Cherry || b.barnes

33 || Aconite

Another endless period of time begins as I'm left alone in the interrogation room again. At some point, someone brought a glass of water in for me, but that was that. He looked young, looked disgusted as he placed it in front of me onto the table, just as I suspected he would. They would. 

But I couldn't care less, really. I knew people wouldn't accept the move, wouldn't look upon me as the hero fulfilling their mission, but Wanda's reaction has been satisfaction enough for me. Well, satisfaction is the wrong word, perhaps. I don't dare to declare it as hope, but let's face it: It is somehow, at least. Maybe a glimpse of it.

Because Wanda commiserating with me means that I'm not insane with going through this and the reasons for it. That I haven't gone crazy over the years that no one taught me how to live, how to get through in. That I didn't lose my mind being all alone with me and my rage and my bitterness. That I'm not the only one who would do as I do. That there's a chance, after all, that people don't look upon me as a monster.

I don't know if a desperate coward is much better, but... people fear monsters. And I don't want to be feared. 

I want to be understood, although I doubt I'd ever really confess to it, give words to the thoughts. Because they don't change the outcome, that I'm willingly trying to take a life. And therefore, every good thought is worthless.

Before the young agent, heavily armed too and dark clothed, leaves the room again, he places the white drinking straw into my direction, sending me a grumpy, green-eyed glare and shuts the door close loudly. 

I know there are people behind the mirror wall listening and observing me, and I know it is better to swallow the sigh, but the action is incredibly difficult to suppress, nonetheless. Maximoff having me go through all of that again, all these memories reviving vividly in my head has my bones hurting. It's not merely my head aching now that my wrists healed again; it's my stomach, too, and every cell in my body feels burned. My eyes threaten to slam shut just as the door did, and except for keeping the poker face on, ignoring the crusted rivers my salty tears created, I also fight sleep. 

I'm happy James took the shield with him, though. One should cling to the optimistic, positive side of situations, shouldn't one? Always? Having it here would be the worst torture of it all. 

*

I don't really know how much time passes until the door swings open again. All I know is the water, these two-hundred milliliters were way too less, and that my throat is so dry it starts feeling sandy and crusted, too. 

Looking up, my lips stay sealed. I knew who was incoming without second thoughts, and the fact that my damn heart isn't as far as my head concerning our relationship starts to annoy me deeply. Still avoiding arctic blue eyes, I muster his styled, chestnut hair, his black leather jacket, the paler-than-usual, soft skin. His stubbles grew a little longer than I'm accustomed to, but it doesn't make him any less attractive having them crowd his almost rose-colored lips. Jaw set, his body is tensed beneath the white shirt and blue jeans, black gloves and shoes. 

There's something wrong with him, else than having me betraying him. It's the way the space between his dark brows is wrinkled, it's his mouth that is pursed in thoughts for the smallest amount, the stiff way he's moving that doesn't quite fit to his natural motions, or the ones that he follows when he's just upset about something. I bite my tongue hard to not ask what happened, what his mind is roaming about as he steps behind me and the hair in my neck rise like a high-speed version of the sun. 

It's the sandalwood and sweet whiskey that intoxicate me for a second, before I blink away all the memories my limbic system desperately tries to let bubble onto the surface. This time, I can't repress the deep inhale, but therefore, the exhale. I'll just stop breathing and maybe, just maybe, my head will get clear all on its own again.