Hey, welcome to day four. I'm pretty sure no one is reading any of these cause I didn't get anything on the last one but oh well! I'm writing anyways. I'll also be making one big fic for all of them if people would prefer that. I'll be posting them separately as well.
This one has trigger warnings for self-harm, the Red Room (so forcing a child to kill and have sex etc), a brief mention of rape, stuff about murdering, and a slightly graphic suicide attempt. So please be careful.
The word today is 'noose' and I know different people would think of different things but this is where my mind went.
NOOSE
Three weeks after Clint brought a broken Russian woman back to America, Natasha Romanoff tried to kill herself.
She'd been out of her cell for a few days, still under supervision and not allowed anywhere near any kind of weapon. She was confined to a room, and whilst it was better than her jail cell, she was still trapped in four walls and a ceiling.
Clint was allowed to visit her now, though, but he was being sent on a mission for a few weeks. She'd gotten used to him bringing her meals and sitting with her for hours. They would play board games, he would show her American music, and she would sing traditional Russian songs.
They just talked, for hours at a time. She divulged some of what happened in the Red Room and he talked about his past in the circus. He was all she had.
He would reassure her every time that he would come back. And he did. Every day without fail. But then he told her that his superiors were sending him away. Just for a few days, he insisted, he would be coming back.
Natasha trusted him. He wouldn't leave her alone.
But a week passed, and she had heard nothing from Clint. Her head told her that he wasn't coming. Her heart didn't want to listen.
Plates of food piled up in the corner of her room, uneaten and her bed lay untouched.
All she had in the room was the bed, a small blanket and a couple of books. She wasn't even allowed actually cutlery, just plastic shit. They thought she wouldn't hurt herself with that. How they'd even known Natasha did that was beyond her. She assumed that during her physical exam, they'd seen the white scars, usually hidden with clothes.
It didn't matter. She'd had less than a plastic spoon before. After breaking it and sharpening it on the wall, it was good enough.
Her self-harm got increasingly worse as the days passed. She was alone all day, every day. The only time someone saw her was to bring more food. After the plates began piling up, she just slammed the door in their faces and didn't bother bringing it into her room.
She didn't sleep. If she happened to nod off, Natasha would have horrendous nightmares and wake up sweating and screaming, unsure where she was and what was happening.
She spent her time pacing, maybe reading a little. Nothing was enough to distract her from her mind. Her brain pummelled her with images of her past.
A five year old Natasha being dragged away from her home, burning on the horizon. Her voice hoarse as she screamed for her mama and little brother.
"You're perfect, Natalia, we will make you strong."
Seven years old Natasha, shy and quiet but the best in her class at hand to hand fighting. The harder she beat the other girls, the more food she got. Still not a lot, but compared to the empty stomachs of her classmates, it was a lot better.
Eight years old Natasha, firing a gun at targets. Realistic cut-outs of people, all ages and sizes. As her bullet whipped through the head of small boy, the sound of clapping reached her ears and she felt pride burning in her chest.
Ten years old, fighting hand to hand, just like every day. With an older girls head in an arm lock, she looked up at Madame.
"Snap her neck." Came the cold voice and Natasha faltered, brows furrowing.
"That will kill her." She frowned as the girl struggled in her grasp.
"That's the point, Natalia. Are you strong or are you weak? Snap her neck."
Natasha looked down, the girl pleading in broken Russian. She twisted hard, it taking a lot more than she thought it would. It was messy and long, not a quick death at all.
She'd gone to bed, her wrists chained above her, with a full stomach.
Thirteen, Natasha was growing into a beautiful young woman. Her curves were hard to ignore, even under training clothes and she saw the male leaders take notice. Their gazes hungry and wolf like.
Fourteen, Natasha learned how to look the part. She looked at least eighteen and as she stood in front of a mirror in Madame's office, the older woman smiled at her.
"You're beautiful, Natasha, you can use that. Every man here wants you and that's good. You will sleep with them and you will be magnificent."
Still fourteen, thirteen kills under her belt, she slept with a man for the first time. It was rough and it hurt but she was a woman and she could take it.
