Anarchy | The Boys

3

For a moment, nothing seems to change, but then, gradually, the suspended objects begin to lower themselves to the floor, a few at a time. The floating books find their way back onto the shelf, the curtains return to their peaceful draping, and the vase settles back onto the coffee table.

As Petra regains control, she wipes away her tears, willing herself to regain her composure.  With the room returned to order, Petra sighs deeply, her pulse gradually slowing.

She stands at the entrance to her immaculate bathroom, bathed in the sterile light that glares down from the ceiling. The room itself is cold and unforgiving, every surface gleaming with an almost clinical precision. She gazes into the steely reflection of her eyes in the mirror for a moment, her thoughts lost in the tumultuous sea of her mind.

Her shirt slips from her shoulders and falls to the floor with a hushed sigh. She hesitates, her fingers brushing her own skin as if it's foreign to her.

Petra steps closer to the shower, the tiles cold beneath her feet, and reaches for the taps with trembling hands. She adjusts the water, testing its temperature, allowing it to wash away the sweat and tension from her body.

As the warm cascade begins to flow, Petra steps into the shower, and the first drops of water splatter against her skin, soaking her hair. For a brief moment, she closes her eyes, letting the sensation wash over her, embracing the illusion of escape.

Yet, even here, in the confinement of the sterile bathroom, she's not free. Her mind is a turbulent whirlpool, a constant battleground between the expectations placed upon her and the longing for something more, something real.

The water courses down her body, tracing the lines of her skin, but it offers no solace. Instead, the droplets become a torment, a cruel reminder of the world she's trapped within. Her sanctuary is only a mirage, the prison disguised as a moment of privacy.

With a trembling hand, Petra reaches for the soap. The bar is smooth, cool to the touch, and she lathers it against her skin, scrubbing away the dirt and the grime, but the feeling is far from cleansing. It's a feeble attempt to wash away the stains that have marred her soul.

The steam begins to fill the room, concealing her like a protective shroud. Yet, Petra can't escape the cruel echoes of her own thoughts. They persist, persistent as a shadow, refusing to grant her respite even in this solitary moment.

As the soap washes away, Petra turns her attention to her hair. Her trembling fingers move through the wet strands, twisting and knotting in ways that mirror the knots in her heart. Each stroke is a plea for release, for freedom from the oppressive reality that bears down on her.

The heavy weight of the water forces her to her knees, and she gazes up at the showerhead, her vision distorted through the deluge. It's a desperate stance, a silent cry for deliverance from the confines of her own life.

Water swirls around her like a whirlpool, taking with it the remnants of the day. Petra feels herself being pulled deeper into the abyss of her thoughts, into the darkness that threatens to consume her.

The dissonance between the girl beneath the shower's cascade and the powerful supe she's meant to be is jarring. Petra longs to be more than a puppet dancing on Vought's strings. But in her darkest moments, the truth remains—freedom is a distant dream, a mirage on the horizon.

With the shower's roar in her ears and the oppressive atmosphere of the bathroom, Petra stands on the precipice of something she can't name. The shadows close in around her, and the mirror reflects a fractured image. The girl who gazes back is both a supe and a prisoner of her own life, a contradiction embodied.