Okay, Korrasami is cute, but I realized that they'll be traveling throughout the Spirit World and they will eventually reunite with the Bloodbending Brothers. Korrlok and Asamon have a chance!
Asami never expected herself to do something like this. She's always been told that she's mature for her age. Beautiful, talented. She's supposed to be strong. When her mother died, she needed to do it for Dad, and now she needs to do it so she won't be a distraction, have to endure the pity. She's lost her family all over again, and it could have been prevented, but the alternative would have meant exposing her friends to a horrible fate.
She hates Amon, she hates him. It's a fresh feeling that makes her feel alive. Being intoxicated adds to that thrumming in her mind, the sensation of being alive and limitless, not fretting over decorum and responsibility. The problems of today don't matter, and not even in a nihilistic sense. A pleasurable nothing that has everything, augmented sounds and tastes.
Normally, the prim, polite young woman wouldn't go to a rugged stranger's apartment. She'd leave it at the talk about seal-otters and emotionally absent fathers, gripping stuff. She wouldn't be in someone else's bed, spit sour in her mouth, in an older man's lap, kissing him with a lack of restraint Asami never knew she possessed.
Noatak is rather good at restraint too (ever since he was young), and he doesn't drink often because it alters that, loosens his inhibitions. It's as if the spirits take back, for a short while, every boundary trauma has induced, and the Sato girl presses him into the mattress. Only time will tell if this is worth the headache and surge of reality in the morning.
Summary: AU. A fight between the revolutionary forces and Team Avatar and their supporters goes horribly wrong when Asami is badly injured. To make matters worse, she’s kidnapped and dragged away from her friends, back to an Equalist hideout…
Rating: T
Pairing: This one features Amon and Asami, but is mostly Asami-centric, I think.
-
Asami is fast, dodging two punches from electric gloves so much like her own, and pushing Mako out of the way of two chi-blockers that had been creeping up behind him, in his blind spot. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a silvery gleam of metal shooting toward her, and she twists away--
But she’s not fast enough. The thrown knife catches her in the shoulder, burying itself almost hilt-deep in the soft spot between her upper arm and chest, and the pain is unlike anything she has ever felt before. It is white-hot and blinding in its intensity, and the shock and pain rips an agonized scream out of her throat. Despite her best efforts to stay upright, she staggers, her knees giving out beneath her, and she collapses to the ground, hard. There’s blood everywhere, blossoming from the wound in her shoulder, staining the dark red material of her shirt and jacket until it becomes near black. Through the fire and smoke and confusion, she sees the look of horror on Mako’s face, hears him cry her name in shock.
He rushes toward her, only to be cut off by a squad of chi blockers. Asami tries to get up, to help, but the pain is unbearable and she’s still bleeding, and the fall had stunned her. The knife is still lodged inside her, making all movement in her right arm impossible. Should she pull it out? Or will that make the bleeding worse?
She tries to wrench it out, on impulse, and she can’t pull the blade out more than a couple of inches before the pain makes her vision go black. Mako, she wants to say, but all that comes out is a choking noise.
A shadow blocks what little of the moon’s light she can still see, and Asami looks up with difficulty, fighting the urge to retch. Her left hand is covered in her own blood; her head is spinning. When she sees the eerie, familiar cream-and-red mask looming above her, at first, she thinks it’s a hallucination. But then she’s conscious of another voice nearby, talking fast, obviously frightened. “I didn’t mean to hit her, sir, I was aiming at the police officer behind her. I wouldn’t have targeted Sato’s daughter, I know that our instructions were to retrieve her alive--“
Amon says nothing. He takes a step closer and bends down, and Asami scrabbles against the gravel and pushes herself backward as best as she can, with her shaking legs and left arm and next-to-useless injured right arm. “No,” she manages, this time, looking around desperately for her friends, but the only people who surround her - creating a barrier around her - wear the black and olive green uniform of the Equalists, as well as their luminescent green goggles. “No--“
Through the fog of pain, she sees two Equalists shake their heads pityingly. “Poor girl,” one of them says. “Completely deluded."
"Brainwashed," agrees another.
Amon’s mask reveals nothing, of course, not even when she kicks out and thrashes with her good arm and tries her best to activate the electric glove on her right hand. Unfazed, he gently lifts her up into his arms, supporting her with one arm underneath her knees and one under her back. “Hiroshi will be pleased,” he says, and Asami shivers uncontrollably at the sensation of being so close to him, of feeling his voice, as much as hearing it. “This mission won’t be a complete loss after all.”
