Something happened to Andrea when she left home for her mother's funeral. She won't tell Valerie what.
Valerie doesn't know what to do.
Valerie doesn't know what to do.
[OC][Non-BB] Welcome to the Glass Castle
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[OC][Non-BB] Welcome to the Glass Castle [Complete]
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A few words before you start
- Pronouns
- He/Him
This story takes place outside Brockton Bay and is about two original characters. It will focus mostly on horror and emotional states, and will be small scale. Taylor, Scion, Cauldron, the Endbringers and the Trio are not relevant in any way. The story is entirely pre-written with thirteen chapters and will update daily until completion. As always, please refrain from commenting on chapter length.
Content warnings for:
Content warnings for:
- Major Character Death
- Psychological Trauma
- Animal Death
- Horror
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01 - The Closed Door of the Coffin
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Andrea's mother is dead.
They didn't get along, hadn't seen each other for a very long time. Andrea didn't even know she was dead until her sister called about the funerals.
Still. It changes things, doesn't it? A door closed on possibilities, a final period at the end of a tragedy, a last chance squandered and left to rot.
There will be no reconciliation.
Andrea has left for the funeral.
Do you want me to come, Valerie asked, and Andrea took her hands in hers, and Andrea looked tired.
No, she said, and there was a weight there, of the coffin, of the church, of the world and the whispers and the looks and everything Andrea didn't think she could bear on the day she'd bury her mother.
I love you, Valerie said, and Andrea leaned her head on her shoulder, and Valerie felt the tickling of her hair against the side of her neck.
I love you, Andrea said, and the house always feels empty when she isn't there, always feels cold.
Charlie rests his head in Valerie's lap and she buries her hands in warm dog fur, and she waits for Andrea to come home.
They didn't get along, hadn't seen each other for a very long time. Andrea didn't even know she was dead until her sister called about the funerals.
Still. It changes things, doesn't it? A door closed on possibilities, a final period at the end of a tragedy, a last chance squandered and left to rot.
There will be no reconciliation.
Andrea has left for the funeral.
Do you want me to come, Valerie asked, and Andrea took her hands in hers, and Andrea looked tired.
No, she said, and there was a weight there, of the coffin, of the church, of the world and the whispers and the looks and everything Andrea didn't think she could bear on the day she'd bury her mother.
I love you, Valerie said, and Andrea leaned her head on her shoulder, and Valerie felt the tickling of her hair against the side of her neck.
I love you, Andrea said, and the house always feels empty when she isn't there, always feels cold.
Charlie rests his head in Valerie's lap and she buries her hands in warm dog fur, and she waits for Andrea to come home.
02 - Ghosts Who Still Make The Floorboards Creak
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Andrea is tired when she gets home. Pale. Drawn out. Quiet.
She doesn't wake Valerie up. It's Charlie who does, stirred out of sleep by the click of the lock, by the groan of the hinges, by the creaking of the floor. It's Charlie who shifts from his place at the bottom of the bed, who growls softly as he faces the bedroom door.
Andrea didn't turn on the lights. Valerie finds her in the living-room, sitting in the dark, staring at the empty television screen. She doesn't answer Valerie's greeting.
When Valerie goes to hold her, she flinches away.
She doesn't answer her questions, either, or her concern. She refuses to drink the tea Valerie makes. She's just there, silent and still as a statue until Valerie runs out of strength, sits on the armchair beside hers.
They stay like that until morning.
She doesn't wake Valerie up. It's Charlie who does, stirred out of sleep by the click of the lock, by the groan of the hinges, by the creaking of the floor. It's Charlie who shifts from his place at the bottom of the bed, who growls softly as he faces the bedroom door.
Andrea didn't turn on the lights. Valerie finds her in the living-room, sitting in the dark, staring at the empty television screen. She doesn't answer Valerie's greeting.
When Valerie goes to hold her, she flinches away.
She doesn't answer her questions, either, or her concern. She refuses to drink the tea Valerie makes. She's just there, silent and still as a statue until Valerie runs out of strength, sits on the armchair beside hers.
They stay like that until morning.
03 - House Haunted by the Living
- Pronouns
- He/Him
The days are slow, stilted, strange. Cold.
Andrea stays distant. Stays silent. Stays curled in her armchair, looking around the room, keeps refusing comfort and food and drink, ignores Charlie's growls and Valerie's pleas, and Valerie doesn't know what to say. Valerie doesn't know what to do.
"Did something happen?" Valerie asks.
Andrea doesn't answer.
(It feels like the glass is creeping up between them, clear and cold, like a wall and a box and a barrier muffling her voice, it feels like the glass is there and it makes it so very hard, to keep the glass down, to keep her promise, to stay raw and exposed and helpless in the room with Andrea.)
