Not That Lucky

#24: There's Nothing in My Closet, but Something Evil in My Head

A/N: This is another of my top 5 to write of this story, but WARNING it is a little...heavy.

This chapter is kind of dark. I don't think I ever delve too deep into anything that can truly trigger a reader of mine, but compared to the other chapters this is probably the darkest chapter (so far). Themes of self-blame, a little self-hatred, PTSD, anxiety attacks, mentions of injuries, gore, and blood (light), and in general if you've ever suffered from just terrible nightmares know that this entire chapter is centered around that.

Okay. Read on, my friends.

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"The monsters in your head

are frightening for the very same reason

everyone believe they should not be,

they aren't real,

because day in and day out

you must live with the knowledge

that your own mind is working against you,

whispering dark things in the middle of the night,

disobeying your desperate cries to stop,

your own mind is a murderous adversary,

an enemy under your own skin,

and nothing is quite so terrifying."

–Beau Taplin (the monsters in your head.)

__________

"Clint?" I called out while stepping off the elevator onto the penthouse floor. The archer had texted me a couple minutes ago, asking where I was, and then disappeared on me. There was a 20% chance this was some elaborate prank he had planned out that I'd be pissed about, but there was an 80% chance he had his arm stuck between the wall and the stove. Again. I sighed and moved toward the kitchen, "I swear to God, Clint, I've told you this before, if you get your phone stuck behind a kitchen appliance just—"

I turned around the corner of the wall, the one separating the kitchen from the living space, and my fuzzy socks immediately stepped into a warm, thick puddle. My eyes slowly drifted down, curious and confused, to find my Captain America themed socks standing in a rather large puddle of blood. The soft material absorbed the blood a little too well. I took a few shaky, heavy steps, leaving bloody footprints as I went, and lifted my gaze. There, right on the kitchen island, Clint laid on his back unmoving and limp. His throat was a mess of bloody cuts and gashes, and his eyes were cloudy, blank, and unseeing.

Bile rose in my throat and the room began to tilt.

"There you are." A familiar face stepped into my line of vision. Boss was wiping the blood off a kitchen knife with a white handkerchief. He gave me a sick, excited grin. "I've been looking for you, pet. Shame what happened to the Hawk." Boss gave me a small nod and shrug. "It is your fault though."

Clint suddenly turned to face me. His eyes still dead, and thick blood sprayed from his throat when he spoke, "He's right. It's your fucking fault."

I was screaming.

I was screaming.

I was screaming.

JARVIS was saying something, I was vaguely aware of his voice, but nothing registered. All I heard was my own ragged voice, all I smelled was Clint's thick blood, and all I saw was the cold, darkness in Boss' eyes. People raced into my room. The lights were on and there were hands on me, hands trying to bring me comfort, but I was trapped in my own mind.