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Too hot, then too cold. Her back hurts. Pillow’s not right; Mom made her bed while she was away. Vehicles drone on the streets outside. There’s shouting down the block. It’s all just too much. Damn, she must have gotten used to the Terajuma serenity.
That’s it. Venam can’t keep tossing and turning like this. She gives up trying to sleep with an agitated huff. She wouldn’t want to wake her sleeping beauty by throwing off all the blankets, anyway.
She rises gently, holding the plush comforter steady with one hand so that the nighttime air doesn’t disturb the girl asleep next to her. She pulls her soft down pillow upwards to cushion her back as she leans herself against the headboard. It sinks, not quite supporting her as much as she’d like. She briefly considers to herself that she prefers her pillows firmer. Her Mom must have swapped them out.
Venam’s body begins to adjust to sitting up. Her head swims a little — she rubs her eyes. Sparks dance in the dark as she blinks them open. She takes a deep breath through her nose. A chill hits her shoulders, white tank-top straps offering little protection. She shakes her head and adjusts her hair to fall more evenly over them, the contact suppressing another chill in place of the flannel she can’t find in her messy, still-packed luggage.
Melia inhales and stirs slightly at Venam’s side. She doesn’t wake, though. Venam’s attention shifts to her.
The first thing Venam notices is her blonde hair swathed across her pillow. It’s a wreck— tangled, knotted, looped. A terminal case of bedhead. And it’s the only part of her head actually on the pillow. The crown of Melia’s head, as she’s turned on her side, is squishing the bottom of the pillow up into an arch, the side of her head firmly resting upon the mattress.
Venam cracks a grin. Some kind of pride or embarrassment fights it back, pursing her lips at most.
What is she to do when her face beams at the mere sight of this girl? Ugh — She gives in to the smile, turning her gaze away from Melia, almost rolling her eyes at herself as she draws a knee up and balances her arm on top of it at the elbow.
Continuing her observation, she notes that Melia has her cheek squished against the grip she has on the blanket from underneath. It’s forcing her mouth open, and in the dark Venam can barely see that a small spot of drool is forming on her lilac-colored bedsheet. Oh, my God. She’s so cute. She has to turn away again and bite her knuckle; her smile’s getting wider. She feels glad that Melia can sleep so soundly at her side after all she’s been through. This is what she needs: a warm bed to rest in, a place where she can feel safe, and family to support her. However temporary that may be.
As Venam is musing over that thought in her head, Melia begins to shift again. Venam turns to gaze at her once more. The dozing girl pulls her left arm free from wherever it last was — this is not the arm clamping the blanket to her face, which is still diligently at its post — and it splays out, covering just enough distance for the knuckles of her fingers to brush Venam’s bare thigh, just below the hem of her shorts. Venam watches as the position exposes Melia’s delicately-lined palm folds, and…
The thoughtfully placed, straight-lined scars on her inner wrist.
Venam inhales slowly and her smile fades as her eyes inspect the marks.
The oldest, most healed ones start thin. They speak of fear, of panicked tears, of a desperation to feel control. Of a razor blade shakily slipped out of the pencil sharpener given to Melia to write her diary. They begin to shout, then, as Venam’s attention trails lower. Cries of anger, deeper gashes, healed over wide and white. Venam can’t decide if they look reckless or intentional. She feels sick over how much they must have bled. Lower still, the placements grow varied, hurried, shorter — quick yelps, glossy pink nicks just to feel something. And the final two, still tender, partially through their healing process… Quieter. They simply weep.
It’s not the first time she’d seen them — the brown cuff bracelets Melia used to wear to cover them up often shifted, or were taken off eventually, leaving her pain bare. And sometimes, the sleeves of her white shirt rode up just a bit too far to hide them. The first time Venam had noticed the mar sent her heart aching and her mind reeling. But this is the first time she’s truly able to lay her thoughts upon Melia’s anguish. Intimately and melancholic.
She realizes she’s still holding her breath. She lets it go.
And with it, the air catches in her throat. She feels her cheeks burn. Her view trembles and clouds as the tears come. That’s probably a good thing, she thinks. Again, her mouth contorts; This time, into a grimace. Not a smile. She reaches her hand up and chews on an already-chipped fingernail.
With the tears comes anger. It sets fire to her chest. She chokes back a sob and throws her head back. Her rage charges headfirst into Team Xen. They took Melia from her first. Set the stage for her to play a part. And as Melia was made to dance, the only autonomy she could find was to control how much she hurt. To shed her blood. Carve marks upon her being which were of her own decision. And in the depths of her depression, when the world around her was just bleak and lifeless, a comfort could be felt in feeling anything at all. Venam considers, then, just how much agony she would have to subject each and every one of them to in order to—
No, this isn’t helping. She needs to attempt to steel herself. She needs to think. Breathe. Find a silver lining. From the way the most recent wounds are healing, she can assume that Melia hadn’t hurt herself since arriving at least at Terajuma. That’s a positive. But is that an outcome of will or of circumstance? Would Melia relapse if a blade called her name? Venam thinks to bring this up to her mother for the duration of Melia’s stay, but— isn’t the self-harm technically helping her to feel something? No, no, that’s not good. She can find a healthier way. Right. Bring it up to Mom.
She thinks still, wracking her brain for something to calm her temper. Pokémon? City? Situation? Future? Nothing stood out as a positive. But oh, of course… the most important difference between Melia’s situation then and now…
Venam is there.
Venam is there, and as long as she is there, no one will ever take her Melia away from her again.
No, that’s… too selfish. She knows the whole point of Melia’s suffering was that she never belonged to herself. But even still… she isn’t able to shake the pride she feels when she thinks about how Melia is with her now.
She’s got her. She’s safe. Melia is in Venam’s bed, sleeping in Venam’s shirt. And when she wakes in the early morning, her groggy gaze will meet Venam’s face. Nobody else’s.
Venam can be a catalyst. She can make sure Melia is happy. She can assure her autonomy. She envisions what Melia might like to do when they wake up. Maybe they’ll share some quiet words and quiet laughs. They’ll traipse down the stairs and eat breakfast together. Hang out in Venam’s room and giggle at old memories. Whatever they want. Whatever Melia wants.
A tear trails down the side of Venam’s cheek, her head still tossed back. Her frown softens. She breathes deeply through her nose, and then sniffles. She turns her head back down, and again, she beholds Melia’s soundly sleeping figure. She truly does look to be at peace. Maybe Venam could stand to be a little more greedy about this moment. Melia is usually a deep sleeper, after all.
She gently takes Melia’s open hand, interlocking their fingers. Her own wrist brushes Melia’s scarred one.
And in her sleep, Melia’s fingers instinctively close around Venam’s hand.
Venam smiles again. Team Xen doesn’t have this. Spacea and Tiempa don’t have it either. She does.
And God, it just feels so good.