Updated from the original version.

Oh man. This was an emotional one. Definitely want to grab some tissues.

Tippy: You're right shit is gonna go down. Some serious shit. Emotional shit.

.witch: Thank you! I'm glad you're enjoying it!

vain-gl0ry: Thank you! More's on the way!

BuckyBarnes07: Thank you for your reviews! I'm so glad you're enjoying it!

Enjoy!

I knew things would change. I knew it was going to be a long time before I felt okay again. I thought I would at least feel safe at home. That being back would give me a sense of security. I knew this mansion better than anyone aside from my dad. There were things I knew about it that Pepper didn't even know. I had always been comfortable in the empty spaces, the large rooms, the minimalistic style that my dad employed in every space except his garage. But coming back to it made me feel vulnerable. It was too big, too open. I hate feeling vulnerable.

My dad had stayed at Stark Industries, having Happy take me home while he talked to Obie. Pepper had come with me, making sure I was okay. I was greeted by the few staff that my dad kept. A chef and two maids who came in every other day to clean. The mansion was impeccably clean, meaning they had continued to work while we were gone.

The chef offered to cook me something, but I declined, still full from Burger King. The maids went back to doing their jobs, finishing up cleaning the downstairs area. I assured Pepper I was alright, and she left me alone, going to get started on the heavy job of trying to calm the storm after my dad's announcement. I knew it was going to cause an uprising, but better that than them focusing on how awful we looked.

I slowly make my way to my room, passing by the expensive artwork that my dad insisted on having. I had passed them hundreds of times, but now they just brought up painful memories. It takes me a moment to open my door, my hand freezing inches from the handle. I hadn't been in my room in three months. I had left on what was supposed to be a two day trip at the most, only to disappear for three months. I felt sick, thinking about how easy life had been before. It wasn't just my dad that had been carefree and nonchalant about things. I had also been carefree. I had never wanted for anything, never having to go hungry or go without anything. If I wanted something, my dad handed me his credit card. I had a separate room for toys when I was little because I couldn't fit all of them in my room. That room had become a library after I grew out of toys, hosting hundreds of books that I never could read all of in my lifetime. I had a closet stuffed full of designer clothes and shoes, enough jewelry worth enough to pay for five years of college at a private university. The mansion was filled with all of the newest Stark tech, computers, laptops, tablets. I go through cell phones like people go through rolls of toilet paper.

All if that had seemed normal to before. I had never known anything different and I had been blind enough to believe that it was normal. But I had spent three months in a cave in ratty clothes that were too big, being beat up, threatened and nearly killed, living off of grey mystery soup which only served to ease the ache of hunger and nothing more. Now, looking at this too big house, filled with expensive stuff that normal people only ever dreamed of having, it felt wrong.

I had opportunities that a lot of people like me only dreamed about. I never had to worry about when my next meal would be, if we had enough clean water to drink, wash our clothes with and bathe with. I never had to do chores or work to help support my family. I didn't have siblings I had to take care of while trying to keep a roof over my head. I didn't have to fear for my life every time I stepped out my door, got in my car and went to the store. All the times I'd faced discrimination for the way I looked my dad was there to throw it back in their faces and ruin their lives. It never affected me negatively. My life was painfully easy and it wasn't fair.

I finally get the courage to open my door, the sun lighting up my room. It looked just like I left it. The bed was made, and hadn't been touched in three months. My tablet was still on my nightstand, my dresser lined with photos of my dad and I on vacations, magazine articles, favorites from photoshoots. My closet doors are covered in pictures: terrible finger paintings from when I was little that I had insisted on keeping. The door to my private bathroom is propped open, the scent of my favorite air freshener coming through. Everything was clean, dusted and spotless. It all felt wrong.

I walk over to my dresser, picking up a picture. It's my dad and I at Coney Island. I was six, my face covered in ice cream, my unruly hair sticking up in all directions on my head making me look like I'd stuck my finger in an electrical socket. My dad is laughing, trying to wipe the ice cream off my cheeks. Our nanny at that time had taken it, wanting to catch the memory showing that we could be a normal family every once in a while. Looking at it made me sad. I had no idea back then what would happen to me. I longed for those days when I was young and carefree. When I didn't know about the world or the evils it held. The cruel words of jealousy and hatred going right over my head. I felt angry, resentful. I want to go back to those days. I want to forget what had happened. I wish….I wish I had a different family. I wish I had a normal family that didn't have to worry about getting kidnapped because their father doesn't make weapons for a living.

I feel the anger burn through me. Hot, angry tears roll down my cheeks as I look around. My room is too big. It's bigger than the average New York apartment. I hate the view of the Pacific, calm and blue, reflecting the sky. I look over at my vanity, thousands of dollars worth of jewelry just sitting there. I know there's some in there that I've never even worn before. There's clothes in my closet I've had since I was a teenager that I never even touched. Designer shoes that had never even been opened.

I wipe my tears but more keep coming, and I leave my room, heading down the hall to the supplies closet. I grab a roll of garbage bags, the big black ones, dropping the roll on my bed. I grab a bag, starting with my jewelry, dropping drawer after drawer into the bag. I keep a couple pieces, special ones. The necklace my dad had bought me for my tenth birthday. One of the few birthday's he remembered. And one heart shaped diamond on a rose gold chain that had belonged to my mother. My dad had given it to me for my sixteenth birthday. He wanted to give it to me before, but he never found the right time to do it. He had bought it for my mom after she found out she was pregnant. She had said she wanted me to have it before she died. It was one of the few things that were left of her. I shove it back in the drawer, emptying out the rest of them. I throw the bag out of my room, shattering something but I don't care.

