34. Harper
THIRTY-FOUR
HARPER
Broken. Just like me.
The words lingered long after I’d fled Nash’s room.
I’d always known I was broken. That a part of me had been wrong since the moment I became Hannah Flagg. Since I was dragged from the river and nursed back to life by an old, grizzled fisherman who just happened to be in the right place at the right time.
Some days, I wished he’d let me drown instead.
If I hadn’t been fished from the cold, dark waters . . .
What if it was all different?
Nash might not be so broken.
Angel might not hate his kinder side.
Rowan wouldn’t carry the secret for seven years.
Was I causing more damage than good, being alive in the first place?
Anxiety had me spiraling once more, the crash from subspace, something I hadn’t experienced in a long time, overwhelming me.
I had an ex once who was into that. All that dominant-submissive bullshit, the rough touches, the demanding orders, the praise and degradation. When he was in a good mood, he could make me feel like a piece of shit and then bring me back up to the tops of the clouds, all in one go.
Nash was different. Nash aimed to wound. He didn’t greet me at the bottom of a crash with kind words, reassurance, and praise. He didn’t care for me when I needed it most.
Instead, I was left to deal with the crushing anguish and emotional pit of despair on my own, alone in this sea of solitude as his mocking, cruel words echoed in my skull even when I closed my eyes and prayed for it to stop.
Broken.
I found myself in Rowan’s bed, though it lacked the comfort I sought without him in it. Rowan had never been a comforting person, anyhow. He was more of a protector, a wall of brick between you and the rest of the world when you couldn’t handle it anymore. He was a born leader, a commander of troops. In another world, he might’ve been a fucking politician or a president. But life dealt him a shitty hand, and now he was in charge of his brothers and a ruthless, twisted killer, just like the rest of them.
"You’re broken, Harpie girl."
Even in an empty room, the sounds were as visceral as if we were still in the same room. I could feel it, each fucking word, dragging across my skin as easily as one of his blades. It cut deeper than any flesh wound could ever go, though. This kind of pain dug its nails into you and refused to let go.
I should know. I’d been dealing with it since the day my mother died.
Broken!
Tears fell from my eyes, soaking into the silky fabric of Ro’s sheets that tried desperately in vain to absorb my sorrow.
Maybe I should just go. Let someone else take me out. Maybe if I just turn myself over to the people looking for me, it’ll all be over for them. Maybe then they can go on with their lives. I can stop messing everything up.
My hands clenched into fists as the thought of just ceasing to exist rolled around in my head, sounding increasingly bleak with every passing. I knew it was the anxiety and mental drop talking. But somehow, that didn’t diminish the effect it had on me, the power it held. Hell, if there was a knife nearby, I couldn’t be sure I would have the control over myself to not reach out and take it, put it to a part of my body, and just bleed.
"A bunch of jagged edges, all looking for a body to dig into and bleed dry."
Maybe he was right. But that body didn’t have to be anyone’s other than my own. Maybe this world wasn’t done taking from me. If I reached out and took a blade to my wrist, perhaps the sacrifice would slake the universe’s thirst for pain .
Thankfully, exhaustion claimed me before I could take any drastic actions. With shuddering sobs, I succumbed to unconsciousness and curled into the fetal position in the center of Ro’s big bed.
Alone.
Scarred.
Broken.