Work Text:
you're not a good person. you were told by your mother that you were born wrong, that your bitterness was set in stone from the moment you lived, and you would be inclined to agree.
it started when you were a child. you're not sure when exactly you started refusing to obey your mother, but you can remember the look on her face when you told her no, her mouth agape in shock and her brows knitting together. you remember going hungry that night, and how your little body filled with a broiling rage.
when you were a teenager, you were just... different than the other kids. you didn't see the point in playing silly games, though you always felt a twang of jealousy when you watched them. it was beneath you, you told your mother, and she'd smiled approvingly. you would do anything for her to be proud of you. to show her that you're not useless.
when your sister was born, instead of joy, you felt your rage curling in the pit of your stomach. your mother and father were already talking about how beautiful she'd be when she was grown up. as if that's all she could ever be. when she was older, you'd take her out to the gardens and tell her about distant lands. she was seven when she ran away from home for the first time, and eighteen the last. like you, she would never set foot in that house again.
you saw your mother cry at your graduation. it was the first time you'd ever seen her emotional. you remember the bewilderment you felt, the mix of emotions pressing against your sternum as you smiled at her. part of you knew you shouldn't care. the other part knew you were finally worth something.
your first boyfriend was the first person you ever told all of this to. it spilled out after the two of you had made love, that your family was abusive, and he'd asked a lot of calm, measured questions about it. he would never judge you. rubin wasn't like that. it almost made you feel like a child again, your anger rising like an old friend as you answered his questions curtly.
you'd almost managed to convince yourself that you were normal when the accident happened. one of your students had insulted the one part of you that was worth anything, called you a bogus scientist and a worse teacher. you got angry, and he pushed you. you shoved him back (and that's all it was, just a little push to scare him, to show him who's boss). he had fallen against a vial of acid. the healers said he might not be able to see out of his left eye. he would be disfigured for life.
it took four hours for your mother to write you. she had dated the letter for you, and when the exhausted courier came a day later, you had already packed all of your things and hired a carriage out to the middle of nowhere. you read the letter in the plush seat of the carriage and wept, once again a small child facing an impossible enemy.
even now, you're just as rotten as when you were born. you haven't evolved past the angry, petulant child you know yourself to be and what's worse is that now you're old enough to know better. you can't even show your face to your now-ex (you couldn't live with the disappointment on his face. how hurt he must have been because of you). the rage comes as easy as breathing nowadays, diffusing into every part of you like ink in water.
you're not a good person. and you're not sure that will ever change.