Asami punches him in the chest as hard as she can with her left hand. Amon exhales slowly, his grip on her tightening, and then everything goes black.
-
Her vision returns, hazy and unclear, as they return to the airship. Her protests go unheard, ignored, as the smoky, cold night air is replaced by the still, sterile confines of the inside of the ship. She hears a strange sound mingling with the engines, and it takes her a while to realize that it’s her own crying. Not from the pain so much anymore, but the mingled rage and helplessness that threatens to choke her. She’s supposed to be with her friends, not in the enemy’s grasp. If she had been a little bit faster, she could have avoided this.
Amon can feel her pulse quickening, and behind the mask, his gaze focuses on the wound in her shoulder. The knife is still wedged into her skin; the bloodstain spreading, soaking the thick, expensive wool of her jacket. She looks pale, her breathing erratic, and still, even in this state, she looks at him with such loathing. Foolish girl. But she is back where she belongs now, and she will learn the error of her ways soon enough.
He bloodbends her into unconsciousness again, quietly, subtly. It will make things easier.
The medics on board offer to take care of her, but he tells them that he will see to it himself. It is the least he can do, after she - the beloved only child of one of his closest allies - was injured, despite his promises to Hiroshi that the Equalists would never target Asami, regardless of her problematic alliances. His lieutenant takes over the command of the ship, and Amon carries Asami to the medic’s headquarters.
He rests her on the examining table. The stainless steel is so cold that it chills his skin, even through his thick gloves. Then he observes the injury for a few moments.
He prepares all the necessary materials, before pulling the knife free of Asami’s shoulder, as carefully as he can. He applies pressure to the wound, and somewhat awkwardly unbuttons her coat, tossing it aside. She wears a blouse underneath, and he removes that as well, ignoring the way his skin flushes. It leaves her in just a soft pink brassiere, and after a moment of hesitation, Amon takes her coat and carefully drapes it over her body, leaving only the wounded area uncovered.
He can’t help but think of how simple this would be to heal. He has easy access to water, most of his Equalists are in another part of the ship entirely, and the entire process, from start to finish, would only take about ten minutes. He dismisses the thought in the next moment - how would he explain the miraculous recovery to the others? It would be sheer idiocy.
Amon cleans the messy wound carefully, wiping away the blood and fabric fibers that cling to it, before bandaging it. It will scar, most likely.
When he is finished, he washes Asami’s clothes, removing his gloves and scrubbing the blood out until his fingers ache.
-
When Hiroshi receives the phone call informing him of Asami’s return, he leaves the airfield immediately, to return to the main base. He runs straight to her bed in the infirmary. He holds her hand and smooths her tangled hair back from her forehead and kisses her cheek, and fights back tears.
“Thank you,” he says, voice choked with emotion, to the masked man standing silently at his daughter’s bedside. “Thank you so much for bringing her back to me.”
Amon looks at them - still a broken, incomplete family, thanks to the triad member who had broken into the Sato’s mansion on that fateful night, but still a little more whole than they had been, just a day ago.”You don’t have to thank me,” he says. “It is part of the Equalist mission to preserve families, to keep parents and children, spouses, and siblings safe from the damages and dangers caused by bending.”
Hiroshi smiles at him tentatively, and Amon knows what he’s thinking. The sympathy that he’s feeling, for the boy his leader had once had been - the simple farm boy, whose entire family had been killed by a firebender. He nods, a silent farewell, and turns and leaves.
That night, he dreams of the icy barrenness of the North Pole, and of Tarrlok and Yakone.
-
Amon next sees Hiroshi two days later, in a meeting. His friend looks pale and tired, dark shadows under his eyes, and he remains quiet for most of the discussion. It’s a marked contrast to his usual robust appearance and enthusiastic demeanor. After everybody leaves the war council room to go their separate ways, he asks Hiroshi to stay for a moment, and asks him what’s wrong.
Hiroshi grimaces. It’s cool in the room, but his brow is coated with a thin layer of sweat, which he mops at with his handkerchief. “It’s Asami,” he replies, looking down at the floor. “It was just a stab wound, the same thing as what happened to Danzou last month, but Asami isn’t getting better like he was. She’s drifting in and out of consciousness, and every time I visit her, her fever is worse. She’s been hallucinating since last night.” His features contort a little. “She saw me and started asking for her mother.”
