AN: Last update before my trip! I hope you all are appreciating that I've snuck off during work to upload this for you.
"… So that's why you're calling me? To tell me you have a crush on Wally?"
As Zatanna says it she missteps; the toe of her shoes colliding painfully with the edge of the step and halting her stride. She lets a hiss of breath out between her teeth, half from the pain and half from the ridiculousness of what she just heard. "I don't have a crush on Wally."
Something shifts through the line, as if Zatanna is pinching the phone between her cheek and her shoulder. "Please. Let's review the symptoms shall we?"
"I'd rather not."
"Fine. So he walks you back to your room. Then what?"
She's started climbing up the stairs of her apartment again, keeping her eyes fixed on her feet and trying to avoid another blow to her toes. "What do you mean what?" There's a silence in which she can practically hear Zatanna rolling her eyes. "I mean, we said goodnight—well, I said goodnight and he said good morning."
She can hear Zatanna sighing. "You're not giving me anything here. How did you say goodnight?"
"… I punched him." An awkward pause as she gets to her landing, her toes mercifully spared any more run in's with the apartment stairs. "In the shoulder, to be fair."
"God, Artemis, you're so—" Whatever she is she doesn't hear; the phone speaker is no longer pressed against her ear.
Her front door is open.
She can still hear Zatanna babbling at her, and instantly she snaps her phone shut—instinct is telling her to keep quiet. Her front door being open is wrong; even when they were all living there together she never once saw it like that, open and almost inviting to those passing by.
Now that she's thinking of it, she hasn't encountered another person since she entered the building—it's a Tuesday around dinner time, the place should be bustling with people getting home from work or preparing to work the night shift. She debates with herself for a moment. She doesn't have her bow. She's not dressed for fighting either; she's still clad in her school uniform, one of her socks beginning to wrinkle around her ankle as it always does.
She debates running, a debate that doesn't last very long. She doesn't know what's lurking inside her apartment but knows well enough that there's a good chance it's more than any random civilian could stand to handle. She lets a breath out of her nose, shifting her posture slightly so she's sturdier on her feet. Then she charges onward.
If it weren't for the door being open she almost wouldn't suspect anything of being wrong. The usual dim lighting is flickering through the hall, her mother's Vietnamese music playing softly from her bedroom, the music she likes to play when she's relaxed or about to take a nap. Everything seems normal, calm, like any other typical evening. Then she smells cigarettes.
It's not the stale smell that's soaked into the carpet so thickly that she can't scrub it out; it's the stink she associates with her father yelling and the sound of ice clinking against glass. She remembers watching him measure the tobacco and roll the paper and lick the seal shut; remembers the temporary relief each cigarette left him with as he ran it under his nose and inhaled, striking a match against the kitchen table and blowing smoke in her mother's face. She remembers how he'd put it out on the glass container on the window sill, always threatening to extinguish it on their skin but never quite having the nerve to. It's the smell of her own fear.
The further she creeps into the house the more she can smell it; the slightly acidic flavor against the rich smell of old wood. The smell alone is sending her heart pounding, blood hitting her temples so hard that she's beginning to get a headache. She wants it out, out of her house; she's tired of him and his smell and the memories they both drag up whenever she encounters them. She pauses in the kitchen, risking a glance down the hall and imagines she sees smoke leak out from under the door. She doesn't have time to grab anything other than a discarded fork left lying on the counter.
She hesitates outside it, listening. It's eerily quiet except for the sound of fingers plucking strings, the beginning of a crescendo beginning to sound out of the cassette player her mother is still holding onto. The tape has been played so many times it's beginning to catch in a few places, the notes she's heard so often beginning to become warbled. She wonders what they'll do when the tape finally breaks; she clenches her fist tightly around the fork, her other hand reaching up to twist the door knob in a way she knows won't make a sound.
Get out of my house. Get out of my family...
She has a half second to see what's in front of her when the door opens: Paula, in bed, possible unconscious or maybe just asleep. Lawrence, without a mask and with a cigarette between his lips, standing by the window. The latter snaps his head up despite her lack of sound and it is him who she aims for, twisting the fork like a knife in her hands and throwing it at him.