"What happened?" Valerie asks.
Andrea doesn't answer.
(Andrea looks at Valerie, and doesn't see her. Andrea sees Valerie, and doesn't look at her.)
Nightfall comes.
"Andrea, please," Valerie asks.
Andrea sleeps in the guest room, legs tangled under cold sheets, door closed like a mirror. Valerie sits in their bedroom, face buried between her hands, and hopes her wife can't hear her cry.
Andrea stays distant. Stays silent. Stays curled in her armchair, looking around the room, keeps refusing comfort and food and drink, ignores Charlie's growls and Valerie's pleas, and Valerie doesn't know what to say. Valerie doesn't know what to do.
"Did something happen?" Valerie asks.
Andrea doesn't answer.
(It feels like the glass is creeping up between them, clear and cold, like a wall and a box and a barrier muffling her voice, it feels like the glass is there and it makes it so very hard, to keep the glass down, to keep her promise, to stay raw and exposed and helpless in the room with Andrea.)
"What happened?" Valerie asks.
Andrea doesn't answer.
(Andrea looks at Valerie, and doesn't see her. Andrea sees Valerie, and doesn't look at her.)
Nightfall comes.
"Andrea, please," Valerie asks.
Andrea sleeps in the guest room, legs tangled under cold sheets, door closed like a mirror. Valerie sits in their bedroom, face buried between her hands, and hopes her wife can't hear her cry.
04 - The Wails And Sobs Of The Lonely
- Pronouns
- He/Him
She fails.
There are many things that are stopped by walls, warmth and help and kindness and breathing, but sound, sound was never one of them, and Andrea hears her cry.
She comes knocking at the bedroom door. There is a tray in her hand, loaded, a plate full of sandwiches and a cup of steaming tea.
"Did something happen?" Andrea asks.
Valerie doesn't understand. She doesn't understand, because it makes no sense, that question, because why would Andrea need to ask, when Andrea is what happened, when Andrea is who something happened to. She doesn't understand, because the question breaks the silence, and the silence was the answer. She doesn't understand, and it feels like an accusation.
At her feet, Charlie growls.
"What happened?" Andrea asks.
It feels like the shattering of a looking glass, smooth silver impenetrable, the shards tearing in wails through Valerie's throat as she gives up on the quiet, and it's sticky and red and painful in all the way the walls are not, and it's so much better than them.
(Almost everything is.)
Andrea doesn't hold her. Andrea doesn't touch her. Andrea does nothing but stand in the doorway, tray cooling between her hands, but she looks and she sees her, but she sees her and looks at her, and it's enough, at least for now.
"I'm sorry," Andrea says.
Valerie fails to be quiet.
(In the selfish parts of her, she's grateful Andrea heard)
There are many things that are stopped by walls, warmth and help and kindness and breathing, but sound, sound was never one of them, and Andrea hears her cry.
She comes knocking at the bedroom door. There is a tray in her hand, loaded, a plate full of sandwiches and a cup of steaming tea.
"Did something happen?" Andrea asks.
Valerie doesn't understand. She doesn't understand, because it makes no sense, that question, because why would Andrea need to ask, when Andrea is what happened, when Andrea is who something happened to. She doesn't understand, because the question breaks the silence, and the silence was the answer. She doesn't understand, and it feels like an accusation.
At her feet, Charlie growls.
"What happened?" Andrea asks.
It feels like the shattering of a looking glass, smooth silver impenetrable, the shards tearing in wails through Valerie's throat as she gives up on the quiet, and it's sticky and red and painful in all the way the walls are not, and it's so much better than them.
(Almost everything is.)
Andrea doesn't hold her. Andrea doesn't touch her. Andrea does nothing but stand in the doorway, tray cooling between her hands, but she looks and she sees her, but she sees her and looks at her, and it's enough, at least for now.
"I'm sorry," Andrea says.
Valerie fails to be quiet.
(In the selfish parts of her, she's grateful Andrea heard)
05 - And A Dog Stands At The Crossroads
- Pronouns
- He/Him
"Please, stop growling," Andrea says, and Valerie doesn't think she was supposed to hear.
It has been a few days now, since Andrea found her crying. Things are better.
Not normal. Andrea still sleeps in the guest room, still feels strange and detached and distant, still shies away from Charlie and from touch. Still hasn't said what happened to her on the day of her mother's funeral. Things aren't normal because Andrea isn't okay, Valerie knows, and also knows that she might never go back to normal, never go back to the old okay. Valerie never did after she broke the glass. After she brought the glass up. It's fine. They'll find a way forward. They'll build a new normal. They'll make it.
Andrea talks to her again. Her words feel like a stranger speaking, but it's something. It's enough.
(It has to be.)
