Nightmare

OOOH, A KNIFE

Loki looked at us angrily and glared. And when Cassian, Rowan, and I took off running, he came after me.

That's not entirely fair, but he does hate me. I really don't care 'cause I hate him too.

Or maybe it's cause he knows I'm fucking slow because he drove a dagger into my leg and my other ankle's fucked up.

So I try to run, because I know if I get to my room and lock the door, I have a chance of safety. He can't teleport, so he's going to need to go back across the facility. He'll need to take at least three minutes to get his scepter and blast the door open.

But I'm fucked because I can't run, even though I give it a shot. After a few minutes, I see him behind me, looking--not just mad, but--insane, his blue eyes glinting.

Either way, he catches me soon enough and holds a dagger to my throat, the edge of the blade digging into my skin.

Was our cooking actually that bad?

"Give me a reason I shouldn't kill you right now," Loki snarls.

"You mean, if I don't give you a reason, you'll kill me?"

"Yes, that's what I mean; is your pathetic mortal brain too primitive to comprehend that? I have no reason not to kill you right now."

"Then kill me. Who cares?" I shrug.

Livvy might care, but she has someone else for her. Dad might care, but he has Pepper, even if he doesn't have me.

And me? I have no one. I'll die alone even if I die when I'm older. Nothing to live for. It's why I live so impulsively and recklessly.

So I snap.

Suddenly, I don't care about this dumb mission of saving this universe. I need to stop this. To end this pain. I can't even walk properly, and my curses are getting stronger. Every time I'm mad or scared, I can feel the power threatening to come through.

But not now. Right now, I'm neither angry nor scared. No, right now, I welcome death with open arms. I run to it.

So I spit in Loki's face and I push the edge of the dagger's blade deeper into my throat, until these navy clothes are stained dark red from the warm liquid pouring down my throat.

And then, thick red blood spewing out of my mouth, I start to laugh.

(+)

I wake up in the same cell as when I got here. Dust coats the walls and floor, which I failed to notice before.

It's all gray. No color. If I could control the fire, I'd burn this place to ashes.

My hair is sticky with dried blood, and I touch it gingerly before drawing my hand away from it and sighing, which also hurts.

My throat throbs, and I can't move without feeling like I'm going to die.

But the wound is a cut, not stitched or anything, and not bandaged. I just need something sharp to open it easily.

Of course, if I knew this pain would kill me when I moved, I'd be dancing right now, but as far as I can tell, this isn't enough to kill someone.