I do not own Glass, Split, or Unbreakable.

I do not own a horde.

The Light of the Casey

He fought to get to The Light.

Not The Light that they, the Horde, sat around, waiting to get to their turn.

Well, yes, that Light.

But that was not The Light that he fought for.

Only into it as a way to get into The Light of the Casey.

Casey.

So knowing of pain. And suffering.

Yet so capable of gentleness, of kindness, of stillness and calm.

He fought past them.

Past the babbling Rakel, screaming something unintelligible in Spanish.

Past Jade and her raging diabetes and hormones.

Patricia, shouting, commanding them all in the name of the faith of the Beast.

Even past Mr. Dennis as he reprimanded Barry for leaving his art supplies all over the apartment.

And Hedwig who was laughing in the faces of the tweed-wearing Orwell and the supremely Scottish Mary Reynolds.

He even braved to duck under the snapping teeth of the Beast.

All to throw himself into The Light of the Casey.

Her pale, oval face. Her straight dark hair that smelled like lilacs and not iron starched flesh.

Casey, whose touch made him think of quiet conversations on hillsides under blue skies billowed with lazy cottonball clouds.

Comfortable quiet and gentle hands.

And everything normal and natural and easy and relaxed that people who weren't him did all the time.

Things he couldn't even begin to understand and imagine.

Like a friend.

A friend who didn't hit, a friend who didn't hurt.

A friend who accepted and listened.

And sometimes touched your arm or your shoulder or your cheek in a nice, caring manner.

All the things Kevin Wendell Crumb could never, would never . . .

"Casey?"

"Kevin?"

. . . have.

So much potential for writing for Glass here.

I have no idea really where to start or how to proceed, to be honest.

I guess with this bit of raw emotion here.

Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.