of course.
Dear Angel,
I thought about you yesterday evening, out of the not-so clear blue of glass shattering all around me on my kitchen floor. I knew what was happening when the margarita glass started its descent but there was little I could do to stop it. So I just stood there in bare feet and bare legs watching the explosion and subsequent shattering. Shards and large chunks skittered across the tile--under sink, stove, refrigerator, even out onto the carpet.
As usual I'd been careless. I'd put the glass where it could get knocked off, where it likely *would* get knocked off. But thoughts of possible harm came too late. For the glass. Hindsight doesn't exactly mend things now does it?
The sound startled me. Which I know is irrational...unreasonable. But it did. I knew it was coming. I expected it. I saw the actions that would, logically cause the noise, but when it happened I jerked back. And a sound came from me as well. A sharp intake of breath. I think I may have cursed as well, but I can't be sure. Any actual words are now lost along with the glass.
Deep down I knew I shouldn't do it. I knew I shouldn't kneel to pick up the pieces, but I did anyway. Thinking there was no way it could have spread to where I stood. Thinking there would be no way for me to be hurt as long as I could see the pieces in front of me. Thinking I was in control. As usual.
I carefully picked up as much as I could, almost anticipating the burning sting of my skin slicing. Thinking, knowing I'm not the most careful/graceful person in the world. Realizing that there was little way I could pick up all of the pieces without damaging my hands, my fingers, my palms in some way or another.
But somehow I came away unscathed. Uncut. Undamaged.
I tied as much as I could up in a plastic grocery sack. Twisting and turning and tying the ends to secure the pieces. Surprisingly mindful of the future. Of having to eventually throw out the remnants. And I didn't stop until there were at least four bags surrounding the glass. Burying the sharp edges deep.
It was only when I stood that I saw the damage. Tiny trickles of blood trailing down my legs. Small shards of glass sticking to my shins and knees...apparently too small for me to initially see when I knelt to clean up the mess that had been made. Clear glass will do that on white tile I suppose.
I was surprised when I saw what had been left. Blood on the floor. On me.
I had felt no pain.
But now it came in waves.
Love sometimes still,
Kate
AUTHOR: Karen "Powrhug" Wood
E-MAIL: powrhug@sky.net
RATING: PG
CATEGORY: K/A angst, Kate POV
SPOILERS: Season two? I guess. You have to know who Kate is and know she left! LOL
NOTES: Written on 2/7/02, the day after I broke my own glass. (I guess you could read it literally, but I'm not sure *why* Kate would actually write Angel an actual letter about breaking a glass! LOL So we're talking metaphores here folks.)
SUMMARY: Kate breaks a glass and writes Angel a letter.
ARCHIVE: Sure, if you want it just take it...but let me know where so I can come visit! Anyone I've said okay to before doesn't need to ask.
DISCLAIMER: The usual. I don't own Angel or Kate or any of the characters portrayed on Angel: the Series, they are the property of the producers/creators/writers. I'm just writing my thoughts down and sharing. Without profiting of course.
Dear Angel,
I thought about you yesterday evening, out of the not-so clear blue of glass shattering all around me on my kitchen floor. I knew what was happening when the margarita glass started its descent but there was little I could do to stop it. So I just stood there in bare feet and bare legs watching the explosion and subsequent shattering. Shards and large chunks skittered across the tile--under sink, stove, refrigerator, even out onto the carpet.
As usual I'd been careless. I'd put the glass where it could get knocked off, where it likely *would* get knocked off. But thoughts of possible harm came too late. For the glass. Hindsight doesn't exactly mend things now does it?
The sound startled me. Which I know is irrational...unreasonable. But it did. I knew it was coming. I expected it. I saw the actions that would, logically cause the noise, but when it happened I jerked back. And a sound came from me as well. A sharp intake of breath. I think I may have cursed as well, but I can't be sure. Any actual words are now lost along with the glass.
Deep down I knew I shouldn't do it. I knew I shouldn't kneel to pick up the pieces, but I did anyway. Thinking there was no way it could have spread to where I stood. Thinking there would be no way for me to be hurt as long as I could see the pieces in front of me. Thinking I was in control. As usual.
I carefully picked up as much as I could, almost anticipating the burning sting of my skin slicing. Thinking, knowing I'm not the most careful/graceful person in the world. Realizing that there was little way I could pick up all of the pieces without damaging my hands, my fingers, my palms in some way or another.
But somehow I came away unscathed. Uncut. Undamaged.
I tied as much as I could up in a plastic grocery sack. Twisting and turning and tying the ends to secure the pieces. Surprisingly mindful of the future. Of having to eventually throw out the remnants. And I didn't stop until there were at least four bags surrounding the glass. Burying the sharp edges deep.
It was only when I stood that I saw the damage. Tiny trickles of blood trailing down my legs. Small shards of glass sticking to my shins and knees...apparently too small for me to initially see when I knelt to clean up the mess that had been made. Clear glass will do that on white tile I suppose.
I was surprised when I saw what had been left. Blood on the floor. On me.
I had felt no pain.
But now it came in waves.
Love sometimes still,
Kate