I hit my bathroom next, dumping the hundreds and hundreds of dollars of expensive makeup and hair products, some of which I never touched. Most of the time my makeup and hair got done for me, and the few times I did it myself I didn't use all that much. Just enough to make me look less like a zombie. I catch my face in the mirror as I'm emptying out drawers. My face is red and blotchy, making the bruise and cut on my cheek stand out. Hot tears are still running down my face and I look terrible. But most startling of all, I can see the terror in my eyes. It wasn't anger in my face. That was burning in my chest. My eyes are wide, red surrounding the earthy brown of my irises.

People always told me I had my dad's eyes. And I did. Those big doe eyes that got me whatever I wanted from whoever I asked. I had heard more times than I cared to how beautiful my dad's eyes were. Deep chocolate brown that melted into your very soul. I didn't like to think of my eyes that way. I always preferred to look at the softness of my eyes. Like wet soil after a spring rain in the middle of a forest. The kind of soil that sprouts plants and brings green life into the world. I hated them now. I looked so much like my dad. I never used to mind that. I knew my dad was a good looking man. He wouldn't be half as popular if he wasn't. Sure, women would still go after his money if he wasn't, but being nice looking just made it easier. I had gotten his good genes, and I had been told on more than one occasion that I was beautiful. But I had never really taken the time to consider it. And now I hated it.

I pull my air freshener out of the wall, throwing it in the bag too before tossing it out my door into the hallway. I grab more bags, pulling the designer clothes and shoes out, throwing bag after bag into the hallway until there's a mountain outside my door. There's empty drawers stacked around my room, my closet nearly empty. I had pulled the sheets off my bed, the expensive cotton sheets that had a ridiculously high thread count. I wanted to throw my mattress too but it was too heavy. The stupid memory foam mattress that had cost more than some people pay for their car. My lamp had followed my sheets, as well as the few decorative pieces my dad had insisted I put in my room. Paintings and pieces of artwork worth more than some people paid for their houses.

My room is bare by the time I'm done. Nothing more than the necessities left. Basic clothes and a pair of tennis shoes. The handful of jewelry and the necessary toiletries. I grab a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants from my dresser, going to my bathroom to change. I hadn't had time to actually look at my body since we were rescued. And looking at it made me wish I hadn't bothered.

My dad had said I was too thin and now I understood what he meant. I had bones sticking out in places they shouldn't have been. I had always considered myself to be healthy. I wasn't thin like society wanted me to be. I had curves and filled out my clothes more than some would like, but it had never bothered me. Seeing those stick thin women that always prowled around events made me feel sad for them. It wasn't healthy and they just looked sad. And right now that's what I looked like. I could almost see my ribs poking through my skin. The bruise on my stomach is turning green, the edges starting to fade. It's still tender, but it's healing. There's various bruises and cuts on my skin, the handprints still visible around my arms. I pull my clothes on, clothes that used to fit me perfectly but now are too big. I have to use the drawstring for once on my sweatpants, making sure they don't fall down.

I move back into my room, grabbing the picture off my dresser of my dad and I, sinking down on the floor. I know the thoughts I'm having are irrational, but I can't help it. Rage is building deep inside me, anger towards the man in the picture. This was all his fault. If it wasn't for him...deep down I know I shouldn't blame him. There's a rational part of my brain that's telling me I shouldn't be placing this all on him. But the irrational parts quickly drown out that one small piece. My hands are shaking as I hold the picture. I want to break it, throw it out the window, but I don't.

I set it down because I can hear my father coming up the steps. I can hear is confused voice calling my name, having spotted the mountain of garbage bags sitting outside my door. I can hear him, moving past them, stopping in my doorway.

"Zinny? What's going on? Are you moving out on me now?"

I know his tone is meant to be joking. He was always joking. He couldn't be serious for one goddamn second. I used to be relieved that he could still find humor in the worst situations. That he could make a joke while laying in the hospital getting stitches in his hand because of an accident in his garage. But right now I hate it. I hate him for it. I'd seen the serious side of him. I'd lived with it for three months and I didn't want any other part of him. I didn't want him at all.

He takes a step into my room, his tone turning from confusion to concern and I realize I've been glaring down at the picture. "Hey, Zinny, talk to me."

"Don't." My tone is cold, the rage still burning, making my chest hurt. I stand up, turning to face him. "Don't do it. Don't try to act all concerned for me."

A frown appears on his face. "What are you-"

"You don't really care. If you cared you wouldn't have gotten us in this situation in the first place! You and your stupid company and your stupid weapons almost got us killed!" I take a breath, tears spilling down my cheeks. "I wish I had died in that cave because I wouldn't have had to come back to this! This ridiculous, stupid mansion with it's stupid expensive art and designer clothes and technology! People die every day because of your weapons! People live with nothing while we sit here, wasting money on stuff we don't even need!" I take a couple of breaths. "It's all your fault. It's all your fault!"

"Zinny...I-" he tries to come near me but I take a step back, holding out the picture frame like it's a weapon.

"Don't. Don't you dare!" I'm sobbing now, screaming at him. "I hate you! I fucking hate you!"

I can see the hurt in his eyes but I don't care. I want him to hurt. I want to punish him for doing this to me. I had almost died because of him. I wanted him to hurt like me.

"Go away! I never want to see you again!"

"Zinnia-"

I throw the picture frame at him, and he flinches away from it, the glass shattering on the wall behind him. "Get out!" I scream it so loud my voice cracks.

I can see the tears in my dad's eyes as he looks at me. The hurt, the pain, the sadness. None of it matters in that moment as the rage finally starts to burn down. My dad does the smart thing for once and turns, leaving my room. I can hear him talking to Pepper on the way down the stairs, telling her to leave me alone. That I need some time.

I fall to my knees when I can no longer hear him, sobs wracking my body as I fold in on myself. What had I just done?