In a world where one girl is tired....

[6:43 am]

The arc reactor's soft azure pulse thrums through the fortress of mismatched sheets, a feeble heartbeat in a room that feels more tomb than sanctuary. Shadows dance across action figures frozen mid-heroics, their plastic valor a cruel reminder of simpler times. The scent of stale popcorn mingles with the fading echo of Mom's jasmine perfume, a bittersweet nostalgic cocktail that pricks at my eyes.

I trace Iron Man's helmet with a finger that feels too old for its mere decade of life. The cool plastic grounds me as my mind wanders back to six-year-old Ruth, sprawled on the living room floor, cushion forts and imagination her only armor against a world not yet turned cruel. I can almost hear Mom's laughter, see the way the television's glow lit up her face as we lost ourselves in a universe of heroes and happy endings.

On the tablet screen, Tony Stark hurtles towards certain doom, all bravado and sacrifice. "I know just where to put it," he quips, and for a moment, I'm there again - Mom's arm around me, both of us bathed in the television's ethereal glow, believing in heroes and happy endings. But the ache in my chest is a harsh reminder that this is no movie, and some villains don't wear costumes.

I close my eyes, conjuring the phantom scent of Mom's triple-chocolate cake - that towering monument to love and food coloring she'd labor over for hours. I can almost taste it - rich cocoa depth cut with coffee, each bite a revelation that demanded reverent silence. But when I open my eyes, there's only the dim glow of the nightlight and the crushing weight of reality. Mom's not here to sing off-key birthday songs or tuck surprises into my shoes. She's been exiled to a sterile hospital room, her laughter muffled by tubes and machines battling an enemy too small to see but large enough to shatter our world.

And Kaycee? My sister, the human equivalent of a Swiss Army knife-over-prepared, multi-functional, and ultimately useless in the face of real crisis - is... elsewhere. Always elsewhere when it matters most. I burrow deeper into my blanket cocoon, seeking warmth in a world gone cold. On screen, the Avengers assemble, but their battle cries ring hollow now. I remember how it used to be - Mom and I forming our own little team, quoting lines in unison, debating character motivations with the fervor of scholars dissecting ancient texts.

Kaycee would linger at the edges, her lips pursed in a moue of distaste. "So Tony Stark builds a miniaturized arc reactor in a cave, but we're supposed to believe no one else can replicate this technology?" she'd scoff during Iron Man. Or, as Thor's hammer flew back to his hand: "Apparently, a magical hammer that always returns is more believable than a woman leading a military unit in the 1940s."

Her voice dripped with disdain, each word a pebble in the shoe of our shared joy. During Guardians of the Galaxy, she'd roll her eyes. "A talking raccoon and a tree are more emotionally mature than the human and alien characters. Sounds about right."

"It's just a movie, Kaycee," Mom would sigh, the weariness in her tone speaking volumes. "Can't you just... enjoy it?"

But Kaycee was relentless. "An AI decides to destroy humanity after about five minutes on the internet," she'd mutter during Age of Ultron. "Can't say I blame it."

Each critique was a tiny fissure in our bubble of Marvel-induced happiness, a reminder of the real world waiting just beyond our living room. Now, as I watch the heroes on screen, I can't help but hear Kaycee's voice in my head: "Half the universe disappears and the other half is surprisingly functional about it." If only our world could be so resilient in the face of loss.

Kaycee never understood. She was too busy constructing a fortress of achievements, each accolade another brick in the wall between her and the messiness of genuine human connection. I recall the beach trip photo that once held pride of place in our hallway. While Mom and I sculpted sandcastles and chased waves, Kaycee sat apart, SAT prep book propped on her knees like a shield. "Just one more practice test," she'd promised, squinting against more than just the sun's glare.

In high school, Kaycee was a force of nature-cheer captain, valedictorian, volunteer extraordinaire. She'd sweep into the apartment, pompoms and textbooks in tow, uniform crisp despite hours of rigorous practice. Unlike the proud parents in teen movies, Mom's eyes held only concern.

