For Mother 3/? - ohsoxalive
It's the sound of heart wrenching twists and turns that wakes Katara—and it was coming from her chest, raw and throbbing in her ears.
But it was the feeling of ripping open her chest, to sink her nails in and tear, tear, tear the flesh apart because it wouldn't go away, that made her sit up and scream into her pillow. Kicking the sheets franticly, her face was flushed with warm tears against the sticky friction of resentment and cotton. This isn't a new feeling, no, it's more of a ritual, a dark and angry tradition that she is so sick of. She doesn't cry because Zuko was right in the kitchen. Oh, no.
"Why?" she leaked into the pillow, a cry for silence, "Why him?"
She was jealous of him—no, envious.
His mother was alive.
.x.
Zuko passed by her door.
He heard it, heard the mumble of grief and the scream of pain, all muffled down by what he knew was a trembling tan hand. She was sobbing in a way he's never heard before, perhaps only once, once when it exploded from his chest as a child with a red eye and no mother. He knew the sound, knew the frayed melody. Something inside him told to put a hand on her door, eyes waiting and heart listening. To help her, to calm her, to confront her. His hand lingered on the wood.
But, his feet told him to run.
He listened to them instead.
