Chapter Text
A phone vibrates somewhere near the bed, first quiet and slow, then fast and strong. A groan escapes the person on the bed. They roll over, the blanket spilling around their legs, revealing pale, trained legs to the darkness of the room. A finger with messy, polished black nails turns the alarm off, and the vibration stops.
Through the curtains of the window next to the bed, a little sunshine shines into the dark room, like the sun is somehow trying to light up the whole room. A long-forgotten coffee rests on the window board. Clothes are spilled all over the floor, and several documents lay on top of them.
Yawning, the woman on the bed turns again, not to get up, but to continue to sleep. When she was younger, she was used to getting up early; she even enjoyed it, but now there was no real reason to get up. She preferred to stay in a state where she doesn't need to think and where no one can bother her.
The phone vibrates again.
Another groan escapes the woman. She sits up and grabs her phone, turning the alarm off. The sheets fall off her shoulder, revealing her naked chest.
As the cold air of the room hits her naked skin, she quickly pulls the blanket higher again, covering herself. She probably had forgotten to close the window last night. Judging by the bottle next to the bed, she has been too drunk to do so. Yawning, she slowly stretches herself, even if she regrets it immediately because of the cold air.
With a frown, she rolls out of bed, almost stumbling over a pile of clothes next to her bed. Her steps are uncoordinated as she slurps into the bathroom next to her bedroom. It's definitely cleaner and warmer, so she closes the door to keep the warmth in the room. Immediately regretting she forgot to close the open window, she forces a smile into the mirror, trying to lighten up her own mood a little.
Seeing herself in the mirror with this silly smile, she shakes her head, not even trying to look collected. Opening the water, she splashes it into her face, hoping it will fix something about her appearance. The dark rings under her eyes could probably tell more stories about her life than she herself could.
Brushing her red hair, slowly she looks less like a zombie and more like a drug addict.
“Fuck, you really need to get yourself together,” she scolds herself, throwing the brush into the container under the sink.
Taking one of her many black kajal pencils, she tries not to look too much like a raccoon. Surprisingly, the bangs are now less dark and her green eyes shine more. A little satisfied smile paints her lips before she leaves the bathroom.
Immediately jumping because of the cold, she scolds herself again.
“Remember: Never forget the window again,” she says in a sing-song voice as she quickly makes her way towards the window.
Pulling the curtains away, the sun hits her face and she shields her eyes from the strong light of the sun. With one free hand, she closes the window, accidentally knocking over a bottle, which falls to the ground and luckily doesn't break. She lets the curtains open and leans down to grab the bottle, then throws it on the bed, praying it won't jump off. To her luck, it jumps once but stays on the bed, not falling down.
The closet is pretty empty as she opens it; just a tank top, two shirts, and one clean pair of jeans lay in the empty space.
“Okay, maybe I should finally clean today,” she mutters, grabbing the remaining clothes and slowly putting them on.
The decision between the black and the dark green shirt is easy: black was always her signature color. Now standing in front of the mirror, she studies herself a bit. She is not as ugly as she always thinks.
The red hair and the green eyes make her face light up more than she would wish for. Her figure, now hidden by the open shirt, could never be called ugly; it's really the opposite, as many others have told her before. The dark jeans she wears hug her curves perfectly, almost more than she would like it. Some of her college friends once told her she could be a model, but remembering that, she quickly shakes herself.
She could never be pretty enough to be a model.
The coffee machine hums softly as the dark liquid flows into the dark cup beneath. Next to it, the redhead makes herself some cereal, moving like she does that every day. And she does. Every day the same: waking up, getting ready, making coffee, making cereal. Every morning, for some years now.
Most people would go insane, think it's boring, or would try desperately to change their rhythm, but not her. She enjoys the same morning, the same predictable moments in her life. Moments she doesn't need to control, where she can just live without needing to think about it, just doing it.
Because she already does enough thinking in her life.
The machine stops, the coffee is done. She takes it and walks with the cereal in her other hand to the living room. Plopping on a chair, she starts to take a large sip of the hot drink. A tickling sensation runs over her tongue as it burns, yet she doesn't even flinch and accepts her fate by just taking another sip. Slowly, the feeling in her mouth stops and leaves a weird, dull sensation behind.
Eating, the redhead completely ignores the feeling and focuses on the air in front of her. It's like her life moves forward and she just exists in it without much to think about.
Finishing the food and coffee, she places both in the sink with the other things there. Yes, she definitely needs to clean. With a deep sigh, she returns to her bedroom and stares for a moment at the chaos.