"Sweetheart," she'd say, voice gentle as a summer breeze, "you don't have to do all this. It's okay to just... be."

But Kaycee never listened. She'd push harder, stay up later, stretch herself thinner - a rubber band pulled taut, always on the verge of snapping. Even her relationship with Mick, the basketball team's golden boy, felt more like a perfectly executed play than a genuine romance.

Now, with Mick relegated to the past and Mom locked away in her sterile prison, Kaycee seems more unmoored than ever. She's doubling down on her perfectionism, juggling online classes and multiple jobs with the frantic energy of a woman trying to outrun her own shadow.

Late at night, I've caught snippets of her hushed phone calls to Amelia. "I have to make this work," she'd hiss, desperation clawing at the edges of her voice. "I have to prove I'm enough. For Mom, for Ruth, for everyone." It's as if she believes that if she just tries hard enough, achieves enough, she can will the universe back into order. As if perfect grades and a spotless apartment can summon Mom home and stitch our fractured family back together.

But she can't. And her relentless pursuit of an impossible ideal only widens the chasm between us.

The digital clock glares accusingly through a gap in my blanket fortress: 6:43 AM. Seventeen minutes until Hurricane Kaycee makes landfall, all forced cheer and manic energy. My stomach roils at the thought of her chirpy voice, fake enthusiasm as cloying as artificial sweetener. Her meticulously crafted schedule flashes through my mind, each item a shackle disguised as care:

7:00 AM - Wake up (to a world still off-kilter)

7:15 AM - Breakfast (rabbit food masquerading as nutrition)

7:30 AM - Brush teeth (don't forget to floss away your feelings!)

7:45 AM - Log into school (smile for the camera, little performer)

3:00 PM - After-school activities (dance away the pain or serve others to forget your own needs)

5:00 PM - Homework time (no escape into fantasy until reality's demands are met)

7:00 PM - Dinner (let's pretend we're a normal family for an hour)

8:30 PM - Wind down (maybe we can read a book and ignore the elephant in the room?)

9:00 PM - Bedtime (sweet dreams in a nightmare world, little sis!)

A floorboard's traitorous creak shatters the silence. Panic surges through me, electric and nauseating. I launch from my tent, nearly toppling a chair in my frenzied dash to the bed. The cool air raises goosebumps on my skin as I burrow under the covers, heart thundering against my ribs as the door handle turns with agonizing slowness.

The scent hits me first. Coconut shampoo, a daily reminder that Kaycee's trying to fill shoes far too large for her feet. I feign sleep, each measured breath a carefully crafted lie. Kaycee's attempt at stealth is laughable - every step on our worn floors might as well be a foghorn announcing her intrusion.

A soft click pierces the quiet - her phone's camera shutter. She's snooping again, likely hunting for last-minute gift ideas. Has she learned nothing from last year's debacle? The memory rises, unbidden and bitter: a mountain of "age-appropriate" clothes from Kohl's. Unicorns prancing across garish t-shirts, sparkly bows on headbands that pinched, tubes of glitter gloss rolling across the floor like fallen soldiers in a war I never asked to fight.

"Not too glittery to attract boys," Kaycee had explained with a wink that made my skin crawl, "but just enough for you to feel good about yourself."

As if Kaycee has the faintest idea of who I am or what I like. She's always been this way, even before Mom caught the virus. Always trying to mold me into her vision of the perfect little sister. Always pushing her interests, her values, her narrow definition of success onto me like ill-fitting hand-me-downs.

Clothes were just the opening salvo. Kaycee had insisted on doing my hair, her fingers raking through my curls with all the gentleness of a gardener pruning unruly hedges. "Hold still, Ruth," she'd muttered, her breath hot and oppressive against my ear as she wrangled my hair into tight braids. I'd gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to squirm away from her touch, from her suffocating idea of sisterly love.

