It was after a particularly hard mission that it happened. The mission itself had been simple, and it had been easy. The problem was that as it had been a mission to rescue some young girls from human traffickers it hit a little close to home.
Once she got to her room in the tower, Natasha curled up on her couch, trying to stop the stream of memories. It didn't work. All it did was resurface some other old memories.
Her first thought was to end it. Then she realized that she didn't deserve something as peaceful as that. Her second thought was to do it... and she did. She pulled a blade out of her bra with her left hand. Her dominate hand. The hand she had used to kill all those innocent people in her youth. Natasha was ambidextrous, but she preferred to use her left hand. As she stared at her left hand with the knife in it, more memories came to the surface. She transferred the knife to her right hand, pulled up the sleeve of her catsuit up to her elbow, and made neat slashes up her left forearm. The blood ran down her arm, and dripped on the floor. Next, she pulled up her right sleeve, transferred the knife to her left hand, and made slashes up her right forearm as well.
Once she was done, she went to the bathroom to clean herself up. Natasha grabbed a wet rag and cleaned all the blood on the floor.
Then she pulled the handcuffs out of a drawer in the nightstand to the left side of her bed, and cuffed her left arm to the headrest.
That night, after Natasha fell asleep, her dreams were filled with pain suffering, death, and torture. Her room was filled with her screams as she dreamt, and her quiet sobs once she woke.
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