Not Enough, Never Enough
First things first: this is not a Clintasha story. Clint is barely in it.
So, this is pretty dark. It's focused on self harm, specifically cutting, so if this is triggering for you, please hit the back button now. It's somewhat based on what I was going through when I wrote it. Anyways, on that depressing note, read on. Enjoy?
Disclaimer: I do not own MARVEL or any of their affiliates. I am not making any money by writing this. It is for entertainment purposes only.
Natasha's P. o. V:
"I love you," he whispers, his cheeks coloring slightly. A smile stretches across my face, and I hug him, tears of happiness trickling down my cheeks, into his short blonde hair.
"I love you, too," I admit. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for you to say those very words." He squeezes me close, and I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation of being in his arms. Suddenly, a feeling of weightlessness overcomes me, and my eyes snap open.
My plain white bedroom ceiling meets my eyes, and tears fall down my cheeks. It was all a dream. I scoff slightly, brushing the tears away angrily. I know that there's no chance that Clint and I will ever be together, but I can't stop my subconscious self from hoping.
My eyes drop to my wrists, taking in the crisscrossed scars on them. It's no wonder that Clint doesn't love me. After all, who would love someone as broken and as fucked up as I am? Nobody has shown even an ounce of interest in me, and why should they? I'm the weird one, the outcast. I wear dark colors, and I distance myself from others so that I don't get hurt.
Seeing Clint every day is pure torture. He's happy, laughing with his friends as I look on. He probably doesn't even know that I exist. Even if he did, why would I be worth spending any time on? He's right to avoid me. Heck, I'd even avoid myself, if I could. I'm too fat, too ugly, too worthless to be worth anyone's time.
My hand drifts over to my nightstand, fingers landing on my favorite razor. My wrists tingle, waiting for their treatment. Numbly, my fingers grasp the blade, bringing it to my wrist. I wait to feel something, anything, but nothing comes. With a practiced ease, the razor slices through the delicate skin of my wrist.
Delicious pain breaks through the haze of nothingness, and tears of relief fall. Another cut is made, and another, and another. Blood beads up in a beautiful crimson line, hot against my cold flesh. Another line is drawn.
Each new fact is accompanied by another line. Tears stream down my cheeks as I remember my dream. Nothing is worse than seeing Clint every day, knowing that he doesn't care about me. He's so close, yet I have no chance of ever being with him.
More tears fall, these stemming from self-loathing. I don't know why I do this to myself, but it makes me feel better. I'm constantly teased for my marked wrists, cast out from everyone. Nobody wants to help the little "emo" girl. She just wants attention. I know that I need help, but I'm too afraid to ask for it. It's so easy just to cut away the problems.
It's so simple. Just a sharp razor and a body for a canvas. The razor slices. Blood beads up. I feel better. Just a few simple steps. In a world where I have little control, I have to seize whatever control that I can get.
Blood drips down my arm in a steady rhythm, falling onto my white sheets. I can't find it in myself to care. All I can focus on is the lovely pain of the razor sliding over my skin. After so much numbness, it's nice to finally feel something.
The cuts get deeper and deeper, and the blood runs down my arm more and more quickly. At last, the lovely feeling of light-headedness overcomes me, and I set the razor down, looking down at my masterpiece. The bright crimson is startling against my pale flesh. Blood runs along the channels of my other scars, finally dripping onto my sheets. I watch the display for a few moments more, before I get out of bed and head to the bathroom.
It only takes a few minutes to clean the wounds and apply the gauze. The sting of the alcohol is a welcome one, and it distracts me from my thoughts of Clint. I wrap the gauze around my wrists several times, waiting until the blood stops showing through. It takes 7 wraps before this happens, a new record. A sick sense of pride fills me. If there's one thing I'm good at, it's cutting myself.
I grab the bleach out from under the sink and return to my room. Within minutes, my sheets are treated and are in the washing machine, and I'm back in bed.
My parents have long stopped questioning why I'm constantly washing my sheets, or why we're always running out of gauze, bleach, and alcohol. They don't notice the assortment of thick bracelets on my wrists, which hide all of my scars. It's easier this way. They don't care. There's nobody telling me what I can and can't do. I'm in control.
I'm afraid to close my eyes again, worried that if I do, I'll see Clint. While it is nice while it lasts, all dreams end, and then reality comes crashing down. The pain of reality is not worth the pleasure of the dreams. I force my eyes to stay open, determined not to submit myself to that kind of pain again.
Time passes, and my eyelids grow heavy. I continue fighting to stay awake. My thumb presses against my wrist, causing a jolt of pain to run through me. I welcome the pain, knowing that it will keep me awake.
Maybe someday, I'll be able to go to sleep without worrying about what happens when I wake up. Maybe someday, I'll have someone that loves me, who accepts me for who I am. For now, though, I am not enough. I'll never be the smartest, or the thinnest, or the prettiest. I'll never be the girl that everyone loves, who everyone wants to be friends with. There will always be guys that I don't have a chance with. I'm too broken, too fucked up.
I'm not enough.
I'll never be enough.
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