Page 8 of Puck Your Charity

The apartment always offers a quiet retreat from the chaotic energy of the children's ward. Today, the sensory overload pushes me to the edge. Noise echoes inside my skull. The hum of the refrigerator sounds like a roaring generator. The ticking kitchen clock grates against my nerves. Muted sounds of city traffic travel straight up my legs.

Pacing toward the kitchen, the fabric of my navy cotton send jolts of strange awareness down to my center. The friction borders on pain. The seam of my pants rubs my inner thighs. My breath hitches in my throat.

Stopping in the middle of the room, I squeeze my eyes shut.

The phantom scent from the hospital follows me home. Standing alone in my apartment, I smell them. The memory of the pack's custom cologne washing over me feels fresh. Crisp citrus mixed with cedar, black pepper, and thunderstorms overpowers the lingering hospital bleach.

My mouth waters. A desperate whine builds in the back of my throat, forcing me to swallow it down.

Rubbing my temples, I blame the fever. Fevers mess with your senses and cause hallucinations. Smelling a millionaire hockey player's cologne in an empty kitchen proves my brain is cooking.

Ripping my scrub top over my head, the damp fabric lands on the white quartz island. I pop the button on my scrub pants and kick them off. Peeling the socks off my damp feet leaves everything in a disorganized heap.

Clad in sensible cotton underwear and a matching sports bra, I open the medicine cabinet. Grabbing a bottle of ibuprofen, my trembling fingers drop the plastic cap. It bounces across the counter and rolls onto the hardwood floor. Shaking two pills into my sweaty palm, I toss them to the back of my throat and drink from the kitchen faucet.

Leaning over the stainless steel sink, I grip the edges of the counter. The cold metal feels good against my burning palms.

Resentment burns through me. I hate feeling weak and sick. My independent life relies on my body functioning on command. I depend on boring, balanced Beta hormones to keep me grounded. Refusing to take days off keeps me in control.

A flush stains my cheeks red. Ragged breaths tear from my chest. The throbbing in my head matches a strange, persistent pulse low in my pelvis. My thighs ache. The skin on my arms prickles under the cold air blowing from the ceiling vent.

Pushing away from the counter, I give up on the medicine. I need a cold shower. Freezing this bizarre fever out of my system is the only option before it drives me insane.

Every step into the bathroom takes a monumental effort. The white subway tile and spotless glass shower doors offer zero calm today. The sterile environment mirrors the hospital and brings back the very moment everything went wrong.

I reach into the shower stall and twist the silver dial to the coldest setting. Water blasts from the showerhead and hits the drain with an echoing splatter.

I strip out of my cotton underwear and sports bra. A deep breath fills my lungs before I step into the freezing spray. Icy water hits my shoulders, promising relief. The cold should shock my system and drop my core temperature back to normal.

Instead, a jolt of electricity rips through my body.

A gasp tears from my throat as I brace my hands against the wet tiles. The freezing water hits my raw skin and turns into liquid fire. All my nerve endings scream as droplets strike my nipples, peppering them into tight, aching points. A desperate ache shoots straight down to the apex of my thighs.

I grab my loofah and a bottle of unscented body wash. Squirting soap onto the sponge, I scrub at my skin. Washing the sweat off becomes a mission because the lingering smell of the city and the hospital needs to vanish.

Friction from the rough sponge against my arms and chest overwhelms me. A ragged moan rips from my lips. I drop the loofah, and it lands on the floor with a wet thud.

I wrap my arms around my torso and sink against the tiled wall. Cold water cascades over my hair and down my back, but the heat inside me ignores the chill and grows stronger. My hips roll forward on instinct. I chase the friction of the water running between my legs.

Panic slices through the fog in my brain. I slap my hand over the silver dial and shove it upward to cut the water off.

Sudden silence in the bathroom rings in my ears.

My legs tremble as I step out of the stall. Leaning against the vanity keeps me upright. I grab a fluffy white towel from the rack.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My chest heaves with ragged breaths. My lips look swollen and bitten red.

I run the towel down to dry my legs, but the terrycloth fabric brushes against my center. I freeze in place. The towel slips from my grip. Trembling fingers reach down to touch myself.

My fingertips come away soaked in a thick, clear slickness.

A wave of horror crashes into me. I stare at my shiny fingers, my jaw dropping open. I swallow hard to push down the rising bile.

Viruses don't make you wet. Stomach bugs don't cause a deep, throbbing emptiness to open up inside your pelvis. Fevers don't make your nipples ache with the desperate need for teeth.

I'm not sick. I'm burning with an intense, unexplainable arousal, that only happens to…

"No." I push the word into the empty bathroom. "No. I'm a Beta. This doesn't happen to Betas."