Marta woke up, she sat upright, and remained still. Lunch was set aside for her on the side table. She reached for her cup of black coffee and missed. She tried again. Her metal hand knocked the cup over. Everything was spilled. The ham and cheese sandwich Elena made was ruined. She picked the cup to try and stop the spill—and failed. The cup fell from the table and shattered on the floor.

Her breath hitched. Other than that, Marta sat there on the bed, staring blankly at the mess before her. Her metal limbs felt foreign, disconnected from her body and incapable of performing even the simplest tasks. She knew she should feel something—frustration, anger, sadness—but all she felt was emptiness. With a mechanical movement, she reached for the sandwich, her prosthetic fingers clumsily grasping at the bread and meat. She brought it to her mouth and took a bite, but the taste was muted, bland, devoid of any pleasure or satisfaction.

She couldn’t even take on her glasses. Her sense of balance was so terrible that unless she had Elena, she couldn’t put them on or off. She could only keep them on. Her blonde hair was set loose, neither in a ponytail nor a simple bun. Even with her glasses, her left eye was there yet it wasn't. She could see yet nothing like she could before. She was incomplete. She was broken.

Elena soon arrived. Her appearance was marked by a big smile and locked hands. “Marta, hey,” she greeted, smiling politely. “Want to guess—oh.”

Marta's gaze remained fixed on the outline of her legs under the covers. She couldn't bear to meet Elena's eyes, couldn't bear to see the pity and sympathy that would be written there. Marta felt Elena's motherly warmth come beside her and kneel down. The blonde didn’t look. She knew that Elena was cleaning up the spilled coffee and shattered cup, her movements efficient and methodical and devoid of hate. She didn't comment on Marta's apparent struggle or the solemn expression on her face.

Every tiny crunch, every little sound agitated her—and brought her guilt. Marta had been useless before but not like this. ‘No,’ she told herself. ‘You’ve always been useless like this. You’ve always been incapable of cleaning your own room.’ He remembered when Elena first arrived and her expression of shock. Marta hated it. She hated the humiliation and there was nothing she could do about it.

“Want to guess what I got you?” Elena asked once she was done cleaning up.

‘I don’t care.’

Instead, Marta mumbled, “What?”

“New glasses.” Elena went over and sat on the chair in front of her. What she had been hiding in her locked hands was a small case for glasses. She opened it up and gestured for her to take it. Her shoulder ached as Marta attempted to grab it. Elena nudged it forward and she almost snapped.

‘I can do it. I can.’ Her temper rose and fell in an instant and she was left with nothing. It was just…there. It was how she always felt. A surge of emotions would take over her then disappear into the void of her heart. Elena plopped it into her metal hand and smiled weakly.

From there, she put the case on her lap and began to take the glasses out. Ah, but wait—

“Your old glasses. Let me…” Elena leaned forward and slid them out. Marta let it happen. All that was left was to put on the glasses. She refused to have Elena help her with that.

Slowly, Marta's metal fingers grappled with the frames of her new glasses, their cold touch feeling awkward against the delicate hinges. She struggled to find the right angle to grip them, her prosthetic limbs lacking the finesse and dexterity of her natural hands. With a frustrated grunt, Marta finally managed to properly place the glasses on her face.

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"Thank you, Elena," Marta murmured, her voice lacking any genuine enthusiasm. She put the glasses on, adjusting them on her face, but they felt like a foreign object perched on her nose.

Out of nowhere, Elena asked, “Ah, Marta, do you need to go to the bathroom?

Marta's expression darkened slightly at the question, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. She clenched her jaw for a moment before responding tersely, "No, I don't need to go to the bathroom."

“Are you sure? If you need my help, just ask.”

“I don’t.”

Elena frowned and nodded. From the corner of her eye, Marta glared at her.

Elena Petrovna…she was a forty-year old housewife. What could she possibly know? What could she understand? She gave up on the Heavenly Games the instant she saw danger and relegated herself as a baker while Marta kept pushing. Her temper flared—

“Ugh…!”

And the phantom pain in her right shoulder flared with it. It was as if her entire arm were engulfed in flames, the burning sensation consuming her from within. No amount of magical healing or potions could dull the intensity of the phantom pain. It was there, it was always there when she didn't want it, and Elena noticed.

“Marta, are you okay?” Her touch was tender and Marta smacked it away.

“I’m fine,” Marta said through seething teeth. “I’m fine. Please…just leave me alone.”

Elena opened her mouth. “Marta—”

“Leave.” Her voice cracked. “I said leave!”

It was the first time she had ever yelled at anyone and it felt good. Elena was speechless. Slowly, she got up and went to the kitchen area. She was still here, she was still in her immediate vicinity, and Marta wished she wasn’t. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to twist and turn and scream without anyone being here.

She wanted to return to being on her computer. She wanted to sit there for hours on end. She wanted…

‘I want to be home.’

Because this wasn’t home. This was a pale imitation of her home. This didn't have the life-long air conditioner or her computer. She missed it. She wanted to see it all again. She wanted to play games and go on Discord and go on Youtube. However, this world granted none of those luxuries. It was pain, pain, and more pain. Suffering and effort and nothing else. She wanted to be lazy again. She wanted to sit in her pink gaming chair and draw her knees to her face and smile. She wanted to be herself again. She wanted to relax.

Marta didn't know how much time passed until she did. It must have been hours. Elena was fast asleep in the corner. When Marta closed her eyes and let her shoulders sag, as the rage in her bones dimmed, she was greeted with flashes of blood and a white mask; of a golden rapier and words. “You're no genius. You’re just annoyingly tenacious. Dirty. A woman unable to recognize that she has no talent. A speck that I deem…unworthy.”

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up—!’ Her eyes flew open, her chest rising and falling rapidly. ‘Shut the fuck up! Shut up!’

“I’ll give you something to cry about, woman.”

“What, you’ll do anything? Do you know how many of you have said that to me?”

“Haah…hahh…” Marta wanted to put a hand on her chest to calm herself but she remembered it wasn’t her hand. It wasn’t her. She couldn’t even comfort herself. Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her chest constricting with each frantic inhalation. The walls of the room felt like they were closing in on her and her heart pounded in her ears, a deafening drumbeat that drowned out all other sound. She felt dizzy, lightheaded, as if sinking into the mattress.

Images flashed through her mind, vivid and terrifying: the moment her limbs had been torn from her body, the agonizing pain of her injuries, the helplessness of her situation. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision. She didn’t want to reach out. She didn’t want to use this false part of herself.

“Marta? Marta, are you okay—?”

A hand touched her and tried to shake her.

“Don't touch me!” Marta didn’t think, her arm simply reacted and slapped aside the voice. Metal met flesh and she heard a loud thud. She didn’t bother looking. She didn’t want to. When she did, her heart stopped. She had made a big red mark on the woman's cheek. “I-I'm sorry,” she stammered. “I-I didn't…” It was her left eye, she couldn’t see and judge. She just…she just wanted to smack her hand, not her face!

Elena lay there for a moment, holding her cheek. For a second, she glared up at her—then, a second after, softened. She looked like she wanted to say something. Give something. She drew in a breath, trepid, and got up. “It's okay.” Elena forced a smile. “I'll just leave you alone.”

Marta liked being alone. She did. So why? Why did she feel so empty? Why was her neck so tight? Why could she not speak?