you were everything

Y/N Vandalizes Five's Face

☂ is that my skirt? ☂ 

For the first time in what feels like years, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror across the hallway. I appear to be fifteen years of age; physically at least. I feel underdeveloped — puny even. Like my bones have not grown into a full frame. 

What else could you expect from a stowaway? I am a perfectly contained monster; a harrowed soul trapped within the body of someone much more feeble. 

I trace the lines of my face in the antique mirror, studying every curve. If I am to live with this face, I should get used to it. There's nothing beautiful, nothing symmetrical about my inner appearance. I do not understand why there should be anything wonderful about my outward composition.  They say that beauty is subjective; ironic, because I am indeed a subject. 

"How do you plan to tell the others?" says Vanya, sitting on the couch. 

"Number Eight," I tell her. "Y/N?" 

Grace named me Y/N after my first meeting with her. She said it suited me, somehow. As if a name of strangely assembled letters could attribute anything to my being. 

Vanya's eyes wander over my face. "Are you worried?" 

I am, in fact, worried. 

"No," I say. "What would I be worried about?" 

"Maybe the fact that Dad locked you away from us all this time? That this is the first time you'll meet the rest of the Umbrella Academy?" 

I consider this. "Reginald was a monster. They will understand." 

Vanya seems as if she has other ideas. She does, after all, know better than I how our siblings may react to such news. 

"I suppose it's not all that surprising," reasons Vanya. 

Reminiscing the past and things I've tried futilely to forget only leads to a dam of Reginald's secrets. 

"It isn't surprising at all." 

Number One, Two, Three, and Four are not the trusting type. Five is gone, Six is dead — so whether or not they are trusting is highly irrelevant. Seven — Vanya — may very well be the most trusting person I know. Though, the bar is low. 

One to Four are unlikely to accept me as one of their own, nor would they welcome me with open arms, but at least they wouldn't kill me on sight. As if they even could. 

"In any case, they'll see who I am when I do this." 

I lift my hand, beckoning a cup towards me. Flicking my wrists, it rocket launches across the room, contents emptying on the carpet. The cup smashes against Five's painting, scattering across the carpet. 

"Miss Y/N. Please do not vandalize that painting," Pogo says from where he stands in the doorway. He is elderly as ever, hobbling on his dark cane. 

"Forgive me, Pogo." 

Pogo is one of the only members of this household I have any begrudging respect for. It would be immoral of me to not show respect to the old Chimp. He was more than a butler — from what I saw of him growing up. He is family. 

I rearrange the pieces of the cup with my fingers, blue energy swirling around the white chunks. They snap together and the cup lands gracefully on the table. 

I had practice with my powers, but only when I was subservient to Reginald. He trained me infrequently, before the medication and cryo-chamber. After the unfortunate accident with Grace, Reginald deemed me irresponsible, hence the pills.