“You got this,” she tells herself, hoping to somehow get more motivation. “It's not like they care if you're even there today,” she adds, amused, and starts to collect the bottles that are placed around the room.
Cleaning goes surprisingly fast. Clothes are either in or next to the washing machine, bottles are packed in a bag so she can throw them away, dishes are washed and placed into the cupboards. She even cleaned the floor and her windows.
Now, surprisingly happy with what she has achieved, she opens the fridge to search for something she could eat after the hard work. To her dislike, there is almost nothing inside. Only some alcohol, a cucumber, and a knife.
“God… I really need to stop drinking,” she sighs and takes the knife out, placing it into the knife block and closes the fridge again.
She knew what she needed to do next: grocery shopping. A little whine escapes her as she grabs her backpack and a jacket. If she hates one thing, then its buying food and other things.
Grabbing everything she needs, she heads towards her front door. With a little pout, she opens it and steps into the bright daylight. She closes the door behind her and locks it before pulling her coat tighter around her, slowly walking towards the store. About a list she doesn't bother; she knows what she needs and that's enough.
Her brain is never the problem, and she knows that.
Since her childhood, she was always the smartest, always wanted to be the best in everything, and she was the best. Every little award was won by her, always first place. First it was simple school competitions, later larger ones.
No one today knows about that.
No one knows about the passionate girl she was once. The redheaded girl who always grinned into every picture, proudly holding up her trophy.
That grin never stayed long, always present when she was outside; at home it disappeared. Because there was never a home for her. Never a place where she felt safe, never a place where she had the feeling that her achievements mattered.
The key clicks in the lock and the front door opens, swinging back into the small hallway. She steps inside, carrying a bag filled with food, and places it down on the counter in the kitchen. The unpacking will be quick; she didn't buy much, she is just one person. Placing some vegetables in the fridge, it looks somehow healthy. Other things join soon: some yoghurt, some spread, and other stuff.
A slight wave of happiness spills over her. Today she achieved more than she thought she could achieve in a week. Maybe she was not yet lost in her life.
With the little more motivation she now has, she walks over to her couch and takes the book she had last read some weeks ago into her hand and opens it where she last stopped. Reading was always her way of escaping reality.
Reality was never nice to her, so she needed a way to escape.
Back in high school she even wrote herself. Some stories were happy, some sad. Sometimes she wrote poems, sometimes half novels. One time she showed them to her friends. Some laughed, some said it was great. But no one ever told her to continue.
One day she went to class like normal, assuming it was a normal day. But sometimes life takes you in a new direction, like it did to her on that day.
People always looked at her like she was weird, like something they should fear and avoid. That day they avoided her more, looked at her more like she was a creep than normally. She didn't notice immediately, just felt weirder than normal, but that can always happen.
The first sign was in her first class. Normally another girl sat next to her; today she avoided her and sat by someone else. The redhead was just disappointed but didn't think much about it.
Then lunch break came.
Walking into the cafeteria, everyone looked at her. At least it felt like that. Most of the people she knew stared at her, even others. At first she assumed she had something on her face, but after checking, there was nothing. Without thinking about it, she sat down at her usual spot.
A group of girls who always mocked her walk over to her. She assumed it was nothing. Then they got out their phones and laughed about something on them.
“Hey! Spider!” one of them calls out, and the redhead flinched; she hated that nickname. They gave it to her after she saved a huge spider in gym class by taking it outside with her bare hands.
“What?” she asks, already embarrassed because everyone was watching.
The front girl grins before walking closer. “What do you call yourself again? A black widow? I have to say, it's hilarious,” she giggles, and the girl behind her joins.
Her head snaps up and she stands up immediately. “H-how do you know that?” her voice shakes slightly, even if she already knows the answer to that.
“Your poems,” the answer the redhead had feared. “They are quite cute and really embarrassing,” another girl adds.
That day she stopped writing, deleted everything she had ever written. Yet till the end of her school career she was known as “The Black Widow.” When she gave herself that name she loved it. After that incident she hated it.
A phone rings, pulling the redhead out of her book. She had been reading quite long already, and that surprised her. Normally she wasn't able to concentrate this long on a book, but today seemed to be different from every other day she normally experienced.
She reaches out and looks at the display. The name alone lets her know that she needs to work tomorrow. With a deep sigh, she accepts the call, holding the phone to her ear.
“James? What's up?” her voice is clearly annoyed, but the man on the other side doesn't care about her tone, even if he normally scolds her for it.
“Romanoff, we need you to come in.”