She misses, her fork wedging itself in the window frame; uncharacteristically he looks startled to see her attacking him. She'll be the first to admit that the scene is odd; despite the snarl that's now bursting on his features she can still see his face in her mind's eye: his head bent solemnly, watching her mother. No, not watching her. Pining for her. Missing her. Still loving her.
Lawrence lets out a snarl but oddly doesn't pursue her; instead he's flipped backwards out the window, already lost from view when she rushes over to follow. She can hear her mother stirring, old reflexes having become numb over the years and no longer sharp enough to jolt her awake quick enough.
"Artemis?" She says blearily, her hands pressing her wild ebony hair back from her face. "Artemis, what are you doing?"
She's still breathing heavily, the smell of cigarettes forcing bile to rise in her throat. She doesn't want to worry her mother, doesn't want her to know that they aren't safe, they'll never be safe, not when Lawrence is still alive and she should have killed him, dammit, why did she miss. "… Nothing, Mom. I thought I saw something. Go back to sleep."
Paula mutters something she doesn't understand as she pries the fork as quietly as she can out of the window frame, hoping the mark she left is too high up for Paula to notice.
She's back in Black Canary's too plush office, the backs of her thighs pressing uncomfortably into an over filled chair. It feels as if she's being pulled under, the stuffing threatening to burst forward and choke her. She keeps her elbows braced on her knees, her eyes locked on the toes of her boots and ignoring the look she's getting.
"So what did you do after Sports Master left?" Canary prompts. She blinks at her shoes.
"… I made tea."
She can hear the older woman's tongue click disapprovingly. "You made tea." She repeats, almost disbelievingly. "You just saw your felon of a father standing menacingly over your mother… And you made tea."
"Well, I closed the front door too." She jerks her head up when she's met with a thick silence, scowling slightly. "I already told you," She narrows her eyes. "There wasn't anything menacing about it. He was just… there. Watching her. He only became violent when I attacked, what if I hadn't even—" She stops herself short. She can see Canary's eyes focusing sharply on what she's saying, as if it's of some importance. She grits her teeth. "... Yes, I made tea."
"That's an odd reaction to have, Artemis." Black Canary says gently, crossing one knee over the other. She seems to be waiting for her to go on, but she's done analyzing her immediate reaction—she knows why she made the tea. She wanted something to calm, to soothe, to clear her head. And most of all she wanted something warm and fragrant to block out the smell of cigarettes. "Then what did you do?"
She sighs. "You know what I did."
"I know. But I want to be walked through the process from your perspective."
She goes back to scowling at her hands. Her knuckles had been beginning to heal from the damage caused a few weeks ago but now she's clawed another scratch along her cuticle, leaving a deep red gash of too-new skin exposed to the air, stinging. "I called Oliver."
"Green Arrow. Do you know why you called him?"
She glares harder at the jagged edge of her finger nail. "Look, I didn't come here for a therapy session. I came here because Oliver—"
"Green Arrow—"
"—told me that if I wanted to get League protection for my mother, it would be best to start with you. He told me you would understand."
Canary's eyes narrow; the look she's receiving now is stern, but not unkind. "I'm trying to, Artemis, but I need to know the whole story here. Before we can decide how to treat this incident I need to know more about it. Now tell me—why did you call Green Arrow?"
She hesitates. "I don't know. I just couldn't think of anyone else to call."
"Don't lie to me Artemis." Black Canary shifts her weight slightly, propping an elbow up to support her. "I'm wondering why it didn't occur to you to call your own Team. They're your closest friends—we even saw a call to Zatanna just before the incident in your call history."
She nips at her bottom lip, glancing up at the older woman. "I don't know." She can hear the clock ticking on the wall. She's been here nearly an hour. "I just thought—if anyone could help…"
Something changes in Canary's face, the tightness of her cheekbones loosening. She think she can see the beginnings of crow's feet around her eyes. "… Let's go back to seeing your father in your home. That must have been hard."
She shrugs. "He used to sulk around a lot more before Mom got out of prison."
"But he stopped when she got out?"
"… Yeah. He said I was getting to old for a baby sitter."
