Chapter 7 #2
I run out of my room and down the stairs.
My feet pound against the steps, too loud, too fast, I don't care I don't care I don't care.
My mind is reeling —thoughts colliding, breaking apart, reforming into worse thoughts, worse scenarios, worse outcomes— and I make a snap decision.
The night air hits me like a slap when I stumble out the back door.
Cold enough to burn my lungs. Sharp enough to cut. Real enough to hurt.
Cold. Sharp. Real. The only real things left. Temperature. Pain. The ground under my feet.
I don't know where I'm going. My body moves without direction, without thought, just momentum and panic and the desperate need to run.
Just away. Away from that room. Away from the empty bottle.
Away from the violation. Away from the timer that's started counting down in my head.
Away from the reality that someone in this house hates me enough to—To what?
To destroy me? To expose me? To punish me for existing?
My fist connects with brick before I realize what I'm doing. The impact reverberates up my arm, through my shoulder, into my spine. Bone against stone. Flesh against immovable object.
Pain explodes up my arm. White-hot. Immediate. Clarifying.
Good. Yes. This. This I can control. This I can feel. This makes sense.
I hit it again.
And again. And again and again and again until there's a rhythm to it, a pattern, a meditation of violence.
The brick scrapes skin. Rough texture catching on knuckles, tearing epidermis, exposing dermis, going deeper.
Splits knuckles. The skin parts like paper, clean lines that immediately fill with blood.
Blood smears against stone —dark, almost black in the dim light, spreading like ink, like proof that I'm real, that I'm here, that I exist— but I don't stop.
Can't stop.
All I can feel is the impact. The jarring shock of bone meeting wall.
The way it travels through my hand, my wrist, my arm.
The way it numbs everything else. The way it drowns out the panic, the fear, the voice in my head screaming that I'm running out of time.
The sharp, clean pain that drowns out everything else.
You're disgusting.
Hit. Blood spatters. I don't care.
Filthy.
Hit. Something breaks. In my hand or the wall, I don't know. Don't care.
Unnatural.
Hit. My knuckles are raw meat now. I can see white through the red. Bone. Tendon. I hit harder.
My right hand goes numb. Stops responding to commands. Fingers won't curl anymore. Good. Perfect. It matches the rest of me. I switch to my left. Fresh canvas. New pain. Start again.
The brick is unforgiving. Rough. Every ridge and bump and imperfection catching skin, tearing it away in strips. Every punch tears something open. Tissue. Capillaries. The thin membrane between holding it together and falling apart.
They know. Someone knows. Has to know. Why else would they take them? Why else would they do this? They have to know. Why else would someone take them?
Zero. It was Zero. I'm certain. It has his fingerprints all over it.
His cruelty. His casual violence. His complete lack of regard for anyone but himself.
Had to be. The way he looked at me at the wedding.
Like he was dissecting me. Like he could see through skin and bone to something underneath.
Something he wanted to hurt. Like he could see right through me.
My knuckles split. Both hands now. Matching wounds. Symmetrical destruction. Blood drips onto the patio stones. Steady drip drip drip like a metronome, like a heartbeat, like time passing.
I hit the wall again. Again. Again. Until I can't anymore. Until my body refuses. Until my arms won't lift.
Until my hands won't close anymore. Until my fingers barely flex.
Won't bend at all. Locked in half-curled positions like claws.
Useless. Broken. Perfect. Until the pain is so overwhelming I can't think about anything else.
Until it's all there is. Until the pills and the heat and the future all disappear into a white-hot haze of sensation.
I sink to the ground. My legs give out. I don't so much sit as collapse, my back hitting the wall, my body folding in on itself.
I slide down, hands cradled against my chest. Protecting them now. Too late. Far too late. The damage is done.
They're covered in blood. Soaked. Dripping.
My shirt is getting wet where I hold them.
I can smell it. Copper. Iron. Salt. Knuckles raw and split.
Hamburger meat. Shredded. Some pieces of skin hanging by threads.
Fingers swelling already. Puffing up, turning purple-red, hot to the touch despite the cold air.
I can't feel them. They're there but they're not. Part of me but separate. Throbbing with their own heartbeat but distant. Numb and agonizing all at once.
Can't feel anything except the crushing weight in my chest that won't let me breathe. The invisible hand squeezing my lungs. The water I'm drowning in even though I'm on dry land. The way my throat keeps closing. The way each breath is a fight I'm losing.
Suppressants. Gone. All of them. Eleven years of safety. Eleven years of hiding. Eleven years of pretending to be normal. Gone. Flushed down a toilet by someone who hates me. Who wants to hurt me. Who wants to expose me.
Dr. Yao won't give me more. Can't give me more. Won't believe me. Will ask too many questions. Will tell Margot. Will ruin everything.
I have six weeks. Counting down to the moment when I lose control of my own body. When I become what Linda always said I was.
Maybe less. Could be less. The suppressants will be out of my system by tomorrow night. Could trigger early. Could happen tomorrow. Could happen tonight. Could be happening right now.
What if the timeline is off? What if I'm wrong?
What if ten weeks wasn't accurate? What if I miscounted?
What if stopping the suppressants triggers it early?
What if my body goes into shock from the sudden withdrawal?
What if I go into heat in this house, surrounded by alphas, with nowhere to hide? What if—
A sob tries to claw its way up my throat. Burning. Choking. Desperate to escape.
I swallow it down. Force it back. Bite my tongue until I taste blood. Will not break. Will not cry. Will not give them the satisfaction.
I don't cry. I don't break. I survived Linda's fists. I survived being passed from home to home like damaged goods. I survived being told I was wrong, broken, disgusting, worthless. I survived the system. I survived everything that tried to kill me before I was old enough to fight back.
But this?
This is different. This is biological. This is inevitable. This is something I can't fight with silence or endurance or sheer stubborn will.
Because I can't hide what I am if I go into heat.
Can't pretend it away. Can't swallow a pill and make it disappear.
Can't lock myself in my room and wait for it to pass.
It doesn't work like that. Nothing works like that.
Can't pretend. Can't play normal. Can't be the quiet, forgettable stepson who doesn't cause problems. Can't be what they expect. Can't be safe.
The brothers will know. Will smell it. Will know exactly what I am. Will look at me differently. Will see me as less. As weak. As prey. Richard will know. Will be disgusted. Will regret letting me into his house. Will want me gone. Margot will resent me. Will be disappointed.
Everyone will know that I'm exactly what Linda always said I was. Every word she screamed. Every insult she hurled. Every lesson she beat into me. All of it true. All of it coming to the surface. All of it inevitable.
Wrong. Broken. Disgusting. Filthy. Unnatural. An abomination. A mistake. Something that should have been drowned at birth.
I press my bloody hands against my face —the blood is sticky, cooling, starting to dry in tacky patches— and fight back the tears that burn behind my eyes. They're there. Right there. Pushing. Demanding release. I won't let them fall. Won't. Won't.
This place is hell. This house. This family. This life I didn't ask for.
My stepbrothers are hell. Atlas with his disappointment. Zero with his cruelty. Bane with his hatred. All of them hell. All of them dangerous. All of them threats I can't escape.
And I'm trapped here with nowhere to run. No apartment to return to. No friends to call. No money for a hotel. No car of my own. No escape. No exit. No way out except through.