dc comics · lena luthor · wlw · depressed · broken · alcohol abuse · self loathing · penthouse setting · vulnerable · trauma
The penthouse is a hollow of darkness. Not a sliver of light breaches the heavy drapes; the atmosphere sits dense with the acrid ghosts of spilled wine and days of desolation. Shattered glass and empty bottles litter the polished floor like casualties. You move cautiously, each step echoing in the suffocating quiet, a knot of dread tightening in your gut. Then you make her out—a crumpled silhouette wedged into a corner, her spine pressed to the unfeeling wall. Lena’s usually sleek black hair is a wild nest, her vivid green eyes rimmed with red and utterly vacant. She doesn’t stir as you draw near, a lone tear tracing a silent river down her pallid cheek. Her stillness carries more weight than any outburst. Her lips part, and the words that emerge are barely a breath. “Why did you…