shattered souls won't mend themselves (supercorp au)

synergy

hey errybody. oh, how it's been so long, we're so sorry we've been gone! we were busy writing angsty fanfiction for you! as always, shout out to my amazing coauthor, infinity_in_his_eyes. btw, if any of you want to get in touch with us for some reason unbeknownst to me, my snapchat is emned00 (those are zeros) feel free to talk to me! also iihe's Snapchat is aiden_gal03 (that's also the number zero)

//Lena POV//

It's hard to keep from rushing in to help Kara. I can just faintly hear whimpers coming from the room next door. It sounds like she's in pain. It sounds like she's scared to death. It'll pass, just like the last one did. She doesn't need you. She's strong, I tell myself. But wasn't I strong? Didn't I have intense resolve? Then why do I want to go hold her again? I look at the clock. It's been five minutes since I heard Kara say my name. Her last episode only lasted three minutes.

Fuck it.

I tear open my door, drawing strange stares from the couple of girls in the girls common area. ignore them, per usual, instead fumbling with the knob to Kara's room. At first, I think it's just stuck. Shitty house, shitty doors. Then I realize something: She locked the goddamn door.

I can't get to her.

I start panicking. My breath starts coming in short gasps. My knees feel weak. I wonder if this is what it feels like for her.... I squeeze my eyes shut. What are you doing? Panicking will not help Kara. Get yourself together, Lena. I slam my head against her door, focusing on even breaths. In four, hold four, out four. In four, hold four, out four.

Okay.

I open my eyes. Calmly staring down the girls watching me, I glide back into my room with a poised grace and grab a bobby pin from the top of my dresser. When I calmly walk back to Kara's door, none of the girls meet my gaze. I try not to listen to the gasps for air and the small sounds of distress that are just a door's-width away from me now as I jiggle the bobby pin into the little hole on my side of the door. I mutter profanities under my breath as I try (unsuccessfully) six times to open the Goddamn door! I close my eyes again. Calm down, Lena. Focus. You're no good to Kara if you're freaking out too. I try the lock again; it finally springs open. I frantically open the door then slam it shut behind me.

I get an understandable sense of déjà vu, seeing Kara like this. Again, her hair is splayed out like a golden fan, catching the light coming through the window. Her face is drawn and pinched in pain, by the looks of it. Her arms are shaking as she grips her knees to her chest, even as she's lying on her side. Large, hot tears roll down her face. Her eyes are squeezed shut, but I see movement under the lids (that's probably a good sign, right?). But her whimpers and cries have stopped. I can't tell if that's good or bad. Nevertheless, I rush over to her (just as I did the first time) and gather her up in my arms. I rub circles in her back, her hands, her arms, anywhere I can think of that could comfort her. After about minute of just staring at her face, I look around the room. I freeze.

On the wall right in front of me, the wall Kara's room shares with mine, the wall that I punched and chipped through, is covered in drawings. Drawings of me. They're incredible. At a first glance, the look like photographs. There's a portrait of me, complete with my cold stare and drawn mouth. My heart sinks when I realize how much like Lillian I look. But then I see the rest of them. I can tell in an instant they can't be observations. In a way, I wish they were; I don't remember feeling as happy as I look in any of the drawings.

Right next to the drawing where I look like Lillian, there is another portrait of me. This one is looking out from its place on the wall, whereas the icy version of me is staring at the door. The happy portrait is so simple: I have my hair cascading down one shoulder, its dark glossiness captured perfectly in graphite. The shadows under my cheekbones make my face look softer instead of sharp and angled. My lips are curved into a playful smile (I wish I could make my face do that). And my eyes. They're filled to the brim with what I can only describe as promise: a promise to love, a promise to share stories of happiness and hardships, a promise to just be, to allow myself to let go of the awful parts of my past. My heart flutters.