The despair is written all over his face, and Amon rests a hand on his shoulder lightly, his mind racing. “I’m sorry.”
Hiroshi shakes his head wordlessly. “…The medics said that the wound is infected. The blade must have been dirty. They’ve been giving her medicine, but she doesn’t seem to be responding to anything. I’m so worried. I can’t lose her--“
He stops abruptly, and Amon makes his decision. “Why don’t we go see her?” he suggests. “During the course of my travels, I learned quite a lot about alternative medicine. There might be something I can do, or some advice I can provide to the medics.”
Hiroshi agrees immediately, obviously relieved.
-
Asami is playing in the sitting room, racing her two favorite Satomobiles - she and Mama had built a track and obstacle course around the room earlier. The red one is winning, thanks to its stronger engine power, and she beams. Her game is interrupted when she hears the door open in the entrance hall, and she sits up straight, Satomobiles forgotten.
She runs to the entrance hall, her socks slipping on the marble floors. “Daddy!” she cries, thrilled.
He sweeps her up into his arms and spins her around in the air when she runs to him, and she laughs with delight, wrapping her arms around his neck. He’s home early today, early enough to go to Central Park with her and Mama. When she asks if he will come along with them, he beams, pulling out a fresh loaf of bread from the bag at his side. “Of course! I even bought something you can give to your little turtleduck friends.”
Asami kisses him on the cheek. “You are the best daddy.”
When she pulls away, her home is gone, and she is in a dark room, and everything in her body hurts. Daddy is still there, but his face is covered in lines, and he looks old and sad and so different. Instead of Mama, coming out to greet them, holding her jacket and the keys to the Satomobile, there is a man with no face standing beside them instead, and Asami cries out in fright.
Her father touches her on the forehead. “It’s okay, princess.” His voice sounds far away, like he’s talking to her from underwater, like he does when he and Mama swim with her in the pool. “You’re going to get better. Everything is going to be all right.”
Asami stares at them, and behind them, she can see home; see her mother leading them to the car, as she and her father follow closely behind. Her parents’ fingers are intertwined, and her dad’s hand rests on her shoulder. She can’t keep her eyes open any longer because they ache too much. He’s wrong. Nothing is going to be all right again.
-
Asami wakes from a vivid dream of racing through the streets of Republic City in her Satomobile with her friends, with a violent start. She’s not alone in her room. The soulless, disembodied not-face - mask, her mind supplies belatedly - is there again, near her bedside, but her dad isn’t.
Amon, she remembers, in a rare moment of lucidity, and the memory makes her cringe. Amon Amon Amon. Bad. His ideals had corrupted her father - made him think that all benders were evil - turned him into a hate-filled extremist - ruined everything.
She doesn’t realize she’s saying it aloud until Amon shakes his head and places one finger on her lips, very gently. “Shh,” he says, mildly. “Don’t overexert yourself.”
Asami hisses and tries to bite his finger, and Amon snatches it back quickly. He leaves her bedside for a few moments, and when he returns, the air around them seems to thrum with the gentle melody of classical music. Radio, Asami realizes belatedly, and against her will, reflexively, she begins to relax.
“Your father told me you liked this,” Amon says, so casually it’s unbelievable. It’s beyond the realm of her comprehension, that this man she has only heard preach words of violence and hatred, is capable of sounding so…polite, so normal.
Yes. She does like this music. Her mother had played the piano. She had actually composed a short sonata and named it after Asami, in honor of her sixth birthday, the last of her daughter’s birthdays that she had been alive for.
Asami closes her eyes. Her arms hurt so badly, from the wound and the intravenous needles stuck inside them, that she can’t lift them to wipe away the hot tears dripping from underneath her eyelids.
She tries to stay awake, still disturbed by Amon’s presence, but it’s like she can’t keep her eyes open, for some reason. The music lulls her into a trance-like state.
How do you like this one, sweetie? Mama asks, turning the page of her music book, as Asami sits beside her on the bench, leaning her head against her arm. This is called the Moonlight Sonata. It was composed in the Water Tribe, in honor of their Princess Yue.
The memories are almost enough to take the pain away. Almost.
What’s the Water Tribe, Mama?
