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Exhaustion had wrapped itself around the purple haired teen like a thick, suffocating cocoon, but despite how utterly tired she felt Porsha simply couldn't sleep. She lay awake in the dark, silver eyes trained on the ceiling, and listened to the sound of rhythmic breathing beside her. It seemed loud to her ears, significant, and it was probably thoughts of that nature that had sleep eluding her. How many more seconds before that fire had stolen her general, her life, everything? How close had they really come? Curiosity had her wondering and dread wove knots through her insides. They'd made it, they'd survived, what good did it do to speculate?

A sigh broke the semi-silence, and Porsha brought a hand heavy in bandages up to force bangs off her brow. Even that small gesture was painful, and she grimaced, breathing though her teeth. Stillness was the only thing that offered any real reprieve, and it was that same still, inactivity that let her mind cycle tirelessly.

What she needed hindered, and what she craved would bring pain.

But when had Porsha ever shied away from pain? With a strained groan she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, pressing the balls of her feet into the carpet. For a long moment she lingered like that, shoulders hunched, hands hanging uselessly between her knees as she gazed over her shoulder at the body tucked between her sheets, counting his breaths. At forty she finally moved again, pushing off the bed and moving silently through the dark room towards the dresser.

A half hour later would find the teen standing in front of a heavy bag at her gym. The bandages had been removed from her hands, replaced by careful wrapping. Fingertips rested on the worn, duct tape patched surface.

The first strike was almost her last. Knuckles hit and sent a surge of blistering pain through her arm. The intensity of it made her gag, and she gasped as she dropped to her knees, cradling her hand to her chest as the throbbing waves pulsed through her hand. Down to the bone. But to succumb to that pain was weakness, and Porsha would not be weak. Could not afford to be weak. She lifted her head to glare at the subtly swaying piece of equipment before her, and she climbed back to her feet.

She struck again, just as hard, and once again her breath hissed out, tailing in a pain laced gasp. It was agony, and it was all consuming, and it was exactly what the woman needed. Each sharp jab brought with it wave after wave of physical suffering, and nothing could stand against that tide. No worries, no loaded curiosities. Nothing. The pain brought blissful oblivion, and Po relished in it.

It went unnoticed when blisters burst and skin tore. Everything had melted down into one great ache, and it was impossible to distinguish one hurt from the next. She was hurting herself, beating her knuckles bloody, but she didn't stop. Not until bright crimson smeared across worn silver tape and rolled in slow, heavy rivulets to drop on the floor. Grey eyes followed their progress, uncomprehending, until her attention drifted to her own hands. "s**t."

When she returned to the apartment it was the same as she'd left it. Soot still marked the floor from their boots. Ash smudged the edge of her counter. She lingered in the kitchen, staring down at the flowers, and the ultimatum came back to her.

When they were nothing but ash.. When the last petal fell.

It reminded her of Beauty and the Beast, and the parallel brought an ironic smile to her lips as she finally shook her head and headed back towards the bathroom to redress her hands.

They would hurt in the morning.

[Word Count: 650]

There were dead flowers in a rose colored glass still sitting, forgotten, on the kitchen counter. Bare stems that had lost their leaves ages ago, brittle things that had fallen, crumbling against the formica with barely a touch. But the leaves had outlived the petals. Soot covered reminders of lessons learned and promises to keep. A symbolic timer, counting down to the final deadline of a twisted ultimatum. Kill, or lose the person that had walked into her life, burrowed beneath her skin, and made her crave his entire being. In the end it had been an easy choice to make. Porsha was a selfish creature. There was much she would have done to keep the young man in her home, her bed, her life.

Dispatching her shadow self had been effortless. Tearing out a starseed for the first time had struck something deep inside. It was paramount in that moment, changing, finite. The teen hadn't known what to expect, how to feel, but he had been there, and that was what had mattered.

The last petal had fallen, and life continued unchanged for a time.

She was happy. Life was good.

And then, without warning, that safe familiarity came crumbling down around her, burying her alive. A note was left of the counter, and it was painted pink by the play of light that filtered through the forgotten glass and it's once-upon-a-time reminder. No more then ten words. Not even a proper sentence. An explanation that explained nothing.

Gone to ******** Tahiti.

At first she had thought it was a joke. Alois was a trickster. She was always finding little bits of things in strange places. Obvious little challenges, blatant disregards. She had no reason to believe the woefully short note was anything more then another little play for amusement.

So she'd laughed, and she'd left the paper where she'd found it, and she'd gone about her day as usual. When night had come, and the misanthrope has still not returned it had been, if anything, an annoyance. A joke taken too far. The girl had issued a bitter laugh to the empty room and gone to sleep.

Then day turned into days. Then to weeks. Annoyance had rather quickly turned to hurt, betrayal, worry, anxiety, despair. A myriad of conflicting emotions that did absolutely nothing to help quell the feeling of suffocation that was steadily welling up within the otherwise immovable captain. Her duties became a burden. Joy that had come so readily from the simplest things now waned and left the girl wanting. There was a void, empty and gaping, and nothing she did seemed to help it.

No task was fulfilling. No fight was rewarding. No lover enticing.


[Word Count: 460]

I'll get to this.


[Word Count: -]