Chapter Text
Pain exploded across the back of her skull. The impact of a large vine to the back of Shyanne’s head had sent her reeling, her grip on the infant in the crook of her arm tightened out of instinct. She stumbled violently, losing her balance and toppling to the floor.
“No...” Shyanne gasped weakly, desperately reaching out for her wailing baby who had been stolen from her grip by a coven scout. Her hands clawed at the air, head still whirling.
A pair of gloved hands roughly gripped her from her underarms, yanking her to her feet. She clumsily attempted to steady herself, unable to find purchase against the carpeted floors of the castle. The beat of her heart pounded in her ears as the corners of her vision began to blur.
A weak exhale escaped her lips before the darkness claimed her as its mistress.
The negative pregnancy stared mockingly back at her, her gaze burning into the singular, taunting pink line the small test displayed.
A scream pierced the air as the sound escaped from her throat, making her own ears ring as the echo circled around the humble bathroom.
The scream continued, it continued as her throat began to feel raw, and it continued as her pale fist collided with the mirror hung on the wall just above the sink. The shattered pieces of glass collapsed into the sink, slicing red wounds into her hand.
Her chest heaved heavily, all the air in her lungs having escaped as the inside of her throat itched. Her fingers remained entangled with the shards as warm blood began to drip down the wall where the mirror had been mere seconds ago.
A choked sob wrestled within her throat as she leaned over the sink, frizzy red curls falling over her shoulders, staring at her tear-stained reflection in the broken glass.
Shyanne sat at the counter of the bar, her head held in her hands. The bar—lit by dingy and flickering yellow lights–smelled strongly of alcohol and smoke as it wafted through the air. Sam, a very dear friend of hers, stood behind the bar counter in front of her, wiping down glasses as he looked at her with furrowed brows paired with a frown.
Streaks of dark mascara ran down her cheeks, beginning to dry and stain her skin. “And I’ve tried everything. I’ve been trying for years! And—and it’s just not working.“
“Look, Shy, maybe it’s just not the right time?” Sam says. “I mean, it took me years to save up for this bar—hell, I’ve almost lost it too many times,” he huffs out a laugh,” But it all worked out in the end, and it will for you, too.”
“This is different than some stupid bar, Sam. How is it ever supposed to be the right time when everything is working against me?” she hisses, slamming her fists down onto the wooden countertop.
“Hey, hey, hey– be careful with my counters, yeah? These counters are busted up as it is,” Sam jokes, hoping to lighten the mood but that wish quickly vanishes as Shyanne continues.
“I deserve to have this one thing. I’m a good person,” she says, her voice rising in volume.
His expression shifted weirdly at her last statement, a slight scowl etched into his features. “Sure, Shy.” He murmurs quietly, switching his gaze from her to the glass he was cleaning. then changes the topic, “How are them therapy sessions workin’ out for ya?”
She has to resist rolling her eyes, sighing before responding, “Eh, fine… the guy, he’s okay, I guess. As good at his job as he can be.” She shrugs, attempting to shake off the topic.
“Guy? Huh, thought it was a lady,” he says, rag in hand still wiping down glasses.
“Yeah. It was… ‘fore I stopped going” Shyanna muttered the last part carelessly.
Sam pauses, returning his gaze to her. “You stopped goin’?”
“Yeah?” she says, heat rising in her cheeks which only irritates her more. “What’s the problem? It’s not like it was helping anyways.” Shyanne says in a defensive tone.
“I’ve still been paying for those,” he says in an exasperated tone. “Is that why they’ve been chagrin’ me extra? The cancellation fee? Titan, you have to tell me these things, Shy, I’m trying to help you!”
Shyanne scoffs, “I never asked for your help. I’m doing just fine.”
“No, no you’re not and we both know that.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You’re not.”
“I am.”
“Nope.”
“I AM!” She snaps. “Im perfectly fine.”
“You’re not and we both know that.” Sam tries to reason with her.
Shyanne’s gaze narrows at him, “You think I’m the one that needs help, huh? How’s the wife?” she sneers.
Sam’s expression immediately darkens at her words. “Don’t you dare bring this up again, Shy. You know the birth was hard on her–”
“Pshhh, hard on her?” Shyanne lets out a mocking huff of a laugh. “You’ll give her grace because she’s going through–what did you call it, again?”
“Do not–”
“Oh, I remember, she’s whining about ‘post-partum depression,’” Shyanne mocks in a childish voice, using her finger to mimic air quotes. “I just don’t understand why someone as pathetic, and as fragile as her, is more deserving of a child than I am–”
“Shut. Your. Mouth.” He snaps at her, slamming down the glass he was holding, shattering the delicate cup.
The sound sliced through the lively environment like a sharp blade, bystanders instantly silenced by the sound of commotions. All eyes fell on the scene happening at the bar as if it were some lousy crystal ball entertainment program.
“I’m just being honest. I don’t understand why you always have to get so mad.” Shyanne says, waving her hand at him in a dismissive gesture.
“Because you never think about anybody other than yourself! You’re so selfish!” Sam raises his voice at her, nearly jumping over the bar, a vein practically bursting out of his forehead.
Her expression shifts into a blank face as she blinks at him dumbly. Selfish? The thought made her laugh. She wasn’t selfish. How could anybody call her selfish? She was even willing to adopt a child that wasn’t hers, since she couldn’t seem to have her own… But that wasn’t the point–in fact, she’d even go as far as to describe herself as charitable.
Sam notices the lack of understanding etched into her smug stare. “You’re hopeless, you know that?” He pauses. “Get out.”
“What?
“Get out,” he repeats.
“You can’t kick me out, Sam–” Shyanne starts.
“GET OUT!” Sam yells, earning a couple gasps from the audience.
Her eyes widened in surprise; however her expression quickly shifted to one of anger. “Fine! I don’t need your help, I’ve never needed it!”
She abruptly got off of the bar stool, kicking it over before storming out of the bar, but not before making sure to knock over a couple of the patrons’ drinks.