"There!" Kaycee had exclaimed, spinning me to face the mirror. "Now you look like a proper nine-year-old."

A stranger stared back at me, my reflection distorted by neat braids and glittery butterfly barrettes dotting my hair like gaudy insects. I'd waited until Kaycee left the room before I tore them out, one by one, snapping their delicate wings between my fingers. The broken pieces littered the floor, a graveyard of Kaycee's misguided attempts at connection. I wish she could see that perfection won't heal this wound. All it does is leave her hollow, just like me.

Through the barest sliver of my eyelids, I watch as Kaycee's fingers ghost over my limited edition Spider-Man figure. With exaggerated care, she adjusts its stance, repositioning it atop my collection where it looks "less clunkily piled." My jaw clenches, the sound of my own heartbeat loud in my ears. How dare she violate these sacred totems? These aren't mere toys or collectibles. They're lifelines to Mom, tangible threads in a tapestry of memory that Kaycee, with her spreadsheets and schedules, will never truly comprehend.

If she had even an inkling of who I really am, she'd sense the fury radiating from my supposedly sleeping form. He'd feel my gaze boring into her back as she defiles my Marvel shrine, my fingers itching to snatch Peter Parker from her well-meaning but oh-so-clumsy grasp.

Kaycee exhales, a sound heavy with unspoken burdens, and retreats. The door whispers shut, its soft click reverberating through the sudden vacuum. I remain a statue, ears straining to track her retreat. Keys jingle, the front door thuds closed, and minutes later, her wheezing Honda coughs to life. Only when its asthmatic rumble fades into the distance do I emerge, a butterfly from its blanket chrysalis.

The morning air raises goosebumps on my skin as I pad to my desecrated altar. Spider-Man sits askew, a visual record of Kaycee's trespass. My heart pounds in my chest, a primal drumbeat of rage. With trembling hands, I right the figure, restoring order to my pocket universe.

My gaze sweeps our claustrophobic apartment, cataloging the silent grenades I've lobbed in this cold war against my sister. Dishes form grimy towers in the sink, the dishwasher gapes unloaded, laundry spills from the hamper like fabric lava.

On the kitchen island, hospital bills stand in neat, accusatory stacks - grim monuments I refuse to let Kaycee ignore. I've made it my crusade to ensure these paper daggers are ever-present, piercing the veil of normalcy Kaycee desperately tries to weave. Sometimes they materialize on the coffee table, or lurk "accidentally" on the bathroom counter. Once, in a moment of particularly vindictive inspiration, I taped one to the fridge, a stark counterpoint to Kaycee's meticulously crafted meal plan.

These fiscal reminders of our fractured reality always make Kaycee's face tighten, her eyes skittering away as if she could will them into non-existence. But I won't allow it. I can't. Because every time she attempts to sand away the rough edges of our new normal, it feels like she's erasing Mom, pixel by pixel, memory by memory.

It wasn't always trench warfare. Once, laughter echoed through these walls, mingling with the aroma of Mom's cooking and the warmth of familial completeness. Now, it's a no-man's land, Kaycee and I locked in a conflict neither of us has the map to navigate, let alone resolve.

The world beyond our four walls has metamorphosed. Once-bustling streets lie dormant, faces obscured by masks, humanity giving wide berth as if proximity alone could spread the viral scourge. School is now a mosaic of pixelated faces, friendships reduced to text bubbles and laggy video calls.

But for me, the most seismic shift is Mom's absence. Hospital visits, once our daily ritual, have evaporated, casualties of ever-tightening COVID protocols and Kaycee's suffocating germaphobia.

"It's not safe, Ruth," Kaycee would insist, voice taut with barely contained panic. "We could be carriers, make Mom sicker. Or catch it ourselves. This is better."