"Did it bother you to see them both together?"
She makes the mistake of leaning back in the chair; at once the change in weight causes the stuffing to shift, forcing her to sink further into the cushions. "Kind of."
"You're going to have to answer better than that."
She grinds her teeth, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. "Yes."
"Why?"
She hesitates. She's wasted enough time here; she's left Paula at home for far too long and she needs to get back to keep watch. She can practically feel her insides squirming against it, the words she knows she'll have to say to get what she needs. "… It just reminded me… that they really did love each other, you know? And—and it would be easy to dismiss them as two people who got together out of necessity who didn't really care for each other. But… I don't know. I could tell by the way he looked at her that he really did still love her. He just doesn't love me, that's the problem."
I'm always the problem.
She's glaring at a ceiling tile but she can tell that one of Canary's brows has shot up in surprise. "… So you still want to be part of that family? After everything?"
She shrugs. "No. I don't want anything to do with him. But it's like… He's part of a package deal. If I want to be Paula's daughter, I have to be his too. Not that I—I don't want to be his, I mean. Not in the way that I was before; like, I don't want to be killing people and getting in too deep into— I just want to be his if it means I get to be half hers, you know?"
She can hear the sound of pen on paper; Black Canary is taking notes. She closes her eyes and blocks out the sterility of the ceiling tile, hoping she's said enough to warrant some sort of action.
When she finally escapes the confines of Black Canary's counselling room it is with implicit instructions to take some time off. She has a feeling the older woman is being deliberately vague.
Like last time she's left the room feeling quite claustrophobic, every surface in the room is over stuffed to the point of stickiness— like she can't touch anything without being swallowed whole by it. This time she doesn't even make it outside though; only a hallway over she can feel her knees quivering, and in the dim light she leans against a wall, sliding her back downwards until she makes contact with the carpet.
It's her fault. She's the reason her family fell apart—if she had just learned to follow orders, to be as ruthless as Jade, her parents would still be together… They would still be a family…
Instinctively she wraps her arms around her knees, lowering her head to rest against her forearms. She can still hear Black Canary's voice inside her head, still badgering her with attempts at counselling… Green Arrow told you before joining The Team—he made it clear you needed to be able to trust your friends. You're entitled to a secret identity, Artemis, but how much longer is this going to go on?
How much longer are you going to be an outsider?
She presses her forehead tighter to her arms, trying to fight her breathing as it begins to get ahead of her, her lungs pumping oxygen through her so fast she can't properly process it. She doesn't need to talk, she needs action—she needs to get outside and run, needs to feel the blood in her veins and needs, needs to get home to Paula and watch over her, make sure she's okay— The wall is digging painfully into her back as she inhales and exhales, her spine still bending painfully and her legs twitching against muscles unwilling to let them move. She hates talking about feelings; every time she does it she feels like a floodgate about to be broken through. She knows she would be fine if she just kept herself sealed, just kept it to herself—
"Uh, rough day at the office?"
She sighs, keeping her face hidden in the folds of her arms and legs. She's picked a very public place to have a break down. "Go away, Wally." She says to her knees. Her breathing is still coming in shallow and she's very aware of the face that she sounds pathetic.
"I'll take that as a yes, then." She can hear his feet move against the carpet, unbelievably walking closer towards her. She sighs again, hoping he'll get the message to leave her alone; instead, she hears the sound of fabric rubbing against a smooth surface, the sudden warmth next to her signaling his closeness.
She lifts her head if only to press her palms against her face in frustration, rubbing back and forth against her skull until her hair is tousled and her eye make-up is smeared. "Look, I'm not in the mood for this right now." She says warningly, pressing the heel of her palms into her eyes so hard that she can see stars bursting in front of her eye lids. She breathes again, smelling walnuts and only half-hating that she's comforted by it.
She can feel the fabric of his shirt against her shoulder as he shrugs. "Okay." He says, but he doesn't get up and leave.
She lets out an annoyed hiss of breath through her teeth, throwing her head back so violently that it collides with the wall. "Wally." She hisses, screwing her eyes shut. She doesn't know what she's asking of him, only knows that she's not to be tested right now; she feels like water on the verge of boiling over, threatening to splash against the burner and hiss against the stove top.
