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Once, when she was little, she ran away. She ran because she had made a mistake and didn't want to face the consequences for said mistake. She hid, angry tears stung her eyes and she remembered hissing in frustration, swiping the tears away, because you do not show weakness, soldier. Never help the enemy.
But that was a long time ago.
Now, she faced her mistakes like a big girl, her chin up, brows furrowed defiantly, shoulders squared and feet planted securely on the ground. Her face was carefully wiped of any emotion She was strong and did not back away from challenge.
At least, that's what she'd thought.
See, she had always taken strength from those that were around her. Well, really only one person in particular. And that time when she ran from her problems, that little girl alone with only her tears for company? Well, she finally found her one.
That was the first time she really let herself feel hope. To maybe, just maybe, water the little flowers that had a home in her chest, to let them start to flourish. Little blossoms that her young mind didn't know the names of created little pops of color in her world of grey.
And it was all because of her. Now, looking back on it, she didn't know if she hated her for it or if she was glad for the time that they did get together.
At first, they were just friends. But, oh how she loved her.
Most of the time, they couldn't afford to be wild and carefree like that day they first met, but they made do. When one was hurt, the other protected. They covered for each other, had each other's backs in a bond so strong that the other cadets glared at the two in training simulations, when they fought in such deadly, chaotic harmony.
They completed each other. And everyone knew it.
Everyone but them, that is. They never could see the beauty they created together, too caught up in the other to notice the whole picture.
When they started to get targeted by the others, things became different. Both of them weren't so quick to smile, to crack a joke or even talk to one another. Things became tense. And every time a new bruise appeared on her skin . . .
That was not a good time for either of them. But they made it through-- sure, not without their few bumps and bruises from words spat in anger and claws raking across skin. They'd always been explosive in their friendship.
But they'd made it. Right?
She thought that they would be fine, after all, they were the strongest cadets that had ever been seen and they were going to change things. Obviously! They were going to rule, they would be magnificent, they had plans. They weren't going to rot here forever.
Right?
That's when things changed indefinitely for her. The little girl who came to check on her after her ran away was now a woman, strong and capable, courageous and formidable. And the little girl who ran, well, she finally saw her best friend for who she was.
And she was beautiful.
Everything about her was stunning-- her face when she won a spar, her laugh, however rare it was, her eyes in the morning sunlight, her hair shining golden in the light of the sunset when they snuck up to their spot to watch the sun fall past the mutilated horizon of the Horde.
Everywhere she went, she spread flowers that bloomed impossibly, leaving marigolds and daisies, with the few pops of amaryllis scattered like blood in her wake. On special days, she could spot laurel leaves, nestled in the stems of the flowers.
And really, how could she compare?
With her dark, wild brown locks and her heterochronic eyes, short stature and high-pitched laugh that was really more of a cackle. With her dreary garden of cacti, vines of morning glory and poppies, like her own personal omen of death. Everything about her should have been a sign that she shouldn't be around a . . . goddess like her. And yet, somehow they were . . . whatever they were.
One might not call them friends at this point, oh no, friends who were just friends didn't have the closeness the two shared. But she tried not to think about that too often.
And then Adora left.
And Catra felt the weak garden that had been watered by Adora's brilliance start to wither away.
The angry little kit that she'd been when she was younger leapt to the front of her mind constantly. Sometimes she cursed herself for being so stupid to just let Adora in so easily, to let her take over until she was the only thing that mattered.
When Adora took that final step away from her, when she ran from Catra, it had snapped something that had been keeping her afloat in the hell that was the Horde.
That first night alone in their bed, the bed they shared because Catra could never fall asleep alone on the hard beds the cadets were given, she waited until she could hear everyone's breath's even out in sleep before she shed the tears that burned like acid behind her eyes. Her tears rolled down furry cheeks and before she knew it, she was clasping a desperate hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs that tried to rip from her chest.
The pillow still smelled like her.
Her unique scent clung to the pillow much like Catra clung to the memory of Adora, wishing it was actually her. As much as it hurt, Catra couldn't help but hold onto the last thing she had of her. Of Adora.
She knew that in the morning, Adora would fade away into the background, just a memory drifting in the wind. If she was lucky, that is. Catra knew how much Shadow Weaver favored Adora over the rest of them. As of now, Adora was an enemy to the Horde.
The moment Adora had turned her weapon, whatever it was and whatever its effects, against her troops, Adora had made herself a target. Someone who would be eliminated on sight if she came back. She was just a checkmark on the list of people to die for the Horde's cause.
She'd left Catra to rot here in this cesspit.
And for that, Catra wasn't sure if she could forgive her for it.
Catra laughed bitterly at herself. It always ended up being her fault, didn't it. Adora's beautiful garden of flowers that symbolized the strength and passion that was Adora herself pulled her in. Made her think that she could be worth something to Adora. But of course not.
She was an Unwanted. Why would someone like-- like her want something like Catra?
Somehow feeling so alone in that dark room of cadets sleeping before their next day of training, Catra swiped claw-tipped hands across her eyes, smudging the evidence of tears away even though no one would care anyway.
That had been Adora's job.
And she was gone. She left.
Catra growled angrily at herself, at the flow of tears that somehow hadn't dried yet. But, she supposed she could let herself have this moment of weakness. Catra knew that when the sun rose and the rest of the cadets woke up, she wouldn't be crying. No, Catra would be standing at attention when Shadow Weaver made her way to the barracks, like she always did, and she wouldn't show anything that would indicate that she'd been crying.
Instead, Catra would train. She was going to claw her way up to the top, no matter what she had to sacrifice for it. After all, Adora wasn't there to overshadow her, to be the very thing that held her back from becoming her true self. She had always imagined her and Adora taking over everything. But, she'd have to make do.
And instead of crying, Catra would laugh at the ache.
Her garden had never been a big thing. She'd always been paranoid and overprotective of those who gained entrance to walk through her rows of death flowers.
She found it ironic that the only thing that would be growing now would be rotten.