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Your mother, Natasha Romanoff, knew you struggled a lot. She knew how hard it is for you to fit in and be your own person. She struggled with that herself at your age and she was determined to help you through it.
The last time she had caught you cutting, she was in shock. The shock of fear and failure and it hurt. It hurt to see you suffer, it hurt.
Natasha didn't dare leave you. She checked up on you every hour of every day, making sure you weren't falling down the dark and lonely hole.
As much as Natasha tried to help you through the toughest time of your life, you fooled her. You made her believe you were doing better, you made her believe that she could leave you for a few days and she'd return to her same healthy girl.
It was a battle in her mind to decide whether she should leave for the three day mission or stay. But you had convinced her, you had promised that you would be fine and that the world was more important. You had even joked, saying she needed to get her priorities straight when she had mentioned the world would never be as important as you.
That joke gave her hope and she had left you for her three day mission. But little did you know, the silence and the loneliness–despite you constantly isolating yourself–had made you numb. You felt paralyzed in your own body. And the blade that you used to slide across your arms and legs made another appearance.
You stood in front of your bathroom mirror, staring at yourself. You used to think you were beautiful. You always thought you used to look just like your mother. But you can't see it anymore. You looked sick, with dark circles under your eyes and pale skin.
As tears escaped your dull green eyes, you picked up the blade that you kept hidden underneath a stack of towels and slid it across your pale skin.
As you felt the stinging sensation of your skin being cut and the blood escaping the small wound, you sighed in relief. It was almost like a high.
You caught another glimpse of your reflection in the mirror, a sickly ghost staring back at you. You couldn't do it. You wanted to survive for your mother–you knew she'd have nothing to live for if you were gone–but the world was too cruel for you.
It was time.
You ran the bath, making sure the temperature was as scalding hot as it could go. The steam from the water became visible in your small bathroom, the mirrors fogging over and your ghostly reflection slowly became a blurry figure.
As the bathtub filled, you stripped down to your bra and underwear, deciding you didn't want your mother finding you completely naked, and threw your clothes into a pile on the bathroom floor. You were glad your mother was out on a mission, if it were up to her, she would have stayed and kept a very close eye on you. It gave you time–two more days to be exact.
