[Kübler-Ross | Stage Two | Anger]
The kitchen table's been overturned and the splintered remnants of a chair are scattered across the floor, along with broken plates and glasses, silverware. In the living room, a bookshelf's collapsed in on itself, the end table responsible for its destruction still hanging through the slats of one of the shelves. One of the couches has been torn apart, the other bearing the distinct look of having been slept on, though I wouldn't call what I've been doing sleeping. I haven't stepped foot inside the bedroom since she disappeared. I haven't stepped foot outside the house since I accepted she was gone.
(How many times did I save her? And still she left me, in the end. Gone back to a world with another Peter Parker, and maybe she won't love him as much, but he'll still love her. If I go back, where will it be? To a world where I betray everything I thought I valued, to a marriage that doesn't last.)
There are cuts on my hands I can't account for. A bruise blossoming along the line of my jaw. If I looked in a mirror, I'd see that I've been crying, my eyes red-rimmed. I can't remember the last time I shaved, let alone showered. I'm not sure it matters. My focus is elsewhere as I stand in my workshop, one of the few rooms I haven't trashed in my rage, though it didn't escape entirely unscathed. Even here the contents of my desk have been cleared off onto the ground, months of research tossed aside for a new project. Something I should've been working on more industriously since I first showed up two years ago, and was told I'd never leave this place -- at least not of my own will.
We'll see about that.
I'm not Reed Richards or Tony Stark. Doesn't mean I'm not a genius in my own right. Doesn't mean I can't figure this out with all the data I've collected over the years, and in the absence of something to hit, without an outlet for my anger, I turn inwards, climb into my own mind for an escape, because what use is there in being this smart without being able to do something with it? Equations written with a shaky hand in black ink cover a good part of the wall, my grip around the marker so tight my knuckles turn white. My whole body is trembling, my vision gone blurry from tears. In a sharp, swift gesture, I drag the back of my arm along my face, sucking in a breath that sounds harsh even to my own ears.
There are responsibilities I'm ignoring beyond these four walls, but the only power I have is within them. The marker poised over a stretch of unmarked wood, I get to work.
(How many times did I save her? And still she left me, in the end. Gone back to a world with another Peter Parker, and maybe she won't love him as much, but he'll still love her. If I go back, where will it be? To a world where I betray everything I thought I valued, to a marriage that doesn't last.)
There are cuts on my hands I can't account for. A bruise blossoming along the line of my jaw. If I looked in a mirror, I'd see that I've been crying, my eyes red-rimmed. I can't remember the last time I shaved, let alone showered. I'm not sure it matters. My focus is elsewhere as I stand in my workshop, one of the few rooms I haven't trashed in my rage, though it didn't escape entirely unscathed. Even here the contents of my desk have been cleared off onto the ground, months of research tossed aside for a new project. Something I should've been working on more industriously since I first showed up two years ago, and was told I'd never leave this place -- at least not of my own will.
We'll see about that.
I'm not Reed Richards or Tony Stark. Doesn't mean I'm not a genius in my own right. Doesn't mean I can't figure this out with all the data I've collected over the years, and in the absence of something to hit, without an outlet for my anger, I turn inwards, climb into my own mind for an escape, because what use is there in being this smart without being able to do something with it? Equations written with a shaky hand in black ink cover a good part of the wall, my grip around the marker so tight my knuckles turn white. My whole body is trembling, my vision gone blurry from tears. In a sharp, swift gesture, I drag the back of my arm along my face, sucking in a breath that sounds harsh even to my own ears.
There are responsibilities I'm ignoring beyond these four walls, but the only power I have is within them. The marker poised over a stretch of unmarked wood, I get to work.