Chapter 7
The house is dark when I get home. Dark and looming, the windows like empty eyes watching me pull into the driveway.
I park Margot's car and sit for a moment, staring at the estate.
My hands are still gripping the steering wheel even though the engine's off, my knuckles white, my fingers cramped.
All those windows. Too many to count, most of them dark now, a few glowing with warm light that feels like it belongs to someone else.
All that space. Vast. Overwhelming. Suffocating despite its size. None of it mine.
I don't want to go inside.
But I'm tired. Exhausted down to my bones, the kind of tired that makes my whole body ache.
My hands ache from gripping the steering wheel too hard on the drive back.
Twenty minutes of white-knuckled tension, my shoulders hunched, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel it in my teeth.
My head pounds from two hours of pretending to pay attention in class when all I could think about was Atlas's face when I pushed past him.
Those gray eyes. That disappointment. That flash of something I couldn't name.
Neither did we.
The words echo in my head on repeat, a chorus I can't silence.
I grab my bag —the strap catching on the gearshift, making me yank it free with more force than necessary— and head inside. Each step up the front stairs feels heavier than the last, like I'm walking through water. Like gravity has doubled.
The foyer is quiet. Dark except for the lights Margot must have left on—warm sconces along the walls casting long shadows across the floor, the ones that make the marble floors glow like something out of a magazine. My reflection stares back at me from the polished stone, distorted and ghostly.
I take the stairs slowly. Quietly. One hand trailing along the railing, the wood smooth and cool under my palm. My sneakers whisper against the carpet runner. I hold my breath at the landing, listening for any sound of movement, any sign that someone's still awake.
My room is at the end of the hall. Door closed. Exactly as I left it. The thin line of darkness beneath it unchanged.
I open it and step inside. The hinges are silent. The room is dark. I fumble for the light switch, my fingers clumsy against the wall.
Everything looks normal at first. The lamp clicks on, bathing everything in soft yellow light. Bed still made. Gray linens smooth, pillows arranged exactly as I'd left them this morning. Desk still organized. Laptop closed, notebooks stacked, pens lined up in a neat row. Laptop exactly where I—
I stop. My breath catches. My hand falls from the light switch.
There's something on my bed.
Orange plastic. Bright against the gray. Impossible to miss. Wrong. So wrong.
No.
My heart starts to pound. Slow at first, then faster. Faster.
No.
I cross the room in three steps —my bag sliding off my shoulder, hitting the floor with a thud I don't register— and pick it up. My hands are shaking. The plastic is cold. Light. Too light.
My pill bottle.
Empty.
The cap is twisted on loosely, like someone didn't care enough to close it properly. Like someone wanted me to know. Wanted me to see. I shake it anyway. Once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. The bottle is silent in my hand, hollow, mocking.
Nothing rattles.
Nothing.
I stare at the empty bottle in my hand. Turn it over. Check the bottom like maybe there's an explanation there. Like maybe this is a mistake. But there's nothing. Just blank orange plastic and the sticky residue where the label used to be.
Thirty pills. I just picked up my prescription three days ago. Three days. Seventy-two hours. I've taken exactly three pills, one each morning, same time, same routine. Thirty pills that are supposed to last me a month. Thirty pills that keep me—
Safe.
They're gone.
All of them. Every single one. Gone. Flushed. Destroyed. Taken from me.
"Fuck." The word tears out of me, raw and broken.
The word comes out strangled. Broken. My voice doesn't sound like mine. It sounds small. Scared. Young.
I drop the bottle like it burned me —my fingers opening, releasing it like the plastic itself is toxic— and it bounces on the bed, rolling onto the floor. It lands with a hollow clatter that echoes too loud in the quiet room.
This isn't happening.
This can't be happening. This is a nightmare. This is a mistake. This is—
I tear open the bottom drawer of my dresser where I hid it.
My hands are frantic now, pulling at the drawer so hard it nearly comes off the tracks, shirts flying as I dig through them.