Better for whom? I want to scream until my throat bleeds. Not for Mom, marooned in her sterile island of beeping monitors. Not for me, aching to feel her hand in mine, to inhale her familiar perfume, to be enveloped in the safety of her embrace.

And certainly not for our family, splintering under the crushing weight of absence and unvoiced terrors.

I shuffle into the kitchen, linoleum cold against my bare soles. On the counter sits a bowl of berries drowning in coconut water - that ludicrous "Nature Cereal" from the TikTok video Kaycee subjected me to. Beside it, a folded note proclaims "Happy Birthday, Ruth!" in Kaycee's looping scrawl.

Without deigning to read her platitudes, I lift the bowl, its contents sloshing ominously. The berries bob like shipwrecked sailors in the murky liquid, less breakfast and more failed science fair project. Without hesitation, I upend the whole mess into the trash, savoring the satisfying splatter against the detritus below. The note follows, crumpled into a tight projectile of rejection.

Let Kaycee decipher the fate of her precious "Nature Cereal." Let her grasp how pathetically inadequate her attempts at motherhood truly are. I'm done playing understudy in her delusional production of "Everything's Fine."

My gaze rakes the pantry shelves until it lands on a familiar blue box. Pop-Tarts. Mom's guilty pleasure, now my act of rebellion. I can almost hear Kaycee's shrill lecture on empty calories and processed poison. The thought curves my lips as I tear into the silver wrapper, the cloying scent of artificial strawberries perfuming the air.

As I bite down, the saccharine filling coats my tongue. It's not the ambrosia I remember, but I force down every crumb, letting them rain onto the counter. Another mess for Kaycee's to-do list.

I shuffle back towards my room, pastry in hand, when the hallway photo arrests me. Mom, Kaycee, and me at the beach two summers past. We're all smiles, squinting against the glare, sand clinging to sun-kissed skin. Mom's arm encircles my shoulders, an anchor of love and protection. She looks so vibrant, so alive.

A lump forms in my throat, hot and painful. I furiously blink back the tears that threaten to breach my defenses. I won't cry. I can't. Tears mean accepting that our old normal might be lost forever, that Mom might never again cross our threshold.

And that's a reality I'm not yet ready to face.

I collapse onto my disheveled bed, springs groaning in protest. The ceiling fan's lazy rotation offers a poor facsimile of Mom's soothing hum. My gaze falls on my backpack, bloated with neglected schoolwork. The mere thought of another mind-numbing Zoom class makes my skin crawl.

Instead, I embark on a covert mission to unearth my cleverly hidden junk food caches throughout the apartment.

First target: the linen closet's depths, behind a fortress of threadbare towels. I emerge victorious, clutching a bag of cheese puffs that christen my fingers with neon orange dust. The artificial flavor detonates on my tongue, a stark rebellion against Kaycee's bland "health food" regime. I devour a handful, savoring the salty tang.

Next, I liberate the emergency Kit Kat stash from its secreted home beneath my desk drawer. The chocolate melts luxuriously, each bite savored as I envision Kaycee's horror at my clandestine sugar supply.

Fueled by sugar and defiance, I don the Iron Man costume hanging in my closet. Mom and I had labored over it for weeks, preparing for a comic con that never materialized. The cool kiss of shiny red and gold fabric settles on my shoulders like battle armor.

Transformed into Tony Stark, I face my gallery of Marvel rogues. Action figures of Thanos, Loki, and Ultron loom menacingly from my bookshelf. With exaggerated sound effects, I topple them one by one, my hand repulsors emitting satisfying "pew pew" noises as I vanquish each foe.

"And stay down!" I crow triumphantly as Thanos crashes to the carpet. For a fleeting moment, I can almost hear Mom's laughter, can almost feel her hand on my shoulder as she joins the game. In this world, I'm not alone. I have allies, a purpose.

The illusion shatters as swiftly as it formed, leaving me alone in a silent room, surrounded by fallen plastic nemeses.