She feels the edge of his knee knocking against her foot, warm even through the thickness of her boots. She glances up, a little skeptical in the face on his reassuring smile. "You can tell me stuff, you know." He says, nudging her again before he folds his hands neatly on his lap, looking at her expectantly. "We're friends."
She watches his legs as they stretch out in front of them, long and lean beneath his jeans. She has the distinct impression that he's saying this as a reminder to her that they can trust each other, and it startles her slightly at how well he knows her; knows her well enough to push her buttons and get her to unwind, even if only slightly. He tilts his head back until it touches the back wall, much more gently than hers did, looking at her. She sighs, knowing he won't back down until he has an answer.
"Black Canary says I need to take some time off from The Team." She knocks her knees together slightly, wondering if this is the best place to start. She has a feeling that it will be easier to explain if she works herself backwards.
Wally's brows purse, and more to avoid the confusion in his expression she turns back to glaring at the wall opposite. "Take some time off?" He repeats, and against her better judgement she glances back at him. It strikes her suddenly how handsome he is; he's grown up in the past couple weeks, looking much older than sixteen; she can see a new hardness in his jaw, new angles beginning to harshen with adulthood.
She swallows thickly. "Yeah."
"… Did she say why?"
She bites her tongue between her teeth, trying to word it in a way that won't inspire questions but will instead settle the matter. "… You know the other night? When you told me your Dad was an asshole?"
She can see the corners of his mouth flick upwards as she tilts her head back again, as if he's remembering the way he swore at her and about his father fondly. "Yeah."
She sighs. "My Dad is worse. Trust me."
He nods slowly, as if this somehow settles a matter between them. "Ah." Is all he says.
They both simply look at each other for a while, alone in the quiet of the hallway. She watches his eyes flicker to various parts of her face, and she gets the impression that he's trying to commit certain parts of her to memory—she can see his eyes tracing the lines of her cheeks, the arc of her brows, the wrinkles that are beginning to form at the corners of her eyes from scowling too much. It's the same look he sent her the other night, and it's having the same effect on her now as it did then: she can feel her stomach twisting, can feel the pool of warm excitement flooding between her legs. She wishes he would touch her.
Instead he remains a safe distance away. "I hope you're not gone too long." He says finally, at last looking away from her and staring at the scuffs on his shoes.
She tightens her grip around her knees. "Me too."
Black Canary bans her from The Cave for two weeks.
It's unbearable, borderline impossible for her to stay away. The first few days she finds her feet automatically taking her towards the Zeta Tube that will send her there, resulting in the frustrated squeaking of boots on pavement and such a sudden shift in direction that those around her have to jump out of the way, tongues clicking in an annoyed manner.
Wally calls her. She knows it's him because she flat out refused to put his number in her Team phone when she first got it, and nobody else would have the number. When it happens she stares at the digits for twenty seconds, feeling the vibration of the phone tickle her hand until, mercifully, the call goes to voicemail. He doesn't leave her one.
She spends her time practically stalking her mother, following her around the house like some sort of puppy, memorizing her schedule and skipping class for strategic walk-bys of her work to make sure she's where she should be. She goes on a frenzy of home security and asks the landlord to change the locks. He doesn't.
She can feel herself slipping into a state of madness that she hasn't been in for years, rivalling Jade's lunacy. The night before Thanksgiving she sneaks into her mother's bedroom and perches in the corner, standing guard. It occurs to her she's not doing well.
M'gann calls her Thanksgiving morning to ask if she'll be stopping by for dinner. "It's a different energy without you here." She says through the scratchy static of the speaker. "Very… melancholy."
"I have strict orders to stay away."
"… I know."
There's a few seconds of silence that seems almost unbearable between them and uncharacteristically she breaks it. "How was Quarac?"
"Fine." The Martian says, and it occurs to Artemis that there's something she doesn't know about. Before she can say anything M'gann interrupts. "When are you coming back?"
An odd feeling sounds in her stomach, and it occurs to her that she's being missed. She has the sudden urge to lace up her sneakers and run to The Cave herself; to run and keep going and not stop until she's back there, back with her real family.