Maybe I moved it. Maybe I'm losing my mind and I actually put them somewhere else—Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I miscounted. Maybe—
No. Nothing. The drawer is empty except for clothes. Just clothes. No pills. No bottle. No salvation. No, they were here. Under the shirts. Buried deep where no one should have found them. Where they should have been safe. Right fucking here.
Someone took them.
Someone came into my room. Violated my space. Went through my things. Touched what's mine. Found my suppressants. Found my secret. Found the one thing I can't live without.
And flushed them. Destroyed them. Took them from me deliberately. Maliciously.
My chest tightens. Like someone's wrapped a band around my ribs and is pulling it tighter. Tighter. Until I can't expand my lungs. Until breathing becomes work.
Can't breathe.
Can't—The room tilts. The edges of my vision go dark. I grab the dresser to steady myself, my fingers digging into the wood hard enough to hurt.
I need to call Dr. Yao. My phone. Where's my phone? I need to call her now. Right now. She'll understand. She'll give me an emergency refill. She has to—She has to because if she doesn't, if she won't, if I can't get more—
No.
No, she won't. The realization hits me like a physical blow. Cold. Hard. Final.
She's told me a dozen times. More than a dozen.
Every appointment. Every refill. The same warnings, the same protocols, the same rules I've heard so many times I could recite them in my sleep.
Protocol. Safety. They can't just hand out suppressants like candy because people abuse them.
Sell them on the street. Take too many. Use them for things they're not meant for.
Sell them. She needs to see me. In person.
In her office. Can't do it over the phone.
Can't do it without an examination. Needs to verify.
And even then, it's been three days since my last refill.
Three days. Not even close to the thirty-day window.
She'll know something's wrong. She'll ask questions.
So many questions. She'll ask questions.
Why do you need more already, Max?
Where did they go?
Are you taking more than prescribed?
I can already hear her voice. Concerned. Suspicious. Disappointed.
I can't tell her someone stole them. Can't tell her I'm living with people who hate me enough to sabotage me. Can't tell her the truth because the truth sounds insane. Paranoid. Like something a drug addict would say to get more pills.
She won't believe me.
Or worse—she will, and she'll tell Margot. And then Margot will know. Will know about the pills. Will worry about me and this new environment and it will ruin her perfectly crafted new happiness.
My hands shake. Trembling so violently I have to press them against my stomach to try to stop it. It doesn't work. The shaking travels up my arms, into my shoulders, my whole body vibrating with panic.
Eleven years. I've been on suppressants for eleven years.
Since I was nine years old. Since Linda discovered what I was and started medicating it away.
Four thousand days of pills. Four thousand mornings of swallowing down my nature.
Four thousand times of choosing to hide.
I've never missed a dose. Not once. Not a single day.
Not even when I was sick. Not even when I forgot and had to run home from school.
Not even when Linda withheld them as punishment and I had to beg. Never. Never once.
I don't know what happens if I stop.
Yes, I do. I know exactly what happens. I've read about it. Researched it. Stayed up late at night googling medical journals and forums and horror stories. I know what's coming.
Heat. Three to four months, that's the cycle. That's what the doctor said. That's what the literature says. That's what happens to every omega who stops taking suppressants. But I'm due. I'm—Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
I pull out my phone. Fumbling with it, nearly dropping it, my hands too shaky to grip properly.
The screen is too bright. The app takes too long to load.
Come on. Come on. Check the calendar app where I track everything.
The one with color-coded entries and reminders and detailed notes.
The one that knows my body better than I do.
Six weeks since my last heat.
Six weeks.
My stomach drops. Falls through the floor. Keeps falling.
The numbers stare back at me from the screen, stark and damning.
Six weeks means I have six more before—
Before I'm in hell. Before my body betrays me. Before everything I've hidden comes clawing to the surface. Before I become exactly what Linda always said I was.
The phone slips from my hand and hits the floor. The screen cracks. I hear it. The sharp sound of glass splintering. I don't pick it up. Can't. Can't move. Can't think. Can't—
I can't do this. Can't be here. Can't—The walls are too close. The room is too small. I'm suffocating. Drowning on dry land. I need out. Need air. Need—
I need out.