What I Lost || sequel to Worth It

Fourteen

(Y/N)'s POV

Let me tell you what isn't fun.

Being strip searched isn't fun. Going to prison isn't fun. Wearing a stupid uniform isn't fun. And also I haven't eaten in probably around thirty hours.

The whole process of me getting checked in was so long and tedious that it made made me wish that, even though New York hadn't executed anyone since 1963, just maybe they'd make an exception just this once.

My little ghost problem wasn't helping either. It's one thing to have a dead girlfriend buts it's a whole other thing to have to listen to said dead girlfriend being vaguely mean to you all day.

"Listen, if you were a real person then maybe this would be ok because I'd have some form of company. But you are very much not real and just some strange hallucination stemming from my own shitty survivors guilt." I was lying on the floor, flat on my back.

"How do you know I'm not real?" She asked with a smile that infuriated me.

In place of walking to where she was sitting on my small bed, I pushed myself over to her, only using my legs. I lifted a hand and moved to slap her leg, my hand went straight through her.

"Boom." I said. "No touchy."

"Excuse me." I sat up and looked to the cell slash cage slash five star hotel room next to mine. "Are you talking to yourself or daydreaming or... are you just a crazy person?"

"How long have you been in here?" I asked the woman wearing an identical uniform to mine.

"I think around six years, why?" She responded.

"I take it you don't get the news." She shook her head in response. "Ah, then allow me to introduce myself." I did a little bow while still sitting down. "My name is (Y/N) Stark. Former Avenger, current felon. Poison aficionado. I'm also a pretty good baker. And she," I gestured to Ophelia who did a little wave. "Is my dead girlfriend who has been haunting me for the past two and a half years. It's honestly pretty funny because I used to actually be able to see dead people- which is actually how I met one of my best friends- but then some Nazis were like 'No more seeing dead people!' And so my former-dead friend is no longer dead and my former-living girlfriend is no longer living. So to answer your question, I would say that maybe I am a little crazy because I don't think people who aren't crazy have apparitions of their dead partners following them around spouting rude comments. And it's not like she never said kinda mean things but that was when she was a person and I would say kinda mean things back and then we'd kiss and then we'd..."

The woman is my neighboring cell looked a little overwhelmed and confused so I thought it was best to end it there.

"Anyway, you get the gist."

"Did you say Stark? Like Tony Stark." She asked.

"Yeah, he's my dad." I sighed.

"Really?" I nodded. "I don't know he had a daughter."

"Well in your defense, neither did he." She just nodded slowly. "Anyway... what's your name?"

"I'm, Chaaya." I noticed that her hand twitched as if she was about to shake mine but promptly remembered there was a lot standing in the way of that.

"How old are you?" She looked around twenty five to thirty.

"It's complicated."

"Your age?" I cocked an eyebrow. "If it's the math standing in your way then I am more that happy to help."

"No, it's just not something I like to advertise. Let's just say I'm older than you think." She smiled, her smile was nice.

"I won't pry." I held my hands up. "Although I do have one question."

"Go ahead." Chaaya said.

"What time do we get food?"

"In about an hour." She told me after taking a glance at the clock in the corner of her cell. I groaned dramatically and laid back on the floor.

"You probably should've eaten before you got arrested." Ophelia offered some incredibly valuable advice.

"I'm ignoring you now." I think that talking to a dead person isn't quite the best idea, it seems like the type of thing that'd only make my mental health worse.

"I'm absolutely heartbroken." Ophelia placed a hand on her chest and feigned hurt. I just rolled my eyes.

•••

On day number three of the rest of my life, I finally slept. The bed was hardly a bed so it was a great challenge. The mattress was thin and lumpy and so was the sad little pillow. Although I shouldn't really be complaining because, y'know, it's prison.

The amount of stuff, like material stuff, that I've had in life has never stayed the same for long.

When I was a little kid, I always had things. My mom got good pay and wanted me to be happy. Obviously toys and clothes weren't the things keeping me happy but it showed she cared.

Then all throughout my time in foster care, I had a few things here and there but things would get stolen or lost or taken from me by people who didn't think I deserved it.

When I finally found my home, it came with unlimited resources. I half expected my dad to shower me with gifts and cash when I first began living with him because he wanted me to like him, but that didn't happen. At least it didn't happen any more than he does for other people. But I still had everything I could ever dream of, which was amazing. If I lived with him when I was around five I think I would have taken advantage of his loaded wallet every chance I got. I know he would always let me because he could barely say no to me three years ago. If little wide eyed gap toothed (Y/N) asked him for the latest Barbie doll, I imagine he'd of bought me ten.

Then I had nothing again. I mean I had necessities and all that jazz but for the most part, it was just me and my feelings.

But when I moved in with Matt, it was the most 'normal' feeling I'd ever felt. I was living in an apartment with a guy that I enjoyed being around with and I would make dinner or we'd order in and it was nice. And I had just the right amount of things.

And now here I am, truly without any stuff.

A/N: Chaaya seems nice, wouldn't it be so crazy if she was a (super minor) character in something I'm writing rn? Man, that would be wild. Anyway...

I found out I have a deviated septum which explains why breathing through my nose makes me sound like I'm on my last leg of life. Anyway, idk if I need a septoplasty but I made a joke about being a real Jewish girl because I might be getting a nose job and none of my friends laughed at me, but my mom did and that's all that matters.