Work Text:
Sometimes her wrists still ache. Often when it's cold, or when the weather changes, or sometimes seemingly at random. Sometimes, Eva suspects, it's just a phantom pain, brought on by some small reminder of her time before she had clawed back her freedom.
She'd probably never have been safe from such a lingering injury. Sometimes, she'll pretend that it was something mundane that caused it, something still repetitive, but ultimately predictable for someone in her position. Too much time spent writing reports, or typing up emails, perhaps. Then come the small things that remind her of the truth, and she returns to reality, remembering that lying to herself was something she swore off years ago.
She remembers–
–standing in front of a jury, hands bound in front of her, telling herself that it wouldn't be that bad, and even if it was, it would be worth it. If she just stayed where she was, and did what they demanded of her, then perhaps they would realise that she might still be useful to them if she were free. Perhaps her predictions had been wrong, her planning all for nothing.
She remembers–
–metal biting into the skin of her wrists, being dragged along corridors that all looked the same as each other, the people handling her as if she might pose a threat. She remembers humouring them anyway, going over what she might do to escape them, as if a person of her stature, worn down by time and starvation and weariness, might be able to muster up any strength to harm anyone except themselves.
She remembers–
–feeling something warm and red running down her arms, hands secured above her head. Someone with a personal grudge, chasing a carefully nurtured desire for revenge, watching her as she struggled. She remembers telling herself that someone would step in, eventually. Someone would stop them.
She remembers everything. She wants the pain to go away, wants the scars around her wrists to fade, but she cannot lie to herself; some wounds will never heal.