"And just how am I supposed to do that when I can't spar with anyone or undergo training." Maria shrugged. "That's for you to figure out Y/N." Your eyes flicked between everyone in the room before landing back on your mother. "Mom..." the words came out in a soft desperate plea. Natasha shook her head. "I'm very disappointed in you Y/N."
All light drained from your eyes at that moment. Your body completely slumped back into your chair. You could only just barely make out Cap dismissing you and Natasha clarifying that you were to go straight to your room. Numbly you walked down the corridor and to the living quarters.
Once you reached your room you took in a deep shaky breath. "F.R.I.D.A.Y? Lock the door and don't let anyone in unless I say so...please."
"Of course miss. Are you alright?" The A.I asked sounding genuinely concerned for you. You chuckled cynically. The only person showing any care for your feelings was a fucking robot. Nodding your head you walked into the bathroom. "I'm fine F.R.I.D.A.Y."
Looking into the mirror you glared at your reflection. You hated who glared right back at you. You hated everything about her just like everyone else around you. She was exactly what everyone said she was. Weak, pathetic, unpredictable, would never be able to live up to her family name.
A disappointment.
Your mother's words took over your every thought. You didn't want to believe what all those kids said to you but then she went and said it herself. You were nothing but a disappointment.
Suddenly you let out a great cry of rage before your fist collided with the mirror, shattering it and getting glass shards stuck in it. Panting heavily you crushed to yourself and looked at your bloody hand before feeling another wave of frustration hit you. Why couldn't you feel the pain? You physically couldn't feel the extensive harm you had just caused your hand.
Stumbling back you hit the wall and slid down it into a sitting position. Your eyes examined the bloody and cut-up hand. It looked like it should hurt like hell but you felt absolutely nothing. Or maybe you did and it was just nothing compared to the mental anguish you felt right now.
Either way, it only angered you more. You wanted—needed to feel something, anything other than everything you were feeling inside. A larger piece of glass on the floor caught your eye.
Reaching over, you picked it up with your injured hand and held it up to the light. It was perfect...it would do the job rather nicely.
Leaning back against the wall you pressed to shard to the soft flesh of your opposite wrist. Bitting your lower lip in concentration you pressed the glass into your arm until the deep red liquid appeared.
Dragging the glass across your arm you stopped when you felt it was the appropriate length. Moving down a bit you repeated the process again and again but you still felt nothing. Scowling as tears that you hadn't even noticed were falling fell harder and harder you moved onto the other wrist.
By the end of it, you were sobbing hysterically. Throwing the shard across the bathroom floor you gripped your head in your hand. Rocking back and forth you tried to let out all the pain and disgust you felt for yourself. You just wanted it all to be over. You just wanted the pain to go away.
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After a few hours of sitting on the bathroom floor in a puddle of your open self-hate, you got up and washed off your arms. Ignoring the sting of the water hitting your open wounds you walked over to the first-aid kit that was kept in all bathrooms in the compound and began to patch yourself up. You spent about an hour making sure you got every single bit of glass out of your hand before you dressed it along with your arms.
Disapointment
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