A/N – This actually came from a fan art idea. When my mom shows me how to work the scanner I'll finish my drawing and head over to DA. But for now, it is a humble fanfic. The ending is up to your imagination.
Disclaimer: If I owned the work of art that is Avatar, there would be an awesome epilogue with Zuko's mommy and little Airbending Kataang babies.
A GINORMOUS THANK YOU to Moelike for reading this for me! Even if I didn't change anything, your opinion helped so much. Speaking of Moelike, I've started a new fanfic with her. Head over to her profile now to read it. It's called "Freedom Lake". I am still writing LIC and Shades of Mai, don't worry. I just need some inspiration.
Also, a long span of italics means a flashback.
Step. Tick. Step. Tick. Step. Tick. Creak. Tick. Tick.
A weakened floorboard interrupts the steady rhythm of my walk. The grandfather clock and I had a beat so strong it could've been mistaken for a metronome, and one loose installment stops it. Funny how the time keeps ticking without me, just like the days go by and the world turns, whether you're ready or not.
I continue down the hall to my bedroom, shutting the door behind me. This dull, dreary house is so silent that the door sounds like a bomb. Sighing, I settle down on my bed, trying to think of something to do.
After Ozai was defeated and Zuko was crowned Fire Lord, they began to remove Fire Nation troops from other places in the world, starting with Omashu. Lucky me. That means my parents came home a few weeks ago and forced me to move back in with them. Zuko offered for me to stay with him in the palace, but they refused.
"There's so much space," he had said. "It wouldn't be any trouble."
"Oh, no, Fire Lord Zuko, we couldn't burden you with our daughter."
Burden. As if Zuko was going to be my baby sitter and I'm not welcome in his home.
"Mai could have her own room and servants would be there if she needed anything. Like I said, it's no trouble."
"Thank you very much, but we're going to have to decline. Besides, it's been a long time and we have some catching up to do."
She said it like she cares. Like she actually wants to spend time with me. Don't make me laugh, mom. Don't even try.
I sigh again, this time resorting to my knives. I don't know what it is about them that just entrances me, like they're magic or something. Yeah, like I believe in that garbage.
But still, I slide up my left sleeve and pull out one of the hidden weapons. Maybe it's because they're so accurate. They hit the target every time. But that's only because they're thrown with the skill of a master. So accuracy is not the reason for my odd enchantment.
Craftsmanship could be it. I know I sound like a doll collector or something, but every time I'm in the market place I keep an eye out for new knives. If they're well-made and sharp, they work. If they're poorly carved and not made by an experienced blacksmith, they're not worth my money. But the simple knowledge that the knives I have are up to my standards wouldn't put me in such a state. It has to be something else.
Maybe it's the rush. That feeling of power and freedom I have every time I throw one of these things. Finally, I have a victim. I have someone to control, someone to trap. I'm on the other side of the fight. I'm in the lead, I decide what's happening, and when that idiot-whoever it is-is pinned down, they're just my toy.
That's close, but it almost sickens me that I just thought that. Sure, I'd love to be someone else, someone whose emotions aren't shoved to the tiniest, most unnoticed corners of their hearts. Someone who's cared for and has more than two people to care for: her boyfriend and her best friend. But still, that's not it.
Suddenly I hear a crash, like glass breaking. Like my mom's brand new set of wine glasses hitting the floor. Screaming starts, and after a few minutes I have to wonder if it will ever end.
Mom and dad have been fighting a lot lately. About what, I don't know. Last night I actually saw him raise his fist to her. And it wasn't one of those "well, I was just walking by and I think I caught sight of his arm moving." I know exactly what I saw.
I had just come downstairs to get a glass of water. I couldn't sleep and thought I'd sit in the kitchen for a while, since the bold pink walls, lush pink carpet, and smooth pink furniture were starting to make my head hurt.
I slowed my pace, tiptoeing the rest of the way, because I heard muffled voices coming from the kitchen. They were growing louder with each silent step I took, and not just because I was getting closer to them. Eventually the whispers turned to hushed tones, then normal speaking voices, and it became louder and louder until they were yelling. I ventured into the kitchen's doorway and saw my parents just standing there, eye-to-eye, their words incomprehensible, their bodies shaking with anger. My father stopped for a moment to catch his breath, and my mother dropped her voice to a whisper, saying something I couldn't quite catch. But I followed the ups and downs of her sickly-sweet voice and figured she was being sarcastic and insulting. Smooth, mom.
So then he raised his fist in-between them, and the yelling was just about to start up again. I went down there to get rid of my head ache, not to worsen it. So I hurried back upstairs, falling asleep to the sound of screams.
It hits me, then. Why I love my knives so much. I take the one I've been toying with and hold it between the pointer fingers of both my hands, keeping it from gravity's pull only by its tip and handle. I twirl it around slowly, watching as it catches the sun's rays from my window and reflects them onto my face. Then I stop, and handle it like the proper tool that it is, holding my right pointer finger parallel to the knife. I tip it so it's in stabbing position, and draw it toward the top of my finger until I feel contact. It stings a bit, but I can handle pain. I learned from the best.
Slowly, the crimson liquid begins to drip down until it reaches my wrist, and I pull the knife away.
What entrances me is the possibilities. These knives can be used for attacking, self-defense, anything. Even an end. A complete stop to the melody of life, just like the creaky floorboard in the hall. It stopped my rhythm with the clock, and this weapon can stop my misery in this world. I reach to my neck and stretch down the collar of my shirt so my neck is bare, my pale skin so vulnerable with a capable tool this close. I take a look at the knife, wondering what I should do.
On one hand, my life's not completely ruined. There's still Zuko, I think. Even though he's never said it, I know he loves me, and I love him too. I'll see Ty Lee again someday, if she visits from Kyoshi Island. And I still need to talk to Azula about…about everything.
But I don't know if I can wait for Zuko. He's always busy cleaning up after the war, and when Ty Lee does visit it'll be a long time from now. I have no idea where Azula is, and then there's my parents. The parents who think they love their child, who think everything they're doing is right. I can't stand them. They never cared, and never will. That makes me instinctively draw the knife closer until it's mere millimeters from my throat, and I begin to shake.
I can stop all this. I can end the emotion and drama I cause, and can kill the longing inside of me with one move. I can terminate it all and float in the black whole of silence for an eternity. Forever.
But forever is a long time…