"Please," Andrea says. She's kneeling down in the kitchen, hand reaching toward Charlie. "I gave you treats. You like treats, don't you?"
It's one in the morning, and the kitchen is dark, outlines and shadows and the dull orange-yellow of street lamps spilling their colors through the windows, and Andrea's back is to the door, and Valerie can't see her face.
Charlie is still growling.
"Please," Andrea says. "I know I'm different. Please."
She scuttles forward, closer, moves as though aiming for a pet, a scratch under the dog's jaw.
Charlie bites her.
It has been a few days now, since Andrea found her crying. Things are better.
Not normal. Andrea still sleeps in the guest room, still feels strange and detached and distant, still shies away from Charlie and from touch. Still hasn't said what happened to her on the day of her mother's funeral. Things aren't normal because Andrea isn't okay, Valerie knows, and also knows that she might never go back to normal, never go back to the old okay. Valerie never did after she broke the glass. After she brought the glass up. It's fine. They'll find a way forward. They'll build a new normal. They'll make it.
Andrea talks to her again. Her words feel like a stranger speaking, but it's something. It's enough.
(It has to be.)
"Please," Andrea says. She's kneeling down in the kitchen, hand reaching toward Charlie. "I gave you treats. You like treats, don't you?"
It's one in the morning, and the kitchen is dark, outlines and shadows and the dull orange-yellow of street lamps spilling their colors through the windows, and Andrea's back is to the door, and Valerie can't see her face.
Charlie is still growling.
"Please," Andrea says. "I know I'm different. Please."
She scuttles forward, closer, moves as though aiming for a pet, a scratch under the dog's jaw.
Charlie bites her.
06 - All The Worms Beneath The Dirt
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Andrea refuses to let Valerie help her with the wound. Of course. She would have to touch her for that.
(They haven't touched once since the funeral. Valerie feels cold, sometimes, sitting by the windows, laying in bed waiting for sleep to come.)
"I don't understand," Valerie says in the morning. "He's never done this before."
The bandage is stark against Andrea's hand, white, like snow over dark stone.
"He likes you," Valerie says. "I don't… This doesn't make sense."
"It's okay," Andrea says "It will solve itself, I'm sure."
She's looking through the window at the garden outside. It's starting to overgrow. Maybe Valerie should do something. Mow the lawn, maybe.
(Andrea is the one who does it, usually. The one who likes gardening, plants and worms and rich dark soil. Roses and chrysanthemum and calla lilies, vibrant colors and soft petals.)
That night, Charlie sleeps in the doghouse.
Come morning, he isn't there.
(They haven't touched once since the funeral. Valerie feels cold, sometimes, sitting by the windows, laying in bed waiting for sleep to come.)
"I don't understand," Valerie says in the morning. "He's never done this before."
The bandage is stark against Andrea's hand, white, like snow over dark stone.
"He likes you," Valerie says. "I don't… This doesn't make sense."
"It's okay," Andrea says "It will solve itself, I'm sure."
She's looking through the window at the garden outside. It's starting to overgrow. Maybe Valerie should do something. Mow the lawn, maybe.
(Andrea is the one who does it, usually. The one who likes gardening, plants and worms and rich dark soil. Roses and chrysanthemum and calla lilies, vibrant colors and soft petals.)
That night, Charlie sleeps in the doghouse.
Come morning, he isn't there.
07 - A Vigil Held By Autumn Sun
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Valerie spends the day looking for Charlie.
She's cold, beyond what the fall weather should bring. A bone-deep kind of chill, heedless of sweaters and blankets and heated rooms, and she feels brittle underneath, like frozen flesh or sheets of ice or tall glass walls around herself. She feels like the world is going to shatter. Like any second she's going to wake up and Charlie will be there and Andrea will be fine and everything will be okay. Like the world isn't real.
Like she's not in the world.
Like she isn't real.
She asks a couple of passersby if they have seen Charlie and she knows she must look crazy, disheveled and frantic and tripping over her words, and there is pity in her eyes, and there is disdain in his, and she wants to make the glass real, to go inside the box where nobody can see her. She's already cold anyway. She's already alone.
(She can't look for Charlie from inside the box.)
(Andrea hates the box.)
Valerie pushes down the glass.
She's cold, beyond what the fall weather should bring. A bone-deep kind of chill, heedless of sweaters and blankets and heated rooms, and she feels brittle underneath, like frozen flesh or sheets of ice or tall glass walls around herself. She feels like the world is going to shatter. Like any second she's going to wake up and Charlie will be there and Andrea will be fine and everything will be okay. Like the world isn't real.
Like she's not in the world.
Like she isn't real.
She asks a couple of passersby if they have seen Charlie and she knows she must look crazy, disheveled and frantic and tripping over her words, and there is pity in her eyes, and there is disdain in his, and she wants to make the glass real, to go inside the box where nobody can see her. She's already cold anyway. She's already alone.
