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Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
I drag myself down the stairs. Just the thought of standing up straight sends knives stabbing through my belly. I want to run, run far way, and never see this house, or these alphas again, but I can’t even crawl without losing my grip every few steps.
I finally stumble into the basement, wrists and knees aching, ignoring the tears that drip onto the cement and the growing, gnawing pain in my chest and core.
I’m tired.
I’m so fucking tired of never being enough. Never being chosen. Always being the one who’s thrown away.
Even by my mates. My fated mates.
Fate is fucking bullshit.
I won’t chase anymore.
Not Wyvern Pack or anyone else.
I’m done begging and crying and moping. Even if I’m not done with this pain… I’ll get through it on my own.
Not because I’m a sad pathetic loner, but because I’m strong and powerful, and I can do anything I want.
That’s what I’m going to do from now on.
I’m going to do whatever the fuck I want, because if hiding hurts this much in the end, why be afraid of taking risks?
I crawl into the shower, turn the water to burn-your-face-off, but it’s not enough. I need to be submerged. I need the world to stop, the sensations to stop, the hurt to stop.
I inch out of the steam, and my arms and legs wobble.
I can’t make it to the lake like this.
Fucking hell.
I’ll drown if I try to find relief there, and I don’t want to die, it just feels like maybe I should.
My arms give out in front of the supply closet.
The door hangs open, and I press my cheek on the cool floor, curled up until I spot the big metal barrels of de-scenter.
It’s the worst idea I’ve ever had, but being underwater—even under chemicals—sounds like bliss.
I climb to my feet like I’m summiting Everest, and claw off the barrel’s lid with shaking fingers.
The chemical sent blows me back, making my eyes water. It’s not as sharp as bleach, but you’d have to be a special kind of damaged to think I should take a bath in here.
I never claimed to be smart.
Holding onto the metal shelving, knocking down stacks of toilet paper and tissues, I swing a foot over the lip. The chemical soaks up to my ankle. I flinch, expecting a burn, because this shit is caustic, but it’s nice and cool when it touches my heat-torched skin.
I dip my leg.
I swear, the last time I spritzed myself with this stuff it stung, but now it’s…nice. The chemical scent sears Orion out of my system, and the thick, room-temperature liquid is honestly soothing.
Or maybe it’s just that everything else hurts.
