Blazing: Ninjago Oneshots

Open Wounds (Canonverse post S9)

He liked the storage room, because nobody ever went in there. It was a place he could easily disappear in for hours, hidden amongst the boxes, and temporarily vanish from the outside world. His friends often noticed these periods of absence, but they never thought to look in there and just assumed he left the ship for some fresh air or something. Which made it the perfect spot.

He found himself there again, standing alone at the entrance to the storage room with one pale, trembling hand resting on the doorknob. The hallway was empty, and he slipped in.

The familiar smell of dusty furniture and miscellaneous objects that had gone unused for years washed over him, instantly easing the tensions in his body as he quietly made his way to the back of the room. He sat down in the fetal position and rested his head on his knees.

And the memories washed over, like they always did.

He could face them dry-eyed now, and no longer did he need to rely on something to lean on. It used to be that he'd physically collapse and cling to a wall for support, but he was getting better at holding himself together.

Now he could focus on hating her in peace.

He remembered the way she always leaned in whenever he was talking, watching him like he was saying the most interesting thing she'd ever heard. Her face positively lit up when he addressed her, and that radiant smile alone could make his day. He recalled her laughing at the difference in the sizes of their hands when they pressed her palms together, and a feeling of protectiveness overcame him as he imagined a possible future with her.

What future?

And for the millionth time, he reminded himself not to get too caught up in these memories, because none of it was real.

She had ruined him. And she had reveled in seeing him broken. Her shrill laugh when he lost everything still echoed in his ears and never seemed to stop. Gone were the sparks that used to fly between them. Her mask was off.

But even this hadn't stopped a tiny part of him from wondering if maybe, just maybe, she'd felt that way about him too, even if just for a fleeting second.

A sharp pain shot up his arm and he looked down at the source to find a bloodstained hand. Evidently his nails had dug into his palm. He stared at the red droplets that appeared to be more of a shade of maroon in the dim light of the storage room and felt nothing.

He was empty inside, just as she had always wanted. He wondered if she was happy now. Sometimes he imagined her coming back to apologize and found pleasure in the idea of mocking her as she begged for mercy, screaming at her until she felt remorse for what she did. And then maybe she would finally feel a fraction, a sliver of the pain she put him through.

But it was too late for that now; she was dead.

He should be happy. The city was free from her terrorism, and he was too. He and his friends were hailed as heroes for saving everyone. He should be happy.

He was not.

All he wanted to do was hate her in peace. And even then he couldn't do it. Some part of him resisted. He didn't know why.

He wanted to leave the thoughts, the memories associated with her in the storage room and never come back. He hated this place. He wanted to be happy. And he hadn't been in far too long. The last time he was happy... was when he was with her. When it all felt real.

And despite himself, he kept coming back.

He wanted to leave. He was drowning.

Almost as if it had heard his pleas for help, the door opened on its own.