I haven't written anything in many years for many reasons, but Agents of Shield has really triggered my creative juices lately, so here's a teeny drabble. Be gentle with me- like I said, it's been a really long time since I've written anything.

This story has a very vague, quick allusion to child abuse.


In some distant nearly abandoned corner of her mind she could hear the banging and the glass shattering upstairs. Outside, through dusty basement windows, she could hear screams and gunshots, but couldn't process the sounds; couldn't quite remember what they were supposed to mean.

There was only enough room in her head for one half-thought: door.

Somewhere inside of her, behind the part of her that was pretending not to notice the sound of the blood in her throat, she felt the importance of The Door. She didn't know why it was important, but it seemed to make sense that it would be.

There were familiar sounds out there and quiet secrets in here.

She knew her friends were just on the other side of that wooden door, shouting and screaming, the sound reaching her through the rushing of her own blood in her ears.

This side of the door was wet iron on her palms. This side of the door was pain and angry faces- mean people punishing for things she didn't know she'd done wrong.

If she could just get out the door, maybe run all the way back to St. Agnes. It wasn't heaven but it was better than this place. The nuns scared her, but never hurt her; not her body anyway. And at least the orphanage had other kids in it.

She could hear her friends on the other side of that door, gunshots and screaming and laughing, all cops and robbers style. "Bang" they'd say when they'd point their fingers at each other. Shrieking and giggling they'd all fall down, pretend to bleed out and die.

"Oh no. Oh no. Oh God."

It sounded so fun. If she could just get to the door.