What Derives From Hate?

• 33 •

Life after the hospital was irritably slow. It felt like I was moving and slow motion and everyone else moved in normal time. The captain was just like the doctor. 'No work until that is a scar.' Which annoyed the crap out of me because I was the one who took the the damn thing out. So, logically, I should be on the team. I should be out taking the bad guys on. Why I wasn't? Well, shit. I'd like to know sometime sooner or later. Being with them rather than cooped up in a home so known, it was like looking at the back of my hand for 10+ hours. That was so boring.

Looking at the same bland walls made me think. This place needs a drastic change and now. "Hey, T. Tell me, with the colour scheme on the outside of this mansion, what colours should I paint the inside?"

It took a second before she responded. "Well, Miss Gibbs. Since the place looks normal from the outside, I'd suggest normal colors. You're not too keen on light colors so you're stuck there." She sassed back, a hint of tease in her robotic voice. The thing liked to mock me, using the sass that matched mine against me. Of course, I could always one up her with it. Even if we're alone,  we'd have sass battles. They were fun and always a laugh.

"TUESDAY, I hate you." I chuckled, swinging on my heavy winter trench coat, walking towards the door. My scarf was already wrapped around my neck, the fuzzy hat situated on my head, protecting my ears from freezing off. Oregon winters could be brutal and it happened to be brutal this year.

"Stay safe, miss." I liked how polite she was with everyone. It was calming against all the rude and pushy. An actual A.I was a calming thing. That is something you don't tell yourself everyday.

I took my car, relishing in the heat. The thing about my car is that if I click the keys to unlock it, it automatically starts warming up. Another thing is that it can register the click from one floor up which is when I thought about painting the house. That's why I love my car in the winter. The way the heat gently rolled through the vents, hitting my face which was all to be uncovered. The rest of my body was still cold-- i don't know how considering I'm wearing layers of winter shit --and the heater helped.

Though, as I arrived, I did become a little sweaty. That ran away as soon as my left foot touched the ground with a soft, eery thump, followed my the delayed thump of my right foot. "Winter. A season so drastically cold that it could be bitter in the sweetest of symphonies." What? The? Hell? Did I? Just say? That piece of poetry or whatever isn't my forte. Fighting, being badass is what I do. Being a general piece of shit is my thing. Getting hurt, well. That's my middle name.

I walked through the aisles of the store, looking for the correct color of paint for my brooding house. My senses were on standby in case someone needed it. Maybe a robbery, a smash-and-grab, or the least likely, assault. Because I'm here and it'd be pointless. Unless it was armed assault, that'd add to the fun. Just hard explaining to my husband why I might be stitching my body up when I am supposed to be on "strict" bed rest. Bed rest isn't in my vocabulary.

My whole life, younger to now, I never followed the orders of my doctor. Whether it was something minor like a broken leg, I never listened. I would be up on my feet ASAP, looking for a speedy recovery. My adoptive mother always said 'Your stubbornness will get you in trouble, child.' And I retorted back with 'Tell me I can't, then watch me work twice as hard to prove you wrong.' And I would get up and do just that. I was an intolerable child but that's what my stubbornness has done. My stubbornness is the reason I was able to defeat my enemies and be alive right now.

"Excuse me, Miss?" A small voice behind me asked. I turned around and bent to his height, confused as to why he'd approach me. "What happened to your face?" He pressed a soft and gentle hand to my stitched scratches, shivering and giggling as it tickled his little hand.