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━ 𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟱 ━ 𝗔𝗟𝗕𝗨𝗤𝗨𝗘𝗥𝗤𝗨𝗘, 𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗠𝗘𝗫𝗜𝗖𝗢
━
The room is completely sterile, an unwelcoming sort of clinical chill hanging in the air, wafting with the scent of hand sanitizer and bleach.
The decorations on the wall are sparse at best, two small paintings hanging on plaster walls. One of a small barn tucked behind some trees and white picket fence, the other a landscape of rolling grassy fields. Both of them pretty enough on their own, though barely stirring any sort of emotional response in the beholder.
Angel frowns at how oppressively green the room is, from the pale sage walls, to the darker stained tile of the flooring. It's all too monochrome, too forced to be particularly calming. She traces the lines of grout with the toe of her heels, tapping her nails on the wood and leather cushioned chair of the small waiting room. Ready to rid herself of this place for the last time.
She is all alone in the room, though the few other chairs and small arm tables placed throughout the room would suggest a place like this would be more busy this time a day. She supposes she must have a certain stroke of luck that way.
Patience wearing slightly, she lets her eyes wander over the covers of the various magazines spread out over the tables. V-People, Vought Illustrated, Vought Nation.
She scoffs, littering her eyes over the obnoxious covers and headliners of America's favorite supes. One may assume for someone here, at a place like this, she must be obsessed with supes, must fucking idolize them.
She doesn't.
She has better motivation than some shallow need to be famous. She has her convictions.
Her throat begins to feel tight with irritation the longer she stares as the flashy super model-esque photos that decorate the covers. Doubt clawing fast at her mind as she begins to fall back into the same mental debate she has been fighting for the past nine years.
Is this too much?
Is it even worth it?
Would she even want this?
She forces herself to closer her eyes, to draw in a sharp breath, one that feels odd and piercing in her lungs. the sting of cleaning chemicals burning her nose. She'd already come this far, wasted nine goddamn years leading up til this moment.
There is no backing out now, there is no return back to normal at this point. There hasn't been since Scarlett left her.
Her breathing levels out again after a passing moment, and she brushes a small tear from the corner of her eye as she rights herself, refusing to stare at the magazines any longer and instead focusing her attention on the clock.
