. . .
"Lacrimae rerum: the poignancy of things"
— Virgil
. . .
The first thing to reach her ears when she woke up—since when she had fallen asleep? —is the sound of her little brother's screaming.
"W-Will...?" Winters called, her voice a weak rasp that even she barely heard as she tried to push herself upright before her eyes could even force themselves to fully open, trying to make sense of which direction his voice was coming from—the sound of his screams, oh god he wouldn't stop screaming—but it was too dark and she couldn't tell where her brother was, how he is and what are they doing to him now...?!
The discovery of William's very existence, here, in this wretched place, in this hell on earth when that awful, awful man finally deigned to tell her after he... after he had his way with her that he—they had her baby brother, they had William, oh god no, please, what do I do dad what do I do—had been like giant a slap to the face.
("Win, are you cold?" her dad had asked her that fateful day, hours before the fire, before the monsters, before everything that mattered—their home, their childhood, their safety, their father.
All of it, gone—)
She had a horrible sinking feeling in her chest (in her heart that was frightfully whole, stubbornly still there) that he had only thought it as a fitting punishment enough after she had attempted to kill herself.
If she strains her ears long and hard enough, amidst the screaming and past her ragged breaths, she can still hear it. She can still hear the sound of glass, the mirror shattering on her grip, ringing loud and clear in her ears when she struck.
It had been painful, but exhilarating.
It feels like freedom the freedom she never lost as she destroyed something with her own bare hands. Feeling it break beneath bruised, bloodied hands.
The glass of the mirror immediately cracked with a single blow from her closed fist, spider-like webbing into a million different pieces and cascading down all over her like a crystal waterfall as she watched on, transfixed, delirious and thrilled as her hands eagerly took hold of one of the many glasses, never mind how its jagged edges easily cuts through already broken and bleeding skin just as the door behind her slams open.
Instinctively, Winters whirled around, backing up like the cornered animal that she was in front of him with her poor excuse of a weapon clutched in her shaking hands.
"AMARA!" he shouts, absolutely livid.
"Don't come any closer," she snarled.
She did not miss the terror, the absolute fury practically glowing in his eyes—those awful eyes of red that looked so red like blood, like roses, like fire—as he stared at the glass poised to cut through her neck.
He tried to inch forward but she won't let him.
"Didn't I already told you," Winters gritted out, pushing the glass deep enough for her bruised neck to start bleeding. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to be a threat. The feeling of her blood running down her skin no longer phased her, "... don't come any closer."
Winters knows well enough by now that he can move faster even with her eyes trained on him should he wish it and she doubts she will ever have a chance of an out like this.
