Mischief Always Wins the War (Sequel to The Asgardian Civil War)

Running Blurs

Suddenly I’m standing at the front door of Stark Tower. I don’t know how I got here. I thought I was going to be able to keep my cool and not let battle memories ransack my mind, but I was wrong. I can’t get pictures of Emma and Nate out of my head. I see the crowds of terrified people rush past me and I think of the students at my high school. I see parents running with their children and I remember both of my parents in their dying moments.

And somehow in these thoughts, my mind managed to get me to Stark Tower unscathed.

I pushed open the doors, and found my way to the stairway, following Nat’s instructions. I found it, after frantically searching. I clumsily shoved open the door with my shoulder. My mind was cloudy, my thoughts reeling.

I began my ascent to the top floor with my little brother in mind.

It’s been a little over 3 weeks since I left Cleveland. How was he doing? Was he eating enough? Was he still at the house? Did he leave and go to our grandparents’ house in Columbus? Does he even think about me like I think about him? Does he miss me?

I tripped over a stair. I caught myself on the railing and kept going.

I thought about my grandparents then. I haven’t seen them in 4 years. They’re my father’s parents, so it makes sense why they stopped letting me inside their home. I always liked my grandparents, but now that I’m looking back on everything, and I’m actually thinking about it, I know why they always favored my brothers.

My chest shuddered, and I fell to my knees. I rubbed my eyes, and my hands came away wet. I have no idea when I started crying. I looked up, and the number by the nearest door was 8. I was only on the 8th floor.

I pulled myself up and started climbing again.

The stairs were concrete, just like at my old home. I remembered being shoved down the stairs and anger flared inside me. I started running up the stairs, not caring that I would grow tired eventually.

Every little bit about my past made me cringe, and I just wanted to lock the memories up in a dark little cage in the back of my mind, forever forgotten. But the way everything reminds me of some detail of my past keeps the memories breathing.

There is no way to kill the memories. They are escaped prisoners, running their away from those that want them locked away.

My thighs screamed at me to stop going, to let them rest. But I wouldn’t rest, not until I know I had done my job. I have one task, and I WILL prove to myself that I’m not a fuck-up. I WILL succeed.

The next number I saw was 18.

I grabbed the railing for support and kept running. I gritted my teeth and subconsciously wiped my face. The tears took me by surprise again.

My legs gave out on me. I sat down momentarily on the stairs and placed my hands next to me and squeezed the stair until my knuckles turned white. I screamed out loud to myself, the pain and anger echoing around me in a high pitched note.