(She can't look for Charlie from inside the box.)
(Andrea hates the box.)
Valerie pushes down the glass.
08 - Windows Stained In Red And Blue
- Pronouns
- He/Him
She makes it home by nightfall, legs aching, feet turned to weights of lead and clay. She makes it home and Charlie isn't there, neither waiting nor by her side. She makes it home, and collapses more than she sits on the living room sofa.
Slowly, hesitantly, Andrea sits on the opposite armrest.
It feels to Valerie like a painful itch, that distance, that closeness that isn't close, like it grates at her, like shards of ice under her skin, and the empty sofa is like an ocean, an arm's length turned into a chasm, inches wide as a thousand miles, and the air between them might as well be a wall.
"Please," Valerie chokes out, and her sobs swallow the rest.
It's fine.
She doesn't know what she would have said anyway.
It's fine.
There is an arm around her shoulders.
Andrea is stiff as wood as she holds her, rigid and awkward and unmoving as though she's forgotten how to touch living things, and her hand is cold where it touches bare skin, and Valerie doesn't care. Valerie doesn't care at all.
She leans into the hug as she continues to cry.
Slowly, hesitantly, Andrea sits on the opposite armrest.
It feels to Valerie like a painful itch, that distance, that closeness that isn't close, like it grates at her, like shards of ice under her skin, and the empty sofa is like an ocean, an arm's length turned into a chasm, inches wide as a thousand miles, and the air between them might as well be a wall.
"Please," Valerie chokes out, and her sobs swallow the rest.
It's fine.
She doesn't know what she would have said anyway.
It's fine.
There is an arm around her shoulders.
Andrea is stiff as wood as she holds her, rigid and awkward and unmoving as though she's forgotten how to touch living things, and her hand is cold where it touches bare skin, and Valerie doesn't care. Valerie doesn't care at all.
She leans into the hug as she continues to cry.
09 - Digging Through The Holes In The Ground
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Days go by. Andrea takes to the garden again. Valerie doesn't find Charlie.
"Maybe he'll come back," Andrea says, dirt under her fingernails, empty words Valerie wishes she could believe.
Maybe it was a car that got him. A poisoned lure left for rats. Crumbling concrete from that cape fight downtown. The sick kind of fuck who sees a dog and decides to hurt him. Maybe she's just pessimistic. She's never been very good at hoping. Only at keeping through the day, going through the motions behind a wall of glass, until the glass finally shatters.
(Glass always shatters, in the end, and when it does, it cuts both ways.)
She wonders, sometimes, what would have happened, after that day, if she hadn't met Andrea. If she'd put on a mask and colorful clothes, and had thrown her walls at the world until something gave.
(She's not Nilbog, or Eidolon, or Ash Beast or Legend. She'd have broken before the world.)
Andrea takes to the garden again, buries her hands into the ground, comes inside with grass-stained knees and mud at the hem of her pants, and Valerie both misses and loves her so much it hurts.
Andrea takes to the garden again, pulls weeds out of empty flowerbeds, molds the world as she sees fit.
Andrea takes to the garden again, watches as fallen leaves burn and leaves hoe and rake lying on the ground.
In the garden shed where she goes to put them away, Valerie finds a rotting smell, finds meat and bones and worms and fur, finds a collar and a tag and a name.
Valerie finds Charlie in the garden shed.
"Maybe he'll come back," Andrea says, dirt under her fingernails, empty words Valerie wishes she could believe.
Maybe it was a car that got him. A poisoned lure left for rats. Crumbling concrete from that cape fight downtown. The sick kind of fuck who sees a dog and decides to hurt him. Maybe she's just pessimistic. She's never been very good at hoping. Only at keeping through the day, going through the motions behind a wall of glass, until the glass finally shatters.
(Glass always shatters, in the end, and when it does, it cuts both ways.)
She wonders, sometimes, what would have happened, after that day, if she hadn't met Andrea. If she'd put on a mask and colorful clothes, and had thrown her walls at the world until something gave.
(She's not Nilbog, or Eidolon, or Ash Beast or Legend. She'd have broken before the world.)
Andrea takes to the garden again, buries her hands into the ground, comes inside with grass-stained knees and mud at the hem of her pants, and Valerie both misses and loves her so much it hurts.
Andrea takes to the garden again, pulls weeds out of empty flowerbeds, molds the world as she sees fit.
Andrea takes to the garden again, watches as fallen leaves burn and leaves hoe and rake lying on the ground.
In the garden shed where she goes to put them away, Valerie finds a rotting smell, finds meat and bones and worms and fur, finds a collar and a tag and a name.
Valerie finds Charlie in the garden shed.