Those Ocean Eyes and That Charming Smile

176

I really fucked up this time.

Like life threatening, no place left untouched, unscarred, uncut, kind of fucked up. I mean, it was a complete accident. I never meant to hurt him. Sure, yeah, it was a little satisfying to see the blood run down his arm after the knife I was training with was knocked- let me repeat that with extra emphasis on that word, it was knocked out of my hand and went flying across the arena that I was training in. The knife was never covered because why the fuck would you cover a knife when agents are constantly killing and fighting against each other to get a glance from the almighty boss, Zemo?

Well, I got that glance alright, more than a fucking glance.

I got a full grunt of pain and a Hell of a lot of regret now when the knife whipped past my boss and sliced the outside of his bicep that cut though his fancy fucking turtleneck sweater he always fucking wears and now, it's soaked in his fucking blood that I shed. I could tell that all of the agents there wanted to shoot me in the head right there on the fucking spot when they all pulled their weapons out and pointed them at me after they thought I was remembering my past self who I don't even knows exists but, Zemo was all calm and collected when telling everyone to stand down and he hugged me reassuringly.

I was shaking in fear at the possible punishments lined up for something so menacing yet, I meant it as an accident. I healed his arm and repaired his sweater so it looks like he was never touched and he ordered everyone to not touch me but he goes home to his empty house when the sky seems to fall into darkness that gives all of the agents perfect opportunities to strike and seek revenge for their hurt boss who is sleeping peacefully at night while I am rolled up in a ball under my blanket that is supposed to protect me. Like as a kid, if you were scared and hid under your blanket, the monster was supposed to go away, right? He would sigh in defeat and leave the room to wait for another night to strike?

Not here.

And definitely not me.

The biggest punches were what woke me up where they easily break my ribs and confuse my screams at why it hurt so much so fast until I am yanked from my bed by Char and I see Alik wearing brass knuckles. Brass knuckles for a small, bony, defenseless girl like me who is a foot shorter than him who needs to take four more of me to even match his weight. He has the dirtiest, angriest look on his face as he barks orders to the other agents who calm my fighting body down with punches to my stomach and face.

They are also wearing brass knuckles like they needed them when their natural ones do just fine but regardless, I scream and writhe against the hands digging into my skin and muscle that bruise it from the pressure and discoloring my hip bones when they cushion my fall into the torturous room I hate so much. It has everything that can be used to break a human down ranging from physical to psychological and dating all the way back to the beginning of the nineteen hundreds with stained blood on some of the instruments like they never cleaned them.

"Sit her down." Alik demands and I am dragged into the middle of the room and slammed into a metal chair that was designed with very unnoticeable spikes and holes that only hurt when you move around, which is what I do. "Fucking-" He mutters when I don't calm down with my protests and he pulls a small silenced handgun to pull the trigger. "Bitch." He curses

"Ugh!" I grunt and fold over my stomach that was just shot at. "Fuck!" I scream out in agony

"Oh, get over it." He rolls his eyes and tucks his gun away. "You won't fucking die from it so toughen up, you sensitive bitch." He stomps up to me 

The pain only registers after I take in a breath where I can now feel the stinging, muscle tearing wound that reminds me from months ago when he stabbed me. My hands are handcuffed in front of me while my feet stay unbound so I can lift my hands to the small hole in my abdomen to put pressure on my blood soaked shirt that you wouldn't notice through the black fabric until you see the blood push out against my palm. It hurts to breathe wheezes that intensify the broken bone, ripped organs, and bruised skin with every drag that is gasped and sucked in through my lips in a staggered breath that dries my tongue, lips, and teeth that are filled with the dried blood I tried to wash out from yesterday.