You can save anyone from themselves, as long as you get to them quick enough.
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"Hazel. . .are you avoiding me?"
"Uh. . .were you waiting behind the door this whole time?"
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"Was any of it real?"
"Everything. Since the beginning."
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"You would th...
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『••✎••』
There seemed to be a tricky part about trauma people loved to skip out when talking about healing. Triggers. They seem to come out of nowhere and crumble every little attempt to put the pieces back together.
Hudson and Mike's torture seemed to have thrown a boulder at the walls Hazel had built for her brain. They had burned every crop of peace and good memories the blonde had created as an escape. The way Hudson had enjoyed cutting off her air so many times seemed to fire her fight or flight.
Triggered. Agitated. Piqued.
Hazel kept trying to put words to what she had been feeling. It had only been a few minutes after Ward had fallen asleep in the motel's bed, and Hazel couldn't seem to get any rest. The specialist's arms held her close to his body, afraid someone would take her from him again.
The blonde had been staring at the same dent in the wall. It seemed like everything seemed to keep Hazel awake. The sound of the ac unit dripping. The shuffle of the curtain that was drawn over the window. Even Ward's breathing seemed to unsettle her now and then.
It took long, yet soon enough, Hazel's eyes fluttered shut. Her breathing slowed as her body fully relaxed against Ward's as she gave in to exhaustion. At first, Hazel found herself at peace, the quiet darkness of her mind taking her in willingly for the first time in hours.
That peace was short-lived. It felt almost like her mind was being tugged to different places, foreign thoughts that seemed to prod her in mind.
How could we have not seen it? Skye was too trusting.
Simmons could've been taken; she could've been in danger because we wanted to be the first at regeneration.
No matter what. They did a number on us; we must find them and return the favor.
It seemed to get louder, other thoughts pushing against her mind before it all went silent, a small ringing in her ears as she suddenly felt weightless, content, and peaceful. Then, Hazel opened her eyes and was no longer in the motel.
Instead, she was having breakfast with three people that had made her life miserable. It was the only foster parents she had ever had and their son. It was almost instant as Hazel's breathing started becoming more elaborate. Against her best wishes, the blonde started moving towards the table, hand shaking as she took a seat at this one, only that her hands were a lot smaller, with the sleeves of an oversized pajama falling over her wrist as she put her hand down.
She remembered she was only eight years old. Maybe nine. They didn't know her birthday, so it was hard to tell. The blonde had barely lived a week in the house, and the people at the dining table seemed to despise her already.