Restless energy buzzes beneath my skin. I need a change of scenery. In the laundry room, I discover the dryer brimming with clean clothes - Kaycee's forgotten task. Without hesitation, I upend the entire load onto the floor, creating a soft, warm fabric mountain.

I plunge backward into the pile, limbs sweeping wide. The laundry engulfs me in its freshly-dried warmth, redolent of lavender fabric softener. I craft snow angels in the clothes, reveling in the textural symphony - the softness of t-shirts, the scratchiness of jeans, the fluffiness of towels. For a brief, blissful moment, I'm weightless, suspended in a cocoon of comfort.

The fantasy dissipates, replaced by the cold reality of our empty apartment. With a sigh, I extricate myself from the laundry pile, leaving behind a Ruth-shaped void in the scattered clothes. Let Kaycee contend with that chaos.

As afternoon wanes, I retreat to my room, the day's weight settling heavily on my shoulders. My gaze alights on my composition notebook, fingers itching with familiar urgency. It's time to lose myself in a world where heroes invariably triumph, families remain whole, and a little girl's birthday wishes always come true.

I flip to a pristine page and begin to write, pencil flying across paper as I craft a tale of Black Widow and Hawkeye facing an invisible enemy...

Natasha's fingers danced across the keyboard, a frantic ballet of desperation. Her emerald eyes, bloodshot from countless sleepless nights, darted across the screen, decoding the cryptic lines of code that held the key to humanity's survival. The harsh blue glow of the monitor cast eerie shadows across her face, accentuating the deep hollows beneath her eyes and the sharp angles of her cheekbones.

The air in the cramped, windowless room hung thick and oppressive, a potent cocktail of stale coffee, sweat, and the metallic tang of fear. Empty energy drink cans littered the floor, silent testaments to her relentless pursuit. The low hum of overworked computer servers provided a constant undercurrent to the staccato of her typing.

Beyond the reinforced walls of the compound, New York City lay unnaturally still. The once-vibrant streets, typically alive with the cacophony of traffic and bustling pedestrians, now echoed with an unsettling silence. Occasionally, the wail of a distant siren pierced the quiet, a chilling reminder of the invisible enemy that stalked the city's inhabitants.

Even through layers of concrete and steel, Natasha felt the weight of millions of fears pressing down upon her. The burden of expectation, of hope, settled heavily on her shoulders.

"Anything?" Clint's voice crackled through her earpiece, the usual steadiness of his tone frayed by exhaustion and worry. In her mind's eye, she could see him perched on a nearby rooftop, his bow held at the ready, vigilant eyes scanning the desolate cityscape for threats both seen and unseen. The slight tremor in his voice betrayed the toll of their ceaseless vigil.

"Not yet," she replied, frustration evident in the sharp, angry clack of keys as her fingers flew faster. "This virus... it's unlike anything we've encountered before, Clint. It's not just ravaging bodies; it's unraveling the very fabric of society."

Natasha paused, her mind involuntarily replaying scenes from their last reconnaissance mission. Abandoned playgrounds stood as eerie monuments to lost innocence, monkey bars swaying gently in the breeze, devoid of children's laughter. Boarded-up storefronts lined the streets, their darkened windows resembling the vacant eyes of a city in mourning. The rare passersby they encountered moved like ghosts, their fear palpable even behind layers of protective masks.

This silent, invisible war was a far cry from the alien invasions and megalomaniacal villains they were accustomed to facing. There was no clear enemy to fight, no straightforward battle plan to follow. Just an relentless, microscopic foe that had brought the world to its knees.

Clint's weary sigh crackled through the comm link, a burst of static that mirrored Natasha's own conflicted emotions. "We'll crack this, Nat. We always do." His words carried a forced optimism that did little to mask the underlying current of doubt and fear.

