Nights I Can't Stand

The office was quiet. A low buzz of Chello’s desktop was what filled the spaces between the three trolls holed up in there. An occasional sigh. Fingers being dragged along the carpet. A book being open before being abruptly closed. It painted a picture of a once-in-a-sweep event. The night of Alternian’s mutant blooded rule, festivities included. None that Chello was keen on attending. Every year she used some excuse to pull herself away from the eyes of hundreds and then news stations everywhere would run with it. The whole thing was embarrassing. She felt embarrassing. Holed up in a soundproof office because the noise of fireworks reminded her of a war once won.

Would those nights hidden among the trees, staking out until the sun’s light graced her eyes, stain upon her skin and her mind forever? Scars that were reminiscent of ink splatters littered her body. Simple reminders of what had happened. She grits her teeth and closes her eyes. Visions of the night Somnia taught her how to fire a gun filled her mind. The smell of gunpowder- the noise. Oh gog, the noise. It was so similar to the brightly colored spectacles of light she was hiding from. It pulls her back to a night- a night she hated to remember. Scrambling to her feet, shotgun in shaking fingers. A campfire roar snuffed out by the loudest bang she had ever heard. The force had knocked her off her feet. Someone had snuck in, an assassin. They tried to kill Somnia and she had shot them. Purple blood splattered across the forest floor. Then there was the feeling of hands pulling her away from the atrocity she just committed. She remembers looking back, that troll’s body would be branded into her brain. The molten sting of the murder she had committed would forever burn at the back of her mind. No water could douse it.

“Chello!” Her Moirail’s voice was clarity among the burning ink and blood that soaked her mind. A lifeline she desperately needed in that moment. She scrambles clawing her way through the haze- and when she can finally feel her hands they’ve both been claimed. Held firmly but with a softness she’s experienced hundreds of times before.

A sob beckons at the back of her throat as blurry eyes focus on the ceiling above her. Thick pink tears run down her face before she lets the noise croak out. A broken record she was. Hiccups and sniffles that replicated the ones that escaped her lips all those years ago. A Moirail and Matesprit on either side, silent but understanding as they held her hands down. Partially for comfort, partially so she wouldn’t lash out and end up hurting herself. Unfortunately, some habits never fully die off.