Page 34 of Bitter Truths

The next few weeks blur together in a haze of medication and doctors. Dr. Wagner, a psychiatrist, tries to get me to talk. I give her nothing at first—just stare at the ceiling and look for animal shapes in the water stains while she asks gentle questions.

Talking means thinking. Thinking means remembering. Remembering means more pain.

Numb is my preference.

They have to keep my hands in mittens because I won’t stop scratching myself to the point of bleeding.

“Tell me about what happened on the mountain,” Dr. Wagner says during one session.

I don’t want to. But maybe if I just tell her, this part will be over with. Then I can lock it up tight and never speak of it again. The words come out lifeless. I don’t recognize my own voice. I tell her about the alphas. About foolishly convincing myself they were mine.

“And now they’re bonded to someone else,” I finish flatly.

“That must have been devastating.”

Devastating. Such a small word for the complete annihilation of my soul.

“I was delusional. Just a crush, I guess,” I say, lifting my shoulders into a small shrug. It’s all so painfully pathetic.

Then, I tell her about Dr. Montgomery. About the diagnosis that carved away the dreams I had for our future and left nothing but a small glimmer of hope. Hope that they would somehow not be deterred by my shortcomings. That I would still have value and be enough for them. Right before they obliterated what was left of me and confirmed in the most horrifying way possible that no, I was, in fact, not enough.

“He said I’m deformed inside and I’ll never fully awaken. That I can’t have children. That my omega will stay trapped forever.” The words taste like poison, but I feel detached, like I’m speaking about someone else.

Dr. Wagner makes careful notes. “Have you shared this with your mother?”

I shake my head.

“I think she needs to know, Bianca. She’s trying to understand your pain.”

So I tell Mom that evening when she brings dinner that I won’t eat.

Mom’s face goes through every emotion as she processes what I’m saying.

“Oh, Bianca,” she whispers. “You’ve carried this alone for so long.”

After I tell her about Dr. Montgomery’s recent testing, Mom is quiet for a long time.

“I knew Emmett Montgomery in college,” she says. “Brilliant researcher. I always respected his work.”

She’s never mentioned knowing him personally before.

“But,” she continues, reaching for my hands, “that doesn’t mean he’s right about everything. Maybe we should get other opinions⁠—”

“Dr. Wagner already has my files from Dr. Montgomery,” I interrupt, pulling my hands away. “She reviewed everything. She didn’t disagree with his findings.”

“Bianca—”

“I don’t care,” I spit, my voice rising despite the tremor in it. “I don’t want to be an omega. I don’t want an alpha. I don’t want anyone. Ever.”

The last word comes out on a sob. She pulls me against her chest, both of us crying now.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she chokes out, her arms wrapped around me.

By week four, the doctors declare me stable enough for discharge. Physically, anyway. Emotionally is another story entirely.

“I won’t be going home,” I state to my mother when she mentions returning.

She nods like she expected this. “I found a place. A little town called Hunter’s Creek, about two hours from here.”