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battle scars
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. ✧ ・゜. +・o ✧
Deep breaths, Ally. The words surfaced from some deep corner of Alina's brain, in the exact same tone her dad used a long time ago. Years ago, when he was still alive and she was still traumatized, but less so. When all she had to worry about was the bite of Linda's switch and the harsh intonation of her screams. And even after all of this time, Alina could still picture Brandon Fairgrieves' warm hand in hers, his face soft as the two of them sat on the stairs together. Alina was maybe seven or eight, a mere wisp of a child, a small thing that had not managed to grow yet, and she was sobbing her eyes out.
It was another fight, which, although common, had always struck Alina through her very core. She was like a volcano, just waiting to erupt, her lava boiling in her throat and refusing to surface only out of fear of a slap or of more screaming. Her emotions were shoved deep, deep inside, but as soon as Linda made her way outside—to go to work, to go to a hotel, to get away from this house and her husband—they always came bursting through. And on this particular day, Alina was an ocean of tears.
That was when her dad had come and sat beside her, grabbing her hand and tilting her chin up so she could meet his eyes, which were the exact same brown as her own. He'd rubbed circles in her palm (which Lucas frequently did as well—it was funny how sometimes, the two of them could be so alike, even though they'd never really met) and he'd said those three words. Deep breaths, Ally.
Deep breaths, indeed. Right now Alina's chest was heaving rapidly, even as she remembered her dad's soft reminder. Her hands were red, encased with the glow of her energy, and she had her arms flung out, shielding the others from harm. El was doing the same, her face determined, her jaw set. Alina wondered if she was trying not to cry, like Alina was.
Her dad had died to protect her, and although it kind of felt like a middle-finger to his corpse that Alina was here, throwing away her life with both hands, the other part of her knew that he'd be proud of her, that although she was scared, she was standing tall, and that she wouldn't go down without a fight. She'd honour his memory that way, at least.
