.

Everything.

You've lost everything due to what you've done, and the worst was that you didn't even intend for this to happen. You didn't ask for some bullshit ice powers, and you didn't ask for people to keep checking on you as if you needed a babysitter, and you didn't ask for people to assholes to you, and you didn't ask to break all the water pipes, and you didn't ask to literally turn everything into ice, but it happened. The moment the powers started and you freaked out, you tried to push everyone away, because you were hoping to high hell that if you were melted or something, maybe this stuff would just kill you, maybe you could just die and maybe it could just be done with.

It's been a long almost two years of this shit, and you're so sick of it and you're so stuck and you're done. You're just done and you don't want to even exist anymore because this shit keeps happening. But while everyone else gets to forget all about it once the week finally ends, you don't. Because like the unlucky motherfucker that you are, you remember everything.

So the powers go away, and ice melts. When your whole house has been covered in ice, turned into ice, and it melts...it destroys. All your electronics, destroyed. All your furniture, destroyed. All the walls and the rugs, and the doors swell with the water and everything is destroyed. Your clothes are destroyed, your robotic dog that you've had for years (that you only just turned back on) is now water-logged and destroyed. You're soaked from head to toe, and you're just lucky that you find your teleporter sitting on the one weirdly dry spot in the whole place.

You hadn't been able to get away, you hadn't been able to flee, the one thing you held dear throughout everything was taken from you and then refused to be returned. You're glad it's not broken, that it's not destroyed, and that it's back where it belongs - with you. It's your lifeline, and you're too ashamed to admit to that, but granted by how you were acting, that might have been made clear. But you don't care and you're not about to apologize to someone who was just as much as an asshole to you as you were to them. Hero types are all the fucking same. All of them.

You grab the teleporter and you sludge through the flooded waters of your home to the basement, where your tools are, high up on a shelf, and you're lucky the water didn't get into the box. You sterilize the tools as much as you can before you start cutting into your skin, not even stopping yourself from screaming as you make the cut, and slide the small teleporter under your skin. Genius intellect tells you how to make the surgery a success and how to sow your wound shut and stop the bleeding, and you wrap your arm up in a t-shirt, but it's damp. You need to get more medical supplies, but you can do that once you get to your next location.

A knock at the door stops you, and you hastily wrap the rest of your wrist up as you walk to the door, and ask her what she wants. The conversation is awkward, because she's trying to show you that she cares for you, that she cares about what happens to you, but you're not sure which side of her is saying this. You don't like who her other side is, you don't like how you're constantly thrown into the same damn connections, and while you can't hold that against her, you're quietly doing it anyway. You don't accept her donuts and coffee, and she leaves them on the front step anyway, which is stupid because the second the door opens, water comes rushing down the steps and washes them away anyways.

You tell yourself that it's good that you've pushed her and everyone else away, because it's so much easier this way. Because now you've really lost everything. You have nowhere to live, everything you owned is destroyed, and you just need to try to find a way to rebuild your life.

But you need to get out of Boston.

First stop is to teleport to the hospital, going straight into the medical supplies, grabbing what you need, re-dressing your wound, taking pain pills, and teleporting out before anyone sees you. The next step, is somewhere far away.

A friend of yours begs you to stay, you say no. She offers her place for you to stay at, to live with her, but you say no, because you refuse to be a third wheel (again). You say you just need to get out and she asks if you'll come home.

You don't answer.

Because the worst of it is that you don't talk to anyone much these days. On purpose. Because if you don't make any effort, if you don't leave the house, then you can't get hurt. You can't feel betrayed. You can't lose anything else.

But because it's you, because it's just how your life turns out, you lose anyway.

You lost everything.

You wince as you hit your wrist, the teleporter still underneath it, and you think you might need to rethink how it's set up, but for right now, it's the only way no one will never take it from you again.

You wonder if Spain is nice this time of year. So, you go. Not sure if you'll return...simply because now you really have nothing to return to.