Fifteen and there was only her left, the bravest, the strongest. She was made of marble. It was time for the graduation ceremony. Then she would be sent on missions around the world. It was what she had been born to do.
It was almost impossible for Natasha to get the memories out of her head, those and so many more. The first time she'd been raped, the first time she'd been forced to kill a toddler, the first time she'd tortured someone.
All if those terrible things she couldn't ever take back. Clint was wrong, she was evil. Everyone else at Shield treated her like she was dangerous, like she would never be redeemed and they were right. Clint had abandoned her and she had no one again, just herself.
She couldn't take it anymore. The flashbacks, panic attacks, screaming, the cutting. She couldn't do it.
That was how she came to stand on the bed, her small blanket tied to the naked light bulb on the ceiling.
With calmness inside her, Natasha put her head through her homemade noose.
Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, the redhead stepped off the side of the bed.
That was when Clint Barton crashed through the door.
He froze for a second, watching her swinging form before running forward. In two seconds, he was cutting the noose and catching her limp body.
He laid her on the ground, his fingers pressing to her bruised and red raw neck. There, after a few seconds of holding his breath, was the faint throbbing of her pulse.
"Nat? Natasha?" He breathed, shaking her shoulder and pulling back her eyelids. Her eyes were bloodshot and glazed and Clint would have thought she was dead if he couldn't feel the weak pulse beneath his fingers.
"Shit." He cursed, lifting her into his arms, rushing from the door and running all the way to shield medical.
By the time he reached his destination, the woman had stopped breathing. He lay her down on the bed and stumbled backwards to let the medics work.
She wasn't supporting her airways and he watched them shove a tube down her throat, her chest rising and falling as they pushed air into her lungs.
Her neck was fractured and her fingernails were purple. They put her in an induced coma, a machine breathing for her.
She stayed like that for the next six days, Clint barely leaving her side.
When he did, it was to yell at every Shield personnel he got his hands on. Phil, in particular, got a mouthful. Literally, Clint punched him in the mouth after screaming at him.
He couldn't believe they'd let that happen. That they hadn't checked on her, that they hadn't even thought to just talk to her. Phil apologised profusely, something he never did.
He'd known he'd done wrong. He had fucked up royally, leaving Romanoff in that room.
When she recovered, things would be different, he told Clint. She would be a member of Shield, she wouldn't be confined to a room.
For Clint it was all too little too late. After rolling his eyes, he returned to Natasha's side. He held her hand and read stories to her, played her favourite songs and just spoke to her.
On the sixth day, her eyelids fluttered open and she focused on the man besides her. Seeing a threat, she lashed out, catching him above the eye and sending him reeling back.
The machines blared and the door opened, two doctors rushing in. Clint held up a hand and halted them, pulling himself off the floor and rushing to her.
Clint leaned forward, right in her line of vision. "Nat? Nat, it's me, it's Clint. You're okay now, it's okay, calm down." He breathed, not holding her down like he knew the doctors wanted to do.
The redhead blinked rapidly, the machines still screaming at them. She seemed to recognise Clint and stilled, her bloodshot eyes wide.
"I'm here. You're at Shield. You're okay. There's a tube helping you breathe, try to relax, it's going to be okay." He said softly, taking her hand. "We can get the tube out now you're awake, okay? I just need you to stay still and stay calm." He touched her forehead, waiting for her to process the information.
"You're okay, Nat, I promise. Things are going to be different, okay?" He whispered, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.
Natasha looked back at him, faith in him in her gaze.
"I promise, Nat, you belong here. I will look out for you."
The redhead was shaking and she sank back against the pillows, the machines beginning to quieten.
"I'm so sorry this happened, Natasha." He said quietly, shaking his head. "Nothing like this is ever gonna happen again. I promise. We take care of each other, Nat."
She tipped her head in a weak nod, wincing at the pain.
"Careful, careful." He hushed, stroking his fingers down the side of her face. "Your neck is injured, don't move." He sighed, his eyes locked on hers. Her gaze on him, his cheeks burned.
"You'll be okay, Nat."