Morale Compass (ON HOLD)

The reunion of "Lost" souls

Clarke jerks awake as rough hands grip her shoulders hastily moving her body side to side in a frantic motion. She blinks and rubs her eyes realizing she had left her contacts in. She was thankful for her forgetfulness in the moment. "was!"(what) She practically growls at the person on top of her.

"Your friend is here, they wish to speak to you." Pernille says.

I nod and sit up as she removes her legs from their position straddling my hips. I place my glasses on my face and put on my clothing, only the pants and dress shirt. Walking to the door I hear the impatient knocks rattling the door on its hinges.

Grabbing the door handle and twisting it harder then needed I open the door to find the blonde goal keeper with a rather large coat on; typing furiously away at her screen. "Was?" (What) I make sure the accent is harsh and thick, commanding even.

"Come with me." Ashlyn orders. Her eyes never leaving the luminous screen held weakly in her left hand.

"Warum?" (Why) I question watching her face contort in confusion and rage.

"Speak fucking English!" She shouts causing my teammates to poke their heads out of their doors to see what the issue was. When they see it's me they quietly shut the door.

"Ich spreche kein Englisch." (I don't speak English)

The Floridian doesn't respond with words but rather force. She clenched my wrist in a death like grip and drags me down the stairs of my apartment and into a rental car. "What the fuck is your issue. You leave and don't contact me. Then you "die" and now you re-emerge as this fucking Clarke Doxon wanna be who somehow can't speak English now. Ali's been a fucking mess with your death and Jessie showed up sobbing on our door step at 4 fucking am about how she failed as your girlfriend."

I have to bite back my emotions as I learn about the pain my actions have caused. I take a shallow breathe to steady myself and repeat my last sentence. She stares at me for two minutes before slamming her hands on her dash. The plastic flinching under the force of the palm.

"Don't fuck with me Georgia. You can run but you will never escape your pass. No matter how much you change. You will always be Georgia Weston."

I stare at her blankly wanting to punch her in the face. I knew she was just going through her emotions in rather unhealthy ways but if I played the role well enough she would leave defeated. Never to speak of Georgia Weston again.

"Whatever. You obviously aren't Georgia. I'm sorry." She says in a way that tells me she is faking it to lure me into a false sense of safety.

I nod and leave the car. I walk back up to my apartment sparing a glance behind me as the lights of the compact car turn on illuminating the asphalt under my feet. I continue to keep my posture posid and confident as I walk up the two flights of stairs. I knock on the door as my keys are set on my nightstand in my room, not expecting a visit at half past 9.

Pernille stares at me once she opens the dirtying white door that was morphing into a cream color. "You good?"

"Ja" (yes) she nods and steps to the side allowing me inside our flat. She closes and locks it behind me.

"So you are playing with the Finnish team?" She questions with a soft, almost comforting smile. The smiles Kelley would send me at camp.

"Ja."

"They are good, no one really pays attention to them so they build in silence." I nod. My brain is tired and trying to speak in a secondary language seems impossible besides for minimal phrases.

"Well. Umm there is chicken and rice in the fridge. I'm going to bed. Ohh and great job at training." I don't respond to the blonde as my feet carry me to the kitchen where the Tupperware container sits full of chicken and rice. The memories of America flow back to me in a wave all to big. I shut the fridge doors and lean against the counter. Bile rises in my throat as the all too familiar burning coats my esophagus.

My feet carry me to the trash can where I empty my stomach contents. My head pounds with the force of one hundred elephants. The room starts to shake and my stomach turns.

Food was my trigger. It has been for almost six years.

Was this my punishment for lying, to drain me of my nutrients as my lies drained me of my character. Was this karma catching up to me for the drugs, and drinking. The endless nights spent with women I didn't know nor cared to know past their body.

My mind bounces around every thought in my head. My brain working like a factory producing thoughts faster then I could comprehend. The words flying around my head like Japanese bombers circling pearl Harbour on the day of the attack. My mind and body were at war. I couldn't sit out any longer; I would break my promise of isolation between my past and present self. I would need to combine both parts of my being to become one that didn't blatantly work against each other.

My promise of solitude was going to be broken. Everything I had worked with the ambassador on would be reversed except for the physical changes. But I couldn't change mentally no matter how much time was spent. I still had my honor code. Dishonor on the family is dishonor on the person, and dishonor of the family is punishable by death. Dying a failure at most. Everything my father drilled into my head came rushing back like the waves on a king tide.

"If you don't work, you lose, you lose, you don't sleep. You work until you don't lose." "Slow feet don't eat." "You either live a winner or die a loser." "Dishonor is like poison in the body, one little drop can spread like a wild fire." "No one cares work harder." And millions of other saying echoing the same principles bounce around my skull like gas particles in a closed container.

Before I know it my vision is black and my body is numb. I feel the convulsions ripple through my spine. I can't breathe, my throat closes around my windpipe. I'm fighting to breathe but failing in doing so.

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Oops. Also how the fuck did I not know that Finland had a womens team.

Oh and prayers out for B-Decks.