Revenge Turned Sweet

Prologue

•Disclaimer: I own none of the Marvel characters that will be mentioned in this story. I also will not be following the exact plotlines of the movies/series, more like skimming them. Enjoy!•
•New cover by meha-k •

Revenge is not sought. It's reaped. It's a storm in the waiting, ready to strike at any moment.

An overwhelming sense of annoyance claims my already medium mood. The sink is refusing to run any water, therefore, prohibiting me from washing the ink stains off of my hands. While writing a note to myself, a reminder to buy what little groceries I can, the pen I had been using exploded all over my hands.

I pry at the handle. Wiggling it, again and again. Cursing at the damn thing for it's hindrance on my day. My eyes fall shut as I finally relinquish defeat. The ink stains will remain and the sink will stay broken.

Before I can move to avoid the splatter, water comes spraying out of every crevice in the faucet. My hand flies to my face while the other tries to smother the water gushing out of the faucet. "No, no!" I whine, stomping my foot against the tile as my face and shirt get soaked with scalding hot water.

Well, I guess it isn't broken anymore.

I groan, turning the water off and grabbing anything within reach to dry my face off before I have to leave. I squeeze the towel around my dripping hair, the water turning the blonde a dark yellow color. I reach for the cheap perfume inside the cabinet mirror, attempting to mask the smell of my dirty uniform. I scrunch my nose up, smelling a mix of espresso and strong vanilla from the perfume. I glare at the tiny excuse for a bathroom. The beige paint is chipping. Now showing the incredibly horrid yellow wallpaper beneath it.

If I could, I would scratch at the disgusting yellow color until my nails bled. But then I wouldn't get my deposit back. It faintly reminds me of the wallpaper in a story I read in high school. How it made the main character lose her mind. I wonder if it's doing that to me. The whole place is falling apart. The cracks in the ceiling leak every time it rains, the wooden flooring is cracked and splintered. The sinks run nothing but discolored water most of the time. But, it's the only place that would let a teenager rent an apartment with no co-signers. Three years later, I'm still here.

Truth is, I'm not a very glass half full type of person. Or, at least I used to be, maybe somewhere in the middle. Now, the glass is empty. As if there was never any liquid inside of it in the first place. I find myself incredibly pessimistic, or rather apathetic may be the right word. And I hate it.

I'm so tired of this place.

Although, where else could I go? I can't exactly enroll myself in high school or pick out colleges. I don't have the luxury. Right now, all I can focus on is surviving. Surviving the grief, surviving the guilt, the shame, the helplessness I seem to have gathered. But right now, I need to survive this eight-hour shift.

I'm opening today, which means I get the extra perky customers who absolutely have to have their order in less than two minutes or they demand to see a manager. When in reality, I have to make four cappuccinos and three soy lattes and warm up their croissants of choice just to their liking.

I slam the bathroom door behind me, my irritation of working this shift coming through. My eyes squeeze shut when I hear the distinct *thud* of the doorknob. I grin to myself sarcastically, trying to maintain a calm composure before going to work. I push a long calming breath out through my nose, ignoring the doorknob still rolling around on the ground, and continue on my way to the living room to grab my keys and bag.