Her mother had explained it to her in great detail, painting vivid pictures with her words - of the snow-covered poles and frozen seas, and the people who lived there. She had been more educated than most people about cultures around the world, having studied world cultures at Republic City University.
Asami giggles, fascinated. Do they really go sledding on penguins? I would like to do that. And swim with turtle-seals!
Mama laughs, tapping her on the nose. I don’t think you want to go swimming with turtle-seals. The water in the arctic seas is cold! Much colder than the coldest water that comes out of our bath.
Asami frowns, now, confused.
…Except, some of the terrible pain inside her is going away. And…water…she can feel it swirling around her, all around her, cool and soothing.
She is struck with the odd urge to giggle. Maybe she’s finally swimming with the turtle-seals. What outrageous thing had Korra once told Mako and Bolin with a completely straight face? That turtle-seals had healing tears? Or that her polar bear-dog had once tore the heel off a fox-wolf’s back paw… She can’t quite remember...
-
When Asami wakes the next morning, she feels a little bit better.
-
Late that night, Amon appears again. He brings a small radio and puts on some classical music, and Asami pulls herself out of a dream-like reverie in order to ask what he did to her last night.
“Nothing,” he says evasively. “I just gave you a new medicine and applied some special ointments to your shoulder, that’s all.”
Asami wants to ask more questions, but her eyes close again, against her will, and she lapses into the same sleep-trance state she had been last night. The last thing she remembers is the sound of the water from the tap, splashing against a basin, and then Amon’s hand on her shoulder.
She dreams of the ocean once more.
-
It happens again and again and again, until Asami loses track of time. It’s always the same. Amon comes at night, at irregular hours. He plays music to calm her down, and even when she feels wide awake upon his arrival, all he does is sit beside her for a few minutes and engage her in casual conversation, before her eyelids feel heavy and her body is seized with overwhelming exhaustion. Asami fights sleep as much as she can, and whenever she is in that half-awake, half-asleep state, she has this pervasive sense of being surrounded by water; immersed in it.
Every morning after Amon’s mysterious visits, she feels better. The pain starts to fade, as does her fever. The hallucinations and her headaches cease. The medics tell her and her father that the infection has receded and her body is finally healing as it should, sounding tremendously relieved. Her body is responding to the medication. That herbal drug and those ointments from the Earth Kingdom that Amon suggested has worked wonders for her.
On the day that the medics deem that she is healthy enough to be released, without having to worry about any further complications, her dad holds her hand and blinks away his tears. He thanks the medics - and Amon, of course - profusely. Amon says that there is no need to thank him, and it was simply a stroke of luck that he remembered encountering those herbal remedies for infections like these during his travels.
Asami watches him warily, guardedly, and thanks him for his care and attention just as politely as her father had. Amon inclines his head in acknowledgement, and she wonders if she is imagining the tension in his shoulders.
She and her father dine alone together to celebrate her recovery. “I asked the cooks to make your favorite,” Hiroshi tells her enthusiastically, as he pulls her chair out for her. “Fried rice and roasted salmon-shrimp, Earth Kingdom-style. Just the way you like it.”
Asami smiles. Her father is so happy and relieved over her recovery that she can’t bring herself to let him know how she really feels about this whole Equalist situation. Not yet.
They have a leisurely meal, and it’s over a dessert of fresh fruit tarts that she brings it up. She had struggled with how to approach the issue, before finally deciding to handle it with her typical forthrightness. She has never been one to dance around anything, no matter how uncomfortable the topic may be.
“Dad,” she says, taking a sip of her sweet plum tea. “Can I tell you something?”
Hiroshi takes a large bite of the dessert, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “Of course, princess. Anything.”
Asami hesitates momentarily, despite her best efforts to remain composed. “…Do you think that there’s any possibility that Amon could be a waterbender?”
Hiroshi stares at her incredulously for a few seconds, before bursting into uproarious laughter. Asami circles the rim of her teacup with one finger, averting her eyes. “I’m serious, Dad.”