The family she hasn't destroyed.
Instead she sighs into the phone, listening as Paula wheels herself down the hall. "Soon."
"Happy Thanksgiving, Mom."
Paula looks up from her book, looking almost surprised at the greeting. They don't really celebrate holidays, don't really suffer from tradition, but there's still something nice in the way her mother smiles, hands wrapping around the cup of tea she's offering. "Thank you, Artemis."
The November air is beginning to pick up outside, the beginnings of snow falling from the sky and pressing against the windowsill outside. The first real snow fall of winter is upon them, and she has a feeling it will stick this time.
She sits beside her mother on the couch, the squeaky wheelchair sitting abandoned in the corner. She likes nights like this best, likes having tea with her mother and watching her read her book, pretending nothing is buried between them. She can almost pretend they've always been happy.
Her mother looks up from her book to have a sip of tea, catching her eye. "Are you here to ask me what I'm thankful for?" There's a hint of teasing behind her voice, a tone she hasn't heard in years—and it occurs to her that maybe they are happy. In this moment, just the two of them; maybe that's all she's ever needed.
She snorts slightly, her breath disturbing the tea closest to the rim of her cup. "No—" She begins, looking back out the window.
Her eyes catch at the snow on the windowsill. It's been disturbed.
No.
Her mother is waiting for her to go on, the smile she's wearing slowly falling as she twists her torso, glancing between the window pane and her daughter. "Artemis?" Paula is out of practice, can't see what's wrong the way she can, isn't looking and waiting for the very thing she knows is about to come. "Artemis, what's—"
She smells sweet grass and liquor.
"Happy Thanksgiving, Mother."
She doesn't think, just jumps up and launches the steaming tea into the air. It's an imperfect shot; Jade's too fast and as usual she misses, the porcelain cup smashing against the opposite wall. She steps in front of her mother, her arms thrust wide in protection, breathing in the smell of her sister.
"Get out." She hisses.
Jade laughs, jostling the Cheshire mask slightly as she runs a leisurely hand through her hair, a few stray pieces of glass falling to the floor. "Now, now, Baby Girl. If I do recall this is my house too."
She hunches slightly, twisting her calves to get a better grip in the carpet. "I said, get out."
Jade disregards this, dropping her jaw so as to better see between her outstretched hands, her eyes peering through the mask and glaring at Paula. "Relax, little girl. I'm here for Paula. Sportsmaster has a message he wants to give her."
"J-Jade?" Paula croaks slightly, sounding somehow both adoring and terrified. "A message? From your F-Father?" She can practically feel the grin stretching across her sister's face.
"I heard rumors you were out." She says quietly, her low tone sending a new wave of fear through her; she shifts slightly as Jade takes a step closer. "Our time apart has done each of us well, I think."
"Out, Jade." She winces slightly as her voice shakes. She doesn't have her bow—they'll have to fight hand to hand.
There's a terrifying moment in which the Cheshire mask turns to her, surreal and intimidating. For a second the cat eyes simply look at her, considering. "I'm in the middle of a reunion here, Baby Girl. Maybe it's you who should leave."
She tenses.
Jade strikes before she can get her bearings, one leg swinging up and catching her roughly in the shoulder. She is on the verge of getting her footing when her head is caught on the television, stars erupting in front of her eyes and her forehead colliding against a blurry screen.
"Come on Artemis. Is that really the best you can do?"
Paula is screaming and her ears are ringing, the room still spinning slightly as she gets to her feet. Jade won't hit her fatally, not yet—like a game of cat and mouse, she likes to play with her food before she eats it. It takes her a split second too long to decide on her plan of attack; Jade has already drawn a sai, the blade catching the low light of the room.
"Artemis!" Her mother, stranded on the couch, calls her name as Jade leaps at her again, and in the second her eyes meet Paula's she feels the sai at her side, the blade scratching her stomach and leaving a shallow cut, a small dribble of blood beginning to pool against her sweater. She catches a wrist as another blade flies at her throat, squeezing at the tendons and the pressure points until the sai falls to the floor. She thrashes against her sister, her fists flying at random body parts and her nails scratching at the side of her cheek, prying the mask off her face.
