TW: self harm, torture, implied/referenced child abuse, depression, etc.
Day in and day out, everything was the same.
Bleak, stark walls and a hard concrete floor; dim lighting sending grim shadows skittering across the surface every time any form of movement occurred outside her range of vision. The stillness of it all allowed her to feel every little vibration – every footstep, every hand gesture, every pin drop.
The energy of an angry man in a black suit roaring in hot, red bursts as his boots hit the ground with dominant, heavy thuds all the way down the hall.
Cold, stale, stagnant air so suffocating it was hard to breathe. The smell of must and iron permeating throughout her cell, so constant she could hardly notice it anymore. The sharp screech of metal against metal as the stench of canned chili and hard bread was introduced to the room. The harsh, jeering voice of an officer sneering that it was all she'd earned that day.
Do better and maybe they'll give you a little bit of rice next time.
She'd stay awake for hours on end, staring at the door. Exhaustion tugged at her eyes relentlessly, but she refused to close them, refused to let herself slip into an unconscious state for too long. Days and nights blended together, becoming a jumbled, incoherent mess.
Every few hours she left her cell. They'd come and bring her to another room where she'd hurt or she'd kill, no hesitation, no questions asked.
Wide, scared eyes haunted her whenever she closed hers.
She did what she had to do.
Defy me and see what happens. Nod a friendly hello to Tongueless Thompson for me on your way out.
Sometimes she'd fight for survival – prove her worth to live another day. They'd put her through rigorous training; make her fight to the death blindfolded, inject her with drugs that poisoned her or slowed her down or altered her reality.
Don't show weakness.
Demonstrate her powers. Push to see just how strong they were. Don't stop until they can hear the bones splintering and cracking just below the surface – and even then, don't stop.
Don't ever stop until I order you to.
Sometimes she wasn't good enough; the electric current crackling in her neck every so often would remind her that she'd never be good enough.
Earn your right to live to see another day.
And sometimes, she'd see daylight. She was an asset – they needed her out in the field, and she'd go with one of her superiors and do as she was told, again, no questions asked. Fight him, break that. Stab her. Quake it apart. Shoot them - all of them.
Leave no man alive.
And do it all with a smile on your face. Lift your chin. Widen your stance. Shoulders back, chest puffed. Don't ever let them see you falter.
When she returned to the cell she called home, she was allowed a shower. Under the lukewarm stream cascading down the back, she'd scrub the dirt and blood away, tallying up the innocents left dead in her wake on her arm – pale skin splitting apart, fresh blood mixing with filthy water and swirling down the drain.
The frustrated shout of a superior, yelling at her to hurry it up in there causing sharp vibrations to cut through the air and bounce off the metallic walls.
The end of a shower meant the return to metal cuffs biting into her wrists, rubbing harshly against grotesque yellowing bruises and raw flesh wounds.
If she'd performed on cue and to their satisfaction, she'd get another meal. Meal size was contingent on how many times that static shock had traveled down her spine – how much she'd misbehaved. If she did her job perfectly, pleasing the superiors, she got to eat.
If not, then hunger would gnaw at her stomach until she couldn't even think straight.
Her fingers were red and raw from absently chewing on them, nibbling the skin around her stumpy, bloodied fingernails.
You should be grateful we even let you shower today.
You owe us your life.
Sometimes she had dreams in the couple of hours her body would shut down in desperate need of sleep where her tremors ripped the building to pieces brick by brick, quaking it apart and taking everyone down with it.
A phantom electric current that she unconsciously braced herself to feel would jolt her back awake.
She'd learned a long time ago that dying wasn't an option. But there was a time where she'd craved it relentlessly – desperately wanting to escape her fate, living for someone else, being dictated by someone else, a walking weapon of mass destruction just waiting for her cue to detonate.
Once or twice, she'd grinded the cuffs against her wrist until they cut deep, and she'd started to bleed out.
She woke up hours later with her wrists wrapped in gauze and a superior barking at her to get up, you're late for training.
He brought her to the bathtub. He held her head underwater until her lungs screamed for air, burning her chest, until finally he dragged her head back up by her hair and she gasped and sputtered, coughing up mouthfuls of water. As she drew ragged breaths, anxious tremors building up within her that she was forced to clamp down, sending purple bruises blossoming up and down her arms, he leaned forward, his hot breath tickling his ear as he murmured the truths that she'd been so reluctant to accept before plunging her head back under.
You are property of HYDRA. Your life is not yours to take.