Her skin had gone pale, fingertips a deathly blue. She would spend hours a day in treatment, strapped to a chair and skin pierced with needles and contraptions. They would place something electric at her temples, which would shock horribly, to aid the treatment she once heard them say. A foul liquid was pumped into her veins every day, it hurt horribly and felt as if she was being burned from within by an acid. Amelie would try to scream in those hours, struggle against the bindings to try to pull the injections out. That was what the straps were for, to keep her in place so she could do nothing but wait for hours and slowly lose her sanity until it was over. What followed was just as unpleasant.
A man would ask her questions of all manner which she would have to recite. It had something to do with the medicine, for whenever her answers fluctuated the dose was increased. They tested her pulse, her weight, her reactions every day after treatment. After that was training.
She spent hours a day with a scoped rifle and would have be forced to practice her aim. She was given a score, and every day she was expected to reach a certain mark. If she did not, treatment would be more painful the next day and trainig would be much more harsh. Every day was exactly the same and she was given no contact with anyone other than the doctors whom oversaw her treatment, and that cruel instructor during training. Each day bled into the next, yet slowly her feeling of misery ebbed away.
Sometimes she forgot why she was here altogether. Sometimes she would even forget her name after hours spent in that dark room, shock after shock after shock which sent her mind into a haze. The doctor would ask what her name was. Windowmaker, she would always reply to her satisfactory. Amelie was dead, she reminded her. She was not Amelie. She was the Widowmaker. The name had been ingrained in her every day since she started. The name would repeat for hours at a time in her head when she was in treatment.
She had no contact with the outside world, she did not even know which day of the week it was or whether it was night or day. She had lost count of the days and the doctors never responded to her. She was living in madness, she felt like she had lost her mind! With each passing day she lost a piece of herself. Her heart became colder, her feelings much more muted. The skin on her fingertips turned blue but she had since learned not to be surprised. As long as it did not interfere with her training, she had nothing to worry about, for trainig became everything to her in those dark months.
She would stare at the pale blue of her fingertips in the few minutes of privacy she had before she was scheduled to sleep. Her mind was a haze, and she was hardly bothered by this change. Her memories felt muddled if she tried to remember something but whenever she did, she only felt a dulled emotion. She learned not to question it. She knew not to question it. She was a tool. She was Talon's. And it was only through this way that she could finally be free.