She's just ripped a chunk of Jade's hair from her scalp when she hears another blade being drawn; before she can catch herself she feels another slash at her wound, this time a little deeper and more ragged. She screams, feeling tears burning at her eyes as a fist collides with the side of her face, aggravating the bump she got from the television; she crumbles by the window sill.
Jade doesn't let her rest, instead jumping on top of her and continuing the assault; it's all numb pain, knuckles against her cheeks and nails scratching at her eyelids, trying to pry her eyes out. "Very impressive, little girl." Jade is yelling at her, her scalp pouring blood down her face, a few drops falling onto her neck. "Good to know you're actually learning something at that—"
There's a scream like a wild animal; Paula is clawing her way across the floor, her mangled legs dragging out behind her and catching on over turned pieces of furniture. There's a moment in which she exchanges a frightened look with her older sister, and suddenly it's like they're both children again, living in constant fear of their parents. Paula smashes her tea cup on the back of the television, holding the broken pieces of glass by the handle and looking murderous. "Enough." She cackles, then launches herself at Jade.
There's a noise that sounds disgustingly like broken glass being ground into flesh; she's on the verge of passing out but she can hear Jade's screams, so raw and animalistic and she's dead—they're all dead—she can hear the struggling of fists and a guttural cry in the back of Paula's throat; there's a smash and the cold November air is whirling around the room. She can feel rough fingers tugging her hair off her face, can feel a palm pressed to her cheek.
Weirdly enough she hears her father's voice, even though she knows he isn't there, and the distant memory of him whispering to her and Jade affectionately rings through her ears; "Crock Women are crazy by nature, all in the breeding, they're blood thirsty little things..."
She doesn't remember closing her eyes.
She isn't exactly sure what happened afterwards. From what she's been told Oliver came to call with, ridiculously, a turkey—she has the impression that he walked into a pretty deadly looking scene and the bird in question went bad sitting on the counter.
Her mother is relocated temporarily to an undisclosed location as the League gives their tiny apartment a taste of revamped security. She is a little disgusted with how thankful she is for the separation; in the quiet moments she has between debriefings and retelling what happened she can still hear the sound of glass grinding into skin, can still see Paula slithering across the floor with murder etched into the lines on her face. Knowing that Huntress is still inside her mother, knowing that she is still capable of murder, frightens her.
She blinks, now seated once again in the too-plush chair of Black Canary's office. "What?"
She's not quite sure what she's just heard, her head too busy being filled with old memories from the night before. It's too early for this kind of questioning, The Cave too quiet with the absence of teammates celebrating or Black Friday shopping. Black Canary exchanges a look with Oliver, who is hovering close behind her chair, his hands pressing against the leather.
"I said," Canary uncrosses and crosses her legs, shifting her weight. "That I owe you an apology, Artemis."
Her eyes narrow. "For what?"
Another glance at Oliver, who squeezes the back of the chair so hard the leather squeaks. "For the last time you and I spoke. I spent too much time probing and not enough time taking you seriously."
It's odd, to be sitting in the counselling office and calling the shots. She can smell herself; she hasn't had the time to properly shower since the attack, and she reeks of blood and sweat and Jade. "Oh." Is all she says. Her hands clench against her knees, the shallow wound on her stomach aching.
Canary seems to read something in the one syllable she offers, her chin jutting forward slightly. "I'm sorry Artemis. I thought—the way you spoke about your father. I thought there was a chance…"
"… You thought you still couldn't trust me." She finishes for her, closing her eyes. She can feel her shoulders tighten, the skin over her neck feeling oddly taught.
So this is it. It's been months now, and she's still being suspected of betrayal. They're still waiting for her to mess up, to turn her back on them all; still waiting for her to raise a false alarm and lure her comrades into a fight. She bites her tongue.
Canary has been speaking, leaning forward towards her imploringly. "… We're revamping security around your apartment; it will be given League protection, the best we can get. Artemis?"
She nods, finally opening her eyes and getting to her feet. "I have to go."
