Well, I'll give this story another shot and add second chapter to it, BUT I'm unsure whether I should continue writing. What do you think? Should I go on or not? Is anyone even reading this ;-)? Is anyone out there ;-)? Let me know in the reviews what you think:-)!
Chapter II
"...and the world wonders: where is Supergirl?" The question hangs in the air, a lingering echo more than two weeks unanswered. Has the Girl of Steel grown weary of Earth and its undifferentiated disdain for aliens? Or was she more grievously wounded in her last desert skirmish than the government is willing to admit?" Cat Grant's voice pierces the calm of the bistro, and Kara presses her fingers to her temples. Her head pounds with a relentless rhythm, like a drumbeat echoing through a hollow hall. The clamor of Cat Grant's voice from the television slices through the bistro's murmur, sharp and intrusive, aggravating the throbbing in her temples. Each syllable seems to resonate directly within her skull, a reminder of her all-too-human frailties. The discomfort twists into her brow, knotting itself into sharp, persistent pinches that pull at her consciousness.
She feels the weight of her gaze heavy upon the cold, hard surface of the table where she rests her head, shielded beneath her palms. The nausea that grips her is not just physical but emotional too—a tidal wave crashing against the cliffs of her resolve. It swirls within her, a tempest of discomfort and disquiet, leaving a sour trace that lingers at the back of her throat. The world around her dims under the shadow of her pain, sounds muffle, and the light fractures into piercing shards that she dares not face.
As Alex pushes open the door of the bistro, a blend of aromas — coffee, baked goods, and the faintest hint of disinfectant — rushes to greet her, a sharp contrast to the crisp outside air. The familiar hum of quiet conversation, the clink of cutlery, and the soft background music are momentarily comforting. Her eyes scan the room, immediately drawn to the sight of Kara, a solitary figure amidst the casual cheer of the café patrons. The slouch of her sister's shoulders speaks volumes, each curve and bend a wordless testament to defeat. Kara's head is cradled in her hands, her body language closed off, as if she is trying to shield herself from the world.
Alex's heart clenches at the sight, a visceral response to the palpable aura of desolation that surrounds her sister. Her concern deepens as she moves closer, each step weighted with dread. She notes the slight tremor in Kara's hands as they grip her temples, the subtle grimace that accompanies each throbbing pulse visible even from a distance. The scene strikes a dissonant chord in Alex, who feels a surge of protective instinct mixed with a painful helplessness. She knows the signs of Kara's suffering all too well—the physical manifestations of an internal battle that seems to be consuming her sister more each day.
Approaching Kara, Alex's resolve hardens; her worry for her sister transforms into a silent vow to help, to find a way through the darkness that has enveloped Kara. She reaches out, her actions gentle but determined, as she asks the café worker to lower the intrusive noise of the television and change the channel, an attempt to carve out a small sanctuary of peace for Kara in the crowded room. It's only as she draws near, finally enveloping Kara in a comforting embrace, that the sharp tang of alcohol hits her. The scent is pungent and unmistakable, emanating strongly from Kara, intensifying Alex's fears and solidifying her resolve to intervene.
"Kara...have you been drinking again?" Alex inquires, her eyebrow arched with a mix of concern and trepidation. Kara averts her gaze, eyes fixed intently on the chaotic patterns of the tabletop, her fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against the wood. Sensing the anxiety embedded in each tap, Alex extends her hand, her touch gentle yet firm, halting Kara's restless motions. "You hear what they're all saying..." Kara finally murmurs, her voice a blend of resignation and defensiveness. Just then, Alex hears her order number called and she stands to collect the two Flat Whites she had ordered upon arrival. Returning, she sets a cup before Kara with a coaxing softness. "Here, drink some coffee. Then we really need to talk about the drinking, Kara."
Kara's reaction is immediate and sharp, her eyes widening with incredulity and a spark of indignation igniting in her gaze. How dare Alex broach such a topic with such parental concern? She is an adult, fully capable of making her own choices, however fraught they may be. A snort of frustration escapes her as she stands abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. She slaps a five-dollar bill on the table—more a statement of defiance than a payment—and storms out of the bistro, her parting words slicing through the air, "You're not my mother, Alex! Mind your own damn business!" Each word punctuates her escalating sense of betrayal and the chasm of misunderstanding that has formed between them.
Outside, Kara races into the street, her breaths ragged and desperate, her steps faltering as if each one contests her will. Her human frailty lays bare; her lungs burn with each sharp, jarring inhale, and her legs tremble, barely supporting her weight. Overwhelmed, she collapses to her knees, the cold concrete stark against her skin, and sobs—tears of bitter despair streaking her face. Why must this befall her, who has strived with every fiber of her being to shield as many lives as possible, to fortify the world against chaos? Is this the cruel reward for her sacrifices? Has Rao abandoned her, or is this a divine retribution for the souls that slipped through her fingers?
Gathering the shards of her resolve, she slowly rises and makes her way to the nearest pub, seeking refuge in the familiar numbness of alcohol.
At the corner, she pauses at the steps leading up to a small bar, a moment of hesitation seizing her. A fleeting thought of returning to last week's club to seek out the brunette crosses her mind. Dismissing the impulse as folly, she pushes through the bar's door and approaches the counter, her voice steady as she orders, "A double vodka tonic, please." As she drinks, the night unfolds, and she finds herself enveloped by the thrum of music and the press of bodies on the dance floor. Invitations from strangers blend into the rhythm of the night, and soon, hands glide around her waist, drawing her closer into an unexpected embrace. For a heartbeat, she hesitates, caught between restraint and abandon. Then, letting the music carry her away, she surrenders to the dance, spinning and swaying as if the dawn will never come. In the throes of her intoxication, Kara releases all her restraints, her spirit momentarily untethered from the weight of her sorrows.
When the lights suddenly flicker on and the last beats of music dissolve into the stark silence of night's end, Kara finds herself wrapped in the arms of a man she met just hours before. His breath warm against her ear, he murmurs, "Come home with me?" The question, laden with the night's intoxication, sparks a sense of daring within her. Without fully grasping her own reasons, she nods, her response accompanied by a light, tipsy giggle that feels both foreign and exhilarating. He responds with a deep, intent kiss that seems to momentarily blur the lines of her reality. They leave the pulsating energy of the bar behind, stepping out into the cool, quiet night together.
Hours later, Kara finds herself lying on her back, gazing up at the unfamiliar ceiling of a strange apartment, the contours of a man whose name escapes her sleeping beside her. How did she relinquish control so completely? Silently, she gathers her scattered clothes from around the room and dresses, her movements hushed and deliberate, imbued with the hope that Rao might still regard her with some favor, that the stranger beside her remains asleep. This lapse, she vows silently, must not repeat itself. Glancing at her watch, she notes it's 6 a.m.—time to retreat to her own sanctuary and seek rest.
But rest proves elusive; sleep and Kara are now uneasy companions. Night after night, she is jolted awake, drenched in sweat and screaming, as the horrors of battles past seep into her dreams, stripping her of power even in her slumber. With a bitter chuckle, she acknowledges the cruel irony—powerless in her dreams just as in waking life. Thirsty and weary, she grabs a bottle of water, draining it swiftly, and collapses onto her bed in what she loosely calls her home. Maybe, as Alex suggests, it's time to seek a more permanent place, one that genuinely feels like her own. Yet, Kara finds no will to embark on such a search; no craving for comfort or a sunlit dwelling tempts her. The sun's rays hold no allure without her powers, no promise of strength or renewal. For now, she dismisses the thought of moving. Directionless, she lies back, her mind a tumult of unanswerable questions about her future.