A/N: Chapters are to be posted once a week. Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!
She's twenty seven years old, and she's alone.
The hospital bathroom is small, the steam from the shower coating the space with a fog. Riza tightens the towel around her again and raises an arm to wipe the condensation from the mirror.
It's hard to swallow. It's hard to breathe.
It's hard to look at herself in the mirror when the woman staring back has so, so many scars.
There, on her palm, white line cutting across calloused flesh.
There, on her forehead, near her hairline, thin but sharp.
There, on her back, deep red and angry, marring black ink and pink skin.
There, on her cheek and wrists, arms and legs, stomach and chest.
And, on her neck, the white bandage protecting, and hiding, she is sure there will be a scar, too.
Not all of them come from fire.
She's seven years old, and she's alone.
Riza takes a deep breath before she reaching above her, hands grasping on the branch. Pulling from above, and pushing from below, she manages to climb. Another breath, another branch. She ignores how her uneven hair plasters to her forehead, squints against the light, grits her teeth, and doesn't stop until she reaches the top.
Riza takes a deep breath. Inhales, exhales. Above, soft clouds float in the sky. Below, the water on the lake twinkles and shines. The mountains in the distance stand firm against the wind, while the trees sway.
The breeze is kind to her, rippling through her clothes and against her sweaty skin. With one arm still clutching the trunk, Riza combs her fingers through her hair, and imagines she could stay up here forever.
Up here, she's still seven years old, and she's still alone, but she feels small.
Around her, the world seems so bigand whole and full. Open to millions of possibilities, and that being and feeling small isn't so bad. She likes feeling this kind of small. Every time she's climbed this tree she's suffered through blisters and bruises, the shortness of breath. She stands at the tip, hears the wind whisper and the sun speak, and feels very, very small.
She can imagine staying here forever.
She wishes she could.
(but she always must come down)
Riza's only seven, alone, and this is how it happens:
She's almost on the ground when she hears the branch crack beneath her feet, and realizes that she's falling before she feels herself drop. She reaches out and her hand finds purchase on the splintered branch, but it's not enough, and she falls to the earth with a shout, and a resonating thud.
The sky is still blue, with wisps of clouds. Riza watches from the ground, arms and legs spread, and struggling to regain her breath.
Her head pounds, her body aches, and her hand throbs. Slowly, Riza turns to look at her right palm, and sees it coated with blood. She squeezes her eyes shut, lets herself lie on the ground, just for a moment.
Listening, waiting.
She only lets herself wait so long before she opens her eyes, forces her body to stand up, and limps away without so much as a whimper.
There is blood on her shirt from where she wrapped her hand, and she wonders how she's going to be able to wash it out.
The stains spread, and she realizes that the cut hasn't stopped bleeding, and she unfurls her fist and groans from the sight, and the pain. The wound needs stitches. Riza's old enough to know that, as she dabs at it with a wet cloth. The jagged line running across her hand doesn't stop bleeding, and she swallows the panic rising in her throat.
The door creaks opens.
Riza swivels around, eyes wide. A looming figure ambles in, shaggy hair masking his face. She takes a step back and hides her hand behind her back. She presses herself against the wall, looks down at the floor and doesn't say a word as the man grabs some bread from the counter, and refills a mug with beer.
She makes the mistake of looking up before he's gone. He standing in front of her, and brown eyes meet brown eyes, and as quickly and quietly as he's come, he leaves, and leaves Riza standing there in the kitchen.
Bleeding.
Alone.
This is how it goes. This is how it's always been. Because even at seven fucking years old, Riza Hawkeye knows better than to ask for anything from her father. She grabs her needle and thread from the drawer, the rest of the beer, and a wooden spoon.
Sitting on ground next to the empty fireplace, she pours the beer onto the needle, and her palm. Bites down hard on the spoon, threads the needle carefully, and tries to still her trembling fingers.
If she's old enough to know she needs stitches, then Riza figures she's old enough to do it herself.
That night, out her window, she cannot see any stars. Without the stars, she doesn't feel so small, and the world doesn't seem so big.
Riza cradles her bandaged hand to her chest and tells herself that the way he makes her feel small is not the way it should be. She doesn't like this feeling of small. It's not like when she looks at the multitudes of stars, or when she's on top of her tree. Feeling small when he makes it so, is different. Crueler.
But it isn't his fault. He couldn't have noticed the splotches of blood on her shirt, or the way she hid her hand behind her. The way she shook from pain, and fear when their eyes met. He didn't see anything like that, and that's why he didn't do anything. Father just saw her in the kitchen and didn't notice that anything was wrong.
Besides. He can't worry about her when he has to worry about his research. She knows this, accepts it.
Riza Hawkeye is seven years old, alone, and never climbs a tree again.