She can feel Oliver and Canary exchanging a look behind her, and she's got her fist closed around the door handle before they say anything to stop her. "Artemis—" Oliver begins, stopping himself short when he sees a muscle jump in her spine. "About your sister."
She stills.
"Do you want us to… Do you want The League to see if we can track her? To see if she's alive?"
She doesn't even bother responding, instead turning the handle and leaving the room before they can say anything else to stop her. She heads for the shower.
There's no point wasting time finding out, She reminds herself, clenching her fist to her sides as she stalks down the hallway. She knows her mother, knows that Huntress has merely been lying dormant all these years. Huntress is ruthless, blood thirsty and always, always, lethal.
Like any good Crock woman.
She waits until she's in the shower before she allows herself to cry.
It unfortunate, really, that the only showers in The Cave are located through a few sets of doors beside the gym. She wants privacy, darkness; she wants her shower at home, with the water that's always too hot or too cold. She wants to stand against the mildewed drain and feel her feet against the crumbling tile and feel alive in a sea of wreckage.
Instead she is alone in a room full of sterile white; walls, tile, lockers. Even the shower stalls are white, so bright and reflecting the ceiling light back at her in a way that tires her eyes. Everything feels cold, the way she wishes she would feel—she wants to feel nothing, wants to forget her sister already—yet all she can do is long for the shower at home and for the places Jade once stood. She blinks into a mirror that's too clean and wishes Red Tornado would be less thorough.
She tried to kill you. You should be happy she's dead.
Get over it.
She strips until she's stark naked, practically glowing in the sea of white, not bothered about modesty. She doesn't care if she is walked in on, doesn't have anything else to give for any another emotions. She only feels for Jade.
The water doesn't take a few minutes to warm up the way it would at home—the second she turns on the tap she can see steam rising, furling around her body and making it almost impossible to breathe. She turns the tap up to its hottest setting, hissing and nearly crying out as it scalds her flesh.
It's too much; the pain from the water and the pain from the loss. It only takes a few seconds before she loses it; all at once she can feel herself mimicking the swirling of the copper colored blood disappearing down the drain, her own head seeming to spin off her shoulders. Jade. Her sister. Gone.
Gone Gone Gone Gone.
It's all your fault.
She can't quite place why she's so upset; she hasn't had much contact with Jade over the last few years, and that distance has only been broken by violent encounters that have left her nearly dead each time. She should be happy the burden is gone, happy that there's one less string attaching her to her past.
Keep it together.
She lets out a rush of breath, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks and blend in with the water hitting the top of her head. She thinks ridiculously of her Alice in Wonderland poster; thinks of the little girl with the bow on her head, thinks of the Cheshire Cat's smile and the dangerous path he went on. She remembers watching Jade read the original book in bed on Saturday nights when there was nothing else exciting happening, remembers watching the intensity in her eyes as she scoured each line of text for a meaning that was always so much clearer to her than to Artemis.
Jade wasn't all bad. She always spared her life, never tried to fatally injure her—the last time is an exception. She always thought… She always thought Jade would come back. Maybe not to her, maybe not entirely, but maybe just enough to get herself out of the game and onto better things. She can feel a bit of a catch at the back of her throat, and she presses her hands against the tiled wall, as if trying to keep her own grief at a distance from her. There's no chance for that now.
She doesn't know how long she cries for; all she knows is that when she turns off the tap her skin is raw and red in many places and the cut on her stomach is bleeding again. She scrubs herself ruthlessly with her towel, the pain somehow mollifying the inner turmoil raging inside her. Everything she feels is proof she's alive, proof that finally, finally, she's beaten Jade at something. The thought fills her mouth with bitterness and she actually spits, a line of saliva dribbling down her chin and dripping onto the floor.
She runs the to
wel mercilessly over her stomach a few more times, until her own blood is running angrily down her legs and pooling at her feet.
Let it scar.
AN: This should serve as my reasoning for why Artemis was mysteriously absent from a couple episodes with no explanation.
Alright ladies and gents! This is where I leave you for the next few days. Enjoy your collective long weekend and please give me some lovely reviews to get me excited to come back and write!
