𝑻𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓 ✘ 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐅𝐅

{6⁷} {DISCOMFORT IN CONFRONTATION}

The time for reflection hit zero. It had run out.

Roxi jolted upright exactly as it did, her hands suddenly cradling her head as she curled into her own body, squeezing her eyes shut, wishing that the wind that now, suddenly seemed to be roaring, would shut up. Wished that the feel of the grass, the smell of the flowerbed just over the hill, the coppery taste of blood on her tongue, would simply cease. Her mind was scrabbling, screaming one thought at her, one that sent desperate breaths and trains of thoughts shuddering through her in hopes to come up with something to contradict its statement.

Because she could not remember what Wanda had been. Not properly. She couldn't remember the colour of her eyes, the feel of her hugs, the sound of her laughs, exactly how strongly her accent had curbed her voice. The information had fallen through the gaps, and had sunk to the bottom of the dark ocean that rested inside of her skull.

Roxi couldn't remember the shape of her face, the beautifully innocent look on it when she had asked to watch the stars. Was unable to recall the comfort that her sister had brought her.

That realisation, and its accompanying jolt of pain sent her staggering to her feet. The world blurred. Whites, blues, greens, yellows. But she wanted to see red, to see something that reminded her of Wanda dearly enough that it might be able to remind her of those missing pieces of information she was scouring the space inside her skull for so desperately.

How she'd ended up in Wanda's room, she wasn't sure. A glance at the empty space, at the ink of the tattoo she'd got from the place that Mara got hers done to mark the map of the foreign stars that sprawled over her arm, and hid thin, crooked scars. It was enough she sent her reeling mind downwards. Spiralling desperately, without any hope of pulling up.

She was feeling far too much, in far too little time.

Waves crashed over her in bitter, twisted tides. It was spite, anger, guilt, regret, dread. Never happiness for the things she had left, because those things could not shine down to the depth she was at. For the third time in the past week, she caught herself being selfish, but this time she would let it slide. She needed to get these waves of emotion out, to calm down while she was still able to open the trapdoor, before they would seep through and rust it shut. She would not lose any more of Wanda, any other pieces of her sister.

Somehow, she'd ended up with one of the large kitchen knives that had been Wanda's in her hand. It was the largest one, but with her vision blurring, swimming, and pain suddenly rippling through her mind as it always did at the worst time, piercing and never-ending, she didn't care what she held. The empty wall opposite the bathroom looked too blank, too clean to be in a room that held quite so much emotion, quite so many memories of ghosts. Before she really knew what she was doing, she had slammed the blade hilt-deep into the plaster. She didn't pay much mind to the wiring that might've been there, her powers subconsciously moving everything metallic out of the way.

She dragged the knife down with all of her strength, ripping the plaster as she carved the first line, yanking the blade out to observe it for a split-second. As best she could with her mind caught in the middle of what seemed to be a whirlpool, dragging her down as she had the knife. Just a second, and then she plunged it back into the wall.

By the time she was done, her fingers were red and her hands ached with effort, her arms shaking. The last line fell further down where it was meant to, and as soon as she'd realised she had finished what she was doing, she fell to her knees and leant her forehead on the hilt of the knife that was still stuck into the wall. Tears coated her face, and it was possible that blood had dribbled down from where she'd accidentally bit down so hard on her lip that she'd tasted metal almost immediately.