Chapter 6 Vespera #2
The marks throb in unison with my heartbeat. The fever that never quite breaks makes the room feel too hot, then too cold. Every cell in my body screams that I'm in the wrong place, that I need to go back, that I'm dying by degrees.
But tomorrow I audition for Medea. Tomorrow I start becoming someone else, someone who isn't dying of rejection, someone who takes control of her own narrative.
Sleep comes with the script clutched close, dreams full of a woman who loved too much and chose destruction over submission.
The parallels aren't lost on me.
The callback room smells like nervous sweat and ambition.
Twenty of us made the first cut for the main roles. Ben's across the room, already in character as Jason, that easy charm transformed into arrogance. He catches my eye and winks, breaking character for just a moment, hands making a tiny encouraging gesture.
"Vespera Levine," Marcus calls. "You're up."
Walking to the center of the room happens, my body protesting every step. Food hasn't stayed down since yesterday's grilled cheese. The fever spiked again this morning, high enough that sitting in a cold shower was necessary just to function. But none of that matters now.
"Whenever you're ready," Marcus says.
Eyes close, letting Medea fill the spaces where Vespera is broken. When they open, I'm not a rejected omega dying of biological imperative.
I'm a woman betrayed. A force of nature. A destroyer of worlds.
"Of all things upon the earth that bleed and grow, a herb most bruised is woman."
The words pour out, not performed but lived. Every ounce of rage at what they did to me, every moment of pain from the rejection, every second of having my autonomy stripped away—it all channels through Medea's ancient fury.
"We women are the most wretched. When we have bought a husband with our wealth, we must then accept him as the master of our body. For this is an even more painful wrong. And the outcome of our life's striving hangs on this, whether we take a good or bad husband."
This isn't acting anymore. This is testifying. Ben, reading as Jason, actually takes a step back from the force of it.
"But when a man grows tired of the company at home, he goes elsewhere and relieves the burden of his heart, turning to a friend or someone his own age. But we must fix our gaze on one person only."
My voice breaks on the last words, but it works, makes Medea human in her inhuman rage. The room is silent when I finish.
"Thank you," Marcus says, but his eyes are bright with something like recognition. "Ben, let's run the confrontation scene."
We do, and it's electric. Every accusation Medea hurls, every justification Jason makes—it's us and them, it's every woman who's been told her pain is worth less than a man's convenience, it's specifically me and three Alphas who thought biology gave them ownership.
"Cast list will be posted tonight," Marcus says when we're done. "Rehearsals begin immediately for those cast."
Outside, Ben catches up with me. "Holy shit, Vespera. That was..." His hands spread wide, unable to find words big enough. "I've never seen anything like that."
"You were good too," I manage, though the performance has drained what little energy I had.
"I was adequate. You were transcendent." He studies me, hands still for once. "You weren't acting, were you? Not entirely."
"Everyone brings their truth to their roles."
"That wasn't just truth. That was autobiography."
No denial comes.
The cast list goes up at six. Medea's name sits next to mine. Ben is Jason. We'll spend the next five weeks tearing each other apart on stage, showing Columbus what happens when love becomes rage.
"Congratulations," Ben says, appearing at my door with a bottle of sparkling cider, free hand already gesturing celebration. "To the most terrifying Medea I've ever seen."
"We haven't even started rehearsals yet."
"Doesn't matter." He pours two glasses with flourish. "I already know you're going to be devastating. In the best way."
We drink, and pretending happens—pretending my hands aren't shaking, pretending the room isn't spinning, pretending I'm not calculating how many more days my body can sustain this level of rejection sickness.
"First rehearsal's tomorrow at nine," he says, counting on his fingers. "Then regular classes, then evening rehearsal until midnight."
"I know."
"Think you can handle it?"
Thinking about the alternative of going back, submitting, letting them win. "I'll handle it."
He leaves. Barely making it to the bathroom before throwing up happens. The sparkling cider burns coming back up. My body is rejecting everything now, not just them. Food, liquid, sleep—nothing stays.
But I got the part. I'm Medea. For five more weeks, there's a reason to keep going, a role that demands I channel this pain into something powerful.
My phone buzzes. Stephanie again.
I'm coming to Columbus
We need to talk
I can't live with this guilt
Please
The phone turns off completely.
Tomorrow, fifteen-hour rehearsal day. The day after, eighteen hours. By the end of week one, I'll either be stronger or dead.
Either way, I'll be Medea until the end.
By the second week, people are starting to ask questions.
A student from scene study corners me at lunch. "Hey, Vespera? This might sound weird, but you remind me of someone. My aunt's friend's daughter? She was an omega too, went to some fancy school, but she had to leave because of..." She trails off, clearly fishing.
"I'm from Ohio," I say flatly. "Small town. You're thinking of someone else."
"Oh, but I swear there's a resemblance. What did you say your mom's name was?"
"I didn't." The water bottle in my hand gets gripped tighter. "And I need to get to rehearsal."
Ben appears at my elbow like he's been summoned. "There you are! Marcus wants to run the confrontation scene early." His hand settles on my back, steering me away, and the girl doesn't follow.
"Thanks," I murmur once we're alone.
"Anytime." His hands make a dismissive gesture. "People need to learn boundaries."
But the question lingers. I know my mother's name—Iris Levine, though she probably went back to her maiden name after she left. But knowing her name doesn't tell me anything that matters. Why she left. Where she went. Whether Dad's careful silence about her means something more than just pain.
The marks throb a warning, but I push the thought away. One mystery at a time.
The first week becomes the second. Days blur into eighteen-hour rehearsals, movement classes where I hide my stumbles behind artistic choices, late nights running lines with Ben.
He's been careful with me—a hand on my back during scene study, sharing his lunch when I "forget" mine, making sure I have a ride back to the dorms after midnight rehearsals.
His hands never stop moving when he talks, painting pictures in the air, making even mundane conversations feel performative. It's endearing. Safe. After months of Alpha intensity, his Beta warmth feels like being able to breathe.
But my body is keeping score. The rejection sickness gets worse, not better. More blood in the mornings. More fever at night. More moments where the room spins and I have to grab onto walls to stay upright.
I'm running out of time.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Ben: Sweet dreams. Can't wait to be destroyed by you on stage tomorrow.
Despite everything, I smile. Because for this week, I got to feel normal. Got to flirt with a nice boy who talks with his hands. Got to be just Vespera, not an omega rejecting her mates.
Whatever happens next, I had this.
The fever spikes again, higher than before. Barely making it to the bathroom before throwing up more blood happens—more than this morning. My body is shutting down faster now, like it knows they're coming and is giving up the fight.
Two more days until the end of week two. The show opens in four weeks. I just need to last until then. Just need to perform Medea once, show everyone what happens when you push someone too far, when you take away their choices, when you corner something wild.
But curling up in bed, shaking from fever and exhaustion, the truth becomes clear.
Four weeks won't happen.
Maybe not even four days.
Outside my window, Columbus glitters with theater lights and possibility. But all I can see are shadows that might be them, coming to take back what they think is theirs.
"You can't run forever," I whisper to the darkness.
But I'll run until I can't anymore.