He coughs and clears his throat, straightening his jacket. “Of course you are. But what on earth gave you such an outrageous idea? Amon, a bender…”
He sounds like he’s on the verge of dissolving into laughter again, and Asami frowns. “It was when he was helping me recover.” She touches her still-bandaged shoulder absentmindedly. “I know you won’t like to hear this, but once, during a skirmish with the Equalists, I crashed my Satomobile and I got pretty scraped up. Korra healed me with her waterbending, and something about the way it felt…I was reminded of it with Amon." She pauses, remembering the sensation. "It didn’t feel like he was giving me any ointment. I know what waterbending healing feels like, and what Amon was doing felt just like that. I swear it. And whenever he came into the room, he would make me fall asleep somehow, because he was running water from the sink to use to heal me, and he didn't want me to know…”
She trails off, realizing from the expression on his face that she’s getting nowhere. Hiroshi shakes his head, resting his hand on hers. “Asami,” he says, kindly, sympathetically. “You were very ill. You were hallucinating.”
She shakes her head hard. “I know I was hallucinating, but this - I know this wasn’t.”
“You must have been,” her father replies patiently. “That’s the only logical explanation. There is no way that Amon is a waterbender! He’s a non-bender, just like us; his family was killed by a firebender--“
Her father sighs. He gets up from the table and comes around to her side of it. He hugs her around the shoulders. “You’ve been through such a terrible ordeal,” he says softly. “I’m sure that a few more days of rest will be enough to clear your head.”
“I’m sure,” she agrees, just as quietly.
Her dad kisses the top of her head. “Now, how about I go and get us seconds of dessert from the kitchen? I asked the chef to make some peach pie, just in case.”
Asami smiles up at him. “That sounds great, Dad.”
He leaves, the heavy metal door shutting behind him with a decisive click.
Asami props her elbows up on the table, puts her head in her hands, and sighs.
She presses two fingers against her injured shoulder gently, and thinks about the Equalist leader, somewhere in this same underground base. Korra had always believed that there was something mysterious about Amon, and it had driven her crazy. He said he was chosen by the spirits to usher in a new era of balance! She would rant, pacing up and down the courtyard on Air Temple Island. Is he telling the truth? I need to know!
There is no mystery, Asami would say calmly. He's just a man, a non-bender, using this story to give his movement some credence. He's probably just a very talented chi blocker, who's temporarily removing people's bending using that.
Now, she's not so sure.
He's just a man, a non-bender.
She closes her eyes and sinks down in her chair, deep in thought.
Amon. Classical music. Water.
-
end
-
The following three pieces for Amosami Week will be set in the context of this AU, but will also be comprehensible as stand-alone pieces. :)
title: Questionable Resolve
summary: The trials of Asami's mind as she tries to keep hold of herself while living in captivity of the Equalists. Also, the slow deterioration of Asami's mind. Mediocrely dark.
fandom: Legend of Korra
characters: Asami Sato, Amon, Hiroshi Sato, nameless Equalists
pairing: Asami/Amon
words: 1465
rating: T, leaning towards M
a/n: Wow, look at me off to a good start for Amosami week! Not quite sure how this exceeded 900 words, but I guess that's what happens when I'm actually into what I write. Let's just hope I can keep this up for the rest of the week.
Some days she sings to herself, mostly lullabies she remembers from the days her mother was still alive. Most days she sleeps, dreams until they come to check on her.
Even the worst of nightmares are better than this, she thinks. But, as per her hopeful nature, she tries to believe things could be worse. After all, how else is she supposed to get through this torture without falling to pieces?
Those who come to see her are uninteresting. They’re all Equalists, all men and women who look only at her with disdain. They all think she should be at the forefront of their cause since she is the daughter of the brilliant Hiroshi Sato. Her mother was murdered by a firebender, that much is true, but Asami refuses to believe that gives her any reason to hate anyone – aside from maybe that single firebender.
They treat her like a patient in a mental ward.
She gives them all a piece of her mind – in more colorful language than her father needs to know she uses – but only the first few times. They start to get violent with her. She’s uncooperative; it isn’t normal for a girl like her to be so stubborn against them. They force her to stay awake. They make her scream. They make her bleed. They sedate her.
That’s the first day she gives in to them. Her body is too filled with drugs, too tired for her to fight back. She listens to them, she nods, she can’t do anything else. And they reward her.
When their leader and the man she hates more than the world walks into the small room, the door closing just behind him, she sits up. Her mind immediately sobers. She didn’t think she could be so unruly as to warrant his attention, of all people. She’s astounded and fascinated all at once.
When he speaks to her all she can hear his voice. His voice is raucous and sharp and it pierces through her, as if he’s mocking her, as if he already knows everything there is to know about her. She hates it in an instant. She’s drawn to it in the next.
