#i write fanfic i guess

[precipicles]

A for Alive, but now we go the opposite direction

an alphabet challenge, for A:TLA and my all-time fave, azula

A/N: I need a hobby, I’m kinda depressed and need a coping mechanism, so this what I came up with. Fanfic has always been a guilty pleasure of mine, and after not finding the fanfics I’ve wanted to read, I figured: okay, might as well write it, right? I’ll admit that I’m not in the state of mind -- nor do I have the energy at the moment -- to think these through so much. I’ll figure these out as I go along. So for now, these are my freewriting exercises, where I’ll get prompts using a random word generator (literally randomwordgenerator.com), and where I try not to overthink the thing. 

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. 

Enjoy, I guess? 

A: Alive  

She felt like she was dead. Days seemed to merge together; they all felt the same. It felt like one really long day that didn’t seem to end. 

Everyday, she’d wake up, they’d unshackle her, and she takes a morning walk. They bring her to breakfast in a dining hall where she sits alone. Everyone keeps a safe distance. An afternoon activity. They say that when she’s well enough, this solitary activity would include other people eventually. Then, lunch. An activity again. Surprisingly enough, they encourage her to practice her fire bending -- or at least some sort of physical exercise. It’s important, they encourage her.  She’s locked in a room when she practices, though. And it doesn’t escape her that there are twice as many guards as usual. Finally, dinner and then lights out. On some days, she has to talk to a doctor. A patient man in white robes who tries to be fatherly-like. 

She doesn’t like it. 

The routine goes on.

She supposes it isn’t as bad as it could have been. A few months prior, she couldn’t even leave her room because she was seen as a danger. She’s toned down a bit since then. On days where she feels like she still has some sort of dignified pride to protect, she attributes her submissiveness to the medication. On days of shameless self-pity, she knows deep down that it’s because the fight has left her. 

Either way, the reason doesn’t make too much of a difference if no one else will ever know it. 

In spite of the stimulation from all the things they have her do, she feels like she never really stops sinking. As she succumbs to the routine of the institution, she feels herself succumbing to past memories that never leave her. The triggers seem inescapable. A gold color here, a dark skinned girl there. Too many similarities that never seem to leave. 

After a night where the nightmares were worse than usual, they bring in a woman who tries to get her to talk. She tells her that the episodes will never stop until you start opening up. She feels like she’s being manipulated somehow. She won’t let them win. She can do this on her own terms. 

Apparently, she is wrong. 

The next night is worse than the previous one. After a few more days, she gives up on sleep altogether. The voices don’t disappear when she’s awake, nor do they disappear when she’s sleeping. At least she had more control while awake. So, she decides to go with the former option. 

The all-nighters take a toll. She is back to lashing out with her bending. The routine she once found so distasteful -- yet admittedly, was still peaceful in its own ways -- stopped. She is sobbing on the floor of her room, chained like a beast, and the sensations only trigger those traumatic moments once more. It compounds. The trauma compounds. And she doesn’t know how to get out again. She is scratching at her skin and punching walls while doctors outside scratch their heads and pound their brushes on parchment. 

Both parties seek relief and answers.

They don’t know what to write on her progress report. She was doing so well. Now, what? 

The man in white robes that used to have his weekly talks with her -- which stopped after she almost burned him a few days prior -- says its time. Time for the risky option that may leave her better or worse: the visit. 

A/N: 

The goal is to post this before I reread it enough that I become embarrassed. I had no expectations. I think I cheated on this prompt and didn’t embody the word as much. But I guess the prompt did work in a sense that I took it and made the story go the opposite direction. 

Huh.