𝐀𝐫𝐜 𝐈 | bnha

(the absence of) fixation

Each day was the same, dragging golden rays in and out, like fingers, like claws, across the room of (Y/n)'s comatose father. "Wake up," she murmured, squeezing his limp hand in hers. "Please, please, please."

The vitals remained unchanged when she looked. She caught a reflection of herself in the heart monitor, tired eyes and disheveled hair rhythmically shot through with green light.

The door opened with a soft squeak.
"You need to come out some time, kiddo." (Y/n) found his figure in the reflection of the heart monitor. He was only halfway in the room, hand poised on the door handle.

"No, I don't." He shifted, slouching against the frame.

"Kid, staring at his vitals ain't gonna make him wake up." Her grip on her father's hand tightened. Her knuckles were white.

"Get out." He opened his mouth to speak. (Y/n) whirled around, throwing an empty water bottle at him. "Get out!" He blocked it with a forearm, stepping into the room. "Get," she said, punctuating her every word with another empty water bottle. "Get." Another. "Out." Another. A Flurry of red feathers caught that one and another caught her wrist. She drops the half empty bottle, water spilling across the floor. (Y/n) bit back growing teeth, blinking back stinging tears. God, she was exhausted. "Let me go!" She swatted at his approach with her free hand. He caught that hand, yanking her towards him. Hawks pulled her into a hug. "Get out," she protested weakly. (Y/n) let out a quiet sob. "Is he ever going to wake up?" Hawks pressed his lips together, narrowing his eyes.

"I don't know, kid." He was silent for a moment. "Let's go get you something to eat." (Y/n) nodded.

(if only she had read the name of the drug on the IV. she was a biomedical support student, after all.)

Obsession is fascinating. A lot of the time, it's subtle and sweet, coming in the form of fixations. When (Y/n) was younger, it came in the form of a bone-deep terror of living a routine life. She wish she still felt that fear. She wish she felt something.

The Commission assigned her a therapist of sorts. She was a kind but curt woman, reminding (Y/n) too much of Mrs Goto.

(had anyone been shopping for mrs goto? did she know (y/n) was sick or did she wait at the entrance until the sun had fully risen?)

The therapist tapped a pen again her clipboard as (Y/n) struggled to focus. There was a window behind the woman, the only one that (Y/n) had seen. The older woman had a silhouette of light around her and (Y/n) had a brief, maddening thought of an angel.

"Some people can cut off their emotions. Or, their brain does." The older woman almost came into focus. She had deep set smile lines and a pair of thick rimmed glasses.

"Yeah?" (Y/n) just wanted to sleep.
"It's a defense mechanism. Stress can physically destroy the body over time, so your body cuts it off." (Y/n) blinked at her. "You don't care about that, do you?" She smiled at (Y/n). "Okay. Well, why do you think your brain cut you off?"

"You're the therapist, you tell me," she shrugged, propping her head up with an arm.

"(Y/n), I can't tell you when I don't know you. You don't talk to me." A curling, condescending smile tugged at her lips and (Y/n) felt something.

(they were wrong. she wasn't entirely cut off from her emotions. she still had one: rage.
rage is a living thing; it breathes and grows. and just like any malicious creature, it can eat you alive.)

Anger licked at her chest and throat.
"Shut the hell up before I make you."

The therapist looked startled. "(Y/n)," she said, voice careful. "Can you please open your hand for me?" Her hand was wet.

"Shut up. I want to go back to my room." The therapist looked at her, gaze darting from eye to eye.

"Ok," she replied, voice half a whisper. "Ok."

(Y/n) left a red handprint on the couch.