It’s no wonder his followers come in flocks, she thinks. How does one resist such a sound?
She doesn’t know, but she affirms herself that she will be the first.
As he speaks to her about her privilege and that she must “understand the truth of the world”, she refutes with any and all biting and sarcastic responses she can think up. She will fight his melodious voice, fight everything he stands for. This is all she has left anyway.
He leaves soon after, telling her she still has a long way to go.
Little does he know she now has something to look forward to.
If there’s anything she is, being the daughter of the infamous Hiroshi Sato, it is smart, and maybe a little ingenious. It doesn’t really take rocket science to know what these people want from her and she doesn’t need much theatre experience to be able to give them a good enough performance. The last thing they probably expect is to give her a trivial goal like this, but this is what will keep her hope alive.
He tells those watching over her that she hasn’t made any improvements, but this contradicts her actions after that day. She no longer resists them. She tells them what they want to hear, down to the last finite detail – she makes sure of this, just to spite them all – and she even smiles at them, pretends that she’s trying to make friends.
At first, they are wary, and this doesn’t surprise her. Soon enough they start warming up to her now appropriate responses, but it isn’t until he visits her again that she knows she’s winning their game. He talks with her calmly as she challenges his ideals, and she’s quick to note how much longer this conversation is than the last. But when he mentions her friends, she snaps at him that he has no right to judge a group of teenagers.
And he leaves, saying the same as before.
So the routine continues.
When he comes the third time, she has to force down the notion that she likes these conversations, enjoys his company. She’d kill herself if it were true. This is only for her friends, she thinks. If she keeps him distracted long enough, they’ll be able to take him down more easily. It’s all she can do to help when she is helpless.
This meeting is routine, and it seems he’s merely waiting for her to slip up, to show him she’s still unworthy of being in his presence. She knows he’s only here because of her father. Why else would she get such special treatment?
He talks at her, asks her questions to which she knows the responses and replies to without missing a beat. It is all the same, she thinks as she sits underneath the window that’s so high off the ground she can’t even reach it. The light from it – from the moon, she presumes – shines on him directly as though painting him as the messiah he believes he is. Later she will blame this light as the catalyst that irritates her, makes her do what she would never have though she was capable of.
She stands and moves towards him, begins to sing to him. And then she places a hand on the back of his neck, pulling him closer to her as her lips mark a trail by his hairline. He pulls away almost immediately, throwing her away from him.
“Do not mistake this for something that it is not,” he says. “I am not here to indulge in a foolish girl’s fantasies.”
“I do not,” she replies. They are silent and stare at one another for a moment before she knows she must give in.
It’s sick what she’s turning into, she thinks when she falls to her knees before him, begging for forgiveness. It’s sick and not at all who she wants to be. He grants her what she asks for, but leaves all the same.
The next time he visits her, she is treated with a surprise. He takes off his mask, and she can only find it in herself to gasp at the face before her. The scar that lines his face catches her off-guard and when he sits next to her – closer than he’s ever sat before – she doesn’t think of this. Instead she places her fingers across it – he closes his eyes – and feels the lifted flesh. And then she realizes just how close they are, that he has taken off his mask and is sitting before her.
This must be a ploy to entrance her compassion.
She will not be entranced.
She traces her fingers down to his mouth, playing on her sensuality as she looks up at him through her eyelashes. She leans closer. And then, after no negative response from him, she lightly places her mouth on his. Anything to distract him longer, she thinks. She doesn’t want this, but they need this.
“Do not start what you cannot finish, Miss Sato,” he warns in a soft voice, but when she doesn’t pull back, doesn’t show a sign of hesitance, he is pulled along.
She tells herself she’s the one playing with the strings. Even when things escalate the next night he visits, and the next night after that, and so on. Even when he flips her over on the cot so that her face is smothered by the pillow as he thrusts into her harder than she knew she could handle. Even when he ties her hands behind her so that she cannot protest against him when he teases so fiercely until she’s begging him to take her.
She has not broken, she claims. Her hope is still as strong as ever.
She does not want this, she tells herself. They can think what they want.
It’s sick, she thinks. That she’s resigned herself to this in the name of hope. That they truly think she’s “rehabilitating”. That she only looks forward to the sickest moments of her life.
Even when she clings ever so desperately to him she knows she has not lost herself.
And that is all that matters in her world of lies.
