𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲

- ⧗  NATASHA ROMANOFF ⧗ -

THE ONLY IMAGE THAT NATASHA SEEMED ABLE TO CONJURE in her mind was that of a tsunami. Her brain recalled fourth grade, sitting at a small wooden table next to Charles Fletcher; the boy who always smelled liked lemons. By the front of the class, her teacher - Miss Walters - stood talking through a slide projected on to the class whiteboard, of natural disasters and the wave that followed a move of the tectonic plates. Natasha recalled her teacher's words of how enormous a tsunami could be, how it could build up suddenly and then come crashing down on a town, destroying everything in its path. A wave of water that wipes all else away and leaves nothing but its drowning victims, submerged in the dark cold depths of its chaos.

That's exactly how Natasha felt now - like the tsunami had came to wash her away and leave her there to drown. It was like she could feel the water in her throat, bubbling and burning her lungs. The wave had came and left her blood running ice cold from its watery force, her body frozen in this moment in time.

   Hours passed since the incident at dinner, where both Natasha and Zariah had ran off and hidden themselves away in their bedrooms. But for the older redhead, her mind had yet to truly notice the passage of time, instead focused on the file opened on the laptop screen in front of her. That same cold, drowning feeling felt inescapable and unyielding, even as her brain became more accustomed to the concept at hand. Needless to say, there would never be any true acceptance of the horror that had occurred all those years, but as Natasha read that same file over and over for hours, there was some form of familiarity that came with the truth.

   Even in her state of disarray, Natasha made an effort to push herself out of bed. She'd heard stories of a mother's strength, able to push a car out of the way to save their own child. And although Natasha was dubious of that as a fact, she did feel herself fighting against her own pain to check on the person who now meant more to her. Through her own storm of emotions, Natasha walked away from her own secluded safety and across the hall to the nearby bedroom. Perhaps she did know how to be a mom after all.

   As she'd expected, she found Zariah's bedroom door closed and locked, not even a sign of light streaming through from underneath the wood. In her chest, her heart grew heavy at the thought of the girl just on the other side, the little girl she knew was likely hurting just as much as her. A shaky hand raised to knock, knuckles rapping softly on the wood. "Zariah. It's me."

   Her voice was soft, carrying through the door in what she hoped was a reassuring manner. And yet, no answer came back through. Again she knocked, this time slightly harder as she wondered if she'd been heard primarily. "Zariah. It's Nat."

   There was no answer. Only silence responded as Natasha stood crestfallen outside the door. Now she knew Zariah could hear her, and that the girl was simply ignoring her. Despite the despondency, Natasha understood this wasn't any other thing. This would take time for Zariah to come around. And Natasha was willing to give that to her, no matter how much her heart may have hurt at the rejection.

   The following morning, Natasha woke with that same underwater feeling that settled yesterday. Waves crashed in her mind and clouded her thoughts, lingering despite the suppressive nature Natasha forced upon her own emotions. With no sign of Zariah emerging from her room for breakfast, Natasha spent the first few hours of the day in the training room. Her hopes laid strong that if she could distract herself, the pain would maybe go away. That always seemed to work when she was younger. But youth is a passing phase, and life unfortunately differs from passive utopia we create in adolescence.

   With lingering affliction, Natasha made her way back up to her room to shower and hopefully rinse away what even sweat could not dispel. Not even leaving for lunch, she spent the rest of the hours inside of her own room, locked away with that same laptop and same file. It was self indulgence really, reading it over and over, looking at the faces of all those little girls who had been created and destroyed without remorse. But Natasha Romanoff had always had self destructive tendencies, even if she knew the guilt of this might crush her bones to dust.