Free Soul | Natasha Romanoff

Chapter 2: who are you, dear soul?

Her stiff hand came to her face as her body slumped forward, a vain attempt at containing her uncontrollable laughter. She grabbed many wisps of her hair at once, whilst her palm found support on the cold floor. And you are asking me, what had she found so funny? What humored her till the madness reached her doorstep and began to pull her out of the housing so harshly? 

Well, you know, it was amusing how she had never thought about who she was. 

And it was amusing how a simple question sparked so many sensations in her chest, when she had been surviving with a sinking feeling right there. And what would you do with that many emotions when you had never learned to control them? You simply let it all out, no matter the shape it took. There was anger in her grip and laughs, there was anguish in her entire body. 

It ached everywhere. Everywhere hurted her heart and tugged at the chains wrapped around her soul, pulling on each of its strings as though it were a thing. It made her want to rip her throat out, take her lungs and burn them to a crisp, grab her own blade and slit her body, just so her blood would cease to boil and pulse in such a rattle pricking at each of her limbs. It ached. 

From an utter low to a complete high, it was too much. Her body was too much, and she wished to rid herself of it. But this sole thought pushed the dagger of sorrow deeper into her aching chest, now forcing those salted pearls to emerge from their grave. The tears she had buried were threatening to escape the brims of her eyes, and her whimpers to let out the sound of her pain.

But she wouldn't let anything out, she wouldn't let that weakness be exploited by those... those godforsaken- 

She was so mad at the world. 

Hence, she looked up to the skies, the traitors of her existence for so long, and demanded them to take away those tears from her eyes, to take away those sensations burdening her body. They beached for a split second on the shore, only to be swallowed back in the abyss, where nothing could grip them to the surface and let them in the open for the eyes and the ears of the world. 

There returned that familiar void settling back into her chest. 

Now, it was one thing to see the nothingness in someone being so invasive and cursed; it was another to see this same nothingness abruptly shift and plunge into sinister colors, to see the blank swirl transform into a storm for an ephemeral instant, before the usual quietness overthrew the rumbling once again. In a certain sense, it wholly terrified the two agents. 

Their fingers were twitching on the handle of their guns, unsure of what was coming their way— if they had just made a mistake or not. It was the first time he was doubtful of Romanoff's judgment, and it was the first time Romanoff felt doubtful of her plan. She must have missed a detail, right? Maybe the Ghost was too far gone; maybe she had already drowned out. 

Maybe, just maybe, she should have taken the shot and-

"Who I am..."

Her head hung loose as her hand slipped out of her hair, now passing over her face in hopes of recovering fully the mask of the Ghost she had turned out to be. So it left room for her amygdala to drain itself a little more, to remember the pieces of her memories against her own resolve, for they were scattered all across her night demons's palms; they forced her to be at their mercy.

She didn't want to know what was in these palms, their claws being the thorns of those red roses.

"Well, I'm not sure myself." She looked away with a half-hearted shrug of her shoulders, redoubting the moment she would have to put a name on the thing she was. 

Because she knew its name. 

"Spit it out. Come on." And he knew that she knew, so he had enough of hearing void. He wanted that matter.