As her fingers continued their relentless assault on the keyboard, Natasha's thoughts drifted to the countless lives hanging in the balance. Families torn asunder, dreams shattered, a world forever altered. The image of a little girl she'd witnessed yesterday burned in her mind - small hands pressed against a hospital window, separated from her ailing mother by an impenetrable barrier of glass and protocol. The child's wide, tear-filled eyes had struck a chord deep within Natasha, echoing her own complicated past and igniting a fierce determination to fight harder, push further, and find a solution at any cost.

"We have to," Natasha whispered, her voice low but filled with iron resolve. "For all of them. For that little girl. For everyone who's counting on us."

She took a deep breath, inhaling the stale air of her makeshift command center, and dove back into the labyrinth of code. Outside, the sun began to set on another day of uncertainty, painting the sky in hues of blood and fire. But within the compound, Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, continued her tireless battle against an enemy she couldn't see, driven by a hope she refused to relinquish...

I pause, hand cramping from the furious pace. The world I've created on the page feels more real, more manageable than the one beyond my room. In my story, Natasha and Clint face impossible odds, but they do so united. They're not feigning normalcy. They're confronting the problem head-on, bound by shared determination. They have each other's backs.

Unlike Kaycee, who seems to believe that ignoring hospital bills, maintaining a perfect GPA, and imposing a rigid schedule on me will magically set things right. As if her relentless positivity and meticulously curated Instagram posts could somehow cure Mom.

The morning evaporates as I write, pencil scratching across paper, birthing a universe where I wield control. Only when my stomach growls in protest do I realize how much time has elapsed. My eyes dart to the clock, panic jolting through me. 2:47 PM. I haven't logged into a single online class.

Momentary fear grips me as I imagine Kaycee's reaction. Her voice, taut with disappointment and barely concealed anger, echoes in my mind. But then, defiance ignites in my chest. It's my birthday. If I choose to spend it writing instead of grappling with fractions, so be it. The day's small rebellions have kindled a fire within me, fueling a determination that's smoldered for months.

As afternoon bleeds into evening, I alternate between writing and Marvel movies, pointedly ignoring my school laptop's insistent pings. I know there will be consequences, but for now, the freedom is intoxicating.

By the time the sun begins its descent, painting long shadows across the apartment, restlessness and irritability set in. The walls seem to close in, silence punctuated only by occasional notifications from my neglected laptop. The high of rebellion has faded, leaving a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I find myself in the hallway again, transfixed by the family photo. I make a silent vow. I won't let Kaycee prevail. I won't allow her to erase Mom's presence from our lives. And I certainly won't let her mold me into some cookie-cutter version of what she deems a proper ten-year-old.

The battle lines are drawn. And unlike the Avengers, I have no intention of playing the hero in this story. Sometimes, I think, as I hear the distant rumble of Kaycee's car pulling into the driveway, it feels good to be the villain.

Let her witness the chaos I've sown. Let her contend with the spurned "health food" and mountains of unwashed dishes. Let her face our situation's stark reality, the cold hard truth that no amount of schedules or TikTok recipes can remedy.

Because Kaycee isn't a superhero. She won't swoop in to save the day. She's just a frightened girl masquerading as an adult, and I'm done playing along.

As I hear her key in the lock, I steel myself for the impending confrontation. Kaycee may fancy herself heroic, may believe she's the guardian I need. But she's no Tony Stark, no Steve Rogers. She's not even a Hawkeye.

Because real superheroes? They fight for their loved ones. They don't surrender. They don't attempt to replace what's lost with pale imitations.

And they certainly don't wish, in the darkest recesses of their hearts, or even voice it aloud in the heat of argument, that they wished their mothers would drop dead.

⌁₊˚⊹ ⊹˚₊⌁

Note: Took a month but I was able to post this from Ruth's perspective. What do y'all think of her? I would love to learn about your take on the two sisters so far. We get into the craziness in a few chapters. Vote and Comment lovelies!! Mwah!