Whirlwind | W.M.

23

Life has a way of coming around full circle.

In an almost torturous twist of fate, there I stood before my bathroom mirror. A black dress, lazily applied lipstick and some blush just so I wouldn't look like I was a walking zombie, even if everything inside me was closer to dead than anything else. There I was, minutes away from a memorial, a funeral when most of my life has been spent on the other end of the spectrum.

I guess it was true what they say, that you never truly understand something until you're the one going through the motions. That all the books and movies and shows, that all the literature and media in the world could never encompass and compare to real life. No pain could ever be replicated by art, at least not down to the bone.

I had never been to a funeral before— I never had to. My job was to take people out, never to mourn them. It was easier when I knew what I was made for, easier when I actually intended to cause all of that pain. As I stood there under the dim ceiling light in a bathroom that smelled like bleach and roses, I realize that it hurt because I was trying.

I never openly said it, probably because the mere thought was daunting but I was trying. I thought I could be anything more than what I was used for. Living in that apartment with Martina, getting a taste of what life would have been like if things weren't so complicated gave me hope. Sure, it wasn't the most usual set up, but it was domestic enough.

Wake up, put on a record, clean and cook and deal with an annoying little kid— it was close enough. Then Natasha would come around with food and drinks and we'd spend the afternoon lounging and talking and i'd be happy. In the evenings, Wanda would crawl through my window like a star crossed lover thriving on rebellion, some cheesy rendition of throwing pebbles at my window and whisking me away from the tall, scary tower.

She'd take my hand and read me books and smile at me like I was the most precious thing she had ever laid eyes on. We'd stand on the edge of platforms and run through the city like we were just kids, kids who had too much time and energy on our hands to pretend like the world was ours. It was enough, to have that every day for a while was enough for me to hope that I could be good.

If Natasha could bet her life on me, if Wanda would wade through the city every night for a few hours with me, if Steve would show up at my door and feel safe with me— then maybe there's something I wasn't seeing in myself that they do. It was so close, you know. Getting to London, I was so engulfed by the fleeting dream I've lived to think there was a way.

To think I could get Lara and come back, with them. To have both without the pain it came with. I thought— maybe I could make it work. Maybe I could fix my relationship with my sister and not have to leave behind the people who painted color into my grey skies. But god, I could not have been more wrong.

Failure strucks a million times harder when you're actually trying.

And sure, Steve was right. They didn't die in the fire or at the hands of my sister, but they got hurt. They got hurt and suddenly i'm reminded of what I am. It was almost like a humiliating slap to my face, etching reality into my skin with a dull knife. In my path, in my presence, there can be nothing but chaos and pain. If it were so easy, I'd tear inside me and pull out all the rotten bits.

But then i'd have nothing left.

A few stern knocks on the door take me back to earth, a heavy sigh sitting on my lips as I exit the bathroom and tread through my messy room, dishevelled and out of order just like my mind. Piles of clothes and crumpled paper riddle the floor as I get to my door, clicking it open and walking away.

"Hey." Jess greets softly, pushing it open all the way as she hesitantly walks inside.

She wore black slacks and a matching black blouse that fell loosely against her body, it looked a lot like silk— or something really smooth to the touch. Her blonde hair was done up into a neat ponytail and the only splash of color would have been her red lips. Even the most lively person in that building looked like death.