I want to rip my hair out. Even with headphones in, I still know what they're doing in his bedroom. Even if I can't hear it, I can still feel it. It feels as if my nails are being yanked off one by one, my fingers bloody and shaking. I hate it. I hate him. I hate being here. I hate this feeling. It's as if he's wrapping his hands around my neck and slowly squeezing harder and harder, watching as my face grows pale, ignoring my begging.
I sit in the middle of my bed—music blasting in my ears—and I try not to scream. All I want is to go home. I knew this was going to be a mistake, but what could I do to stop it? Run away like drunk Rae wanted?
In this moment, after hearing such sounds echo from his bedroom, I'd rather him kill me. I want to rip out the mate bond from inside of me and burn it. In this moment, I no longer fear loneliness. I am on foreign territory, alone, and right now I feel as if I have nothing left to lose. Life has never seemed so dark, so empty and sinister. The Moon Goddess must hate me, she must want me dead.
No longer thinking rationally, I tear out my headphones and shoot from the bed, flying out of my room and hurrying down the hall. I pause at the stairs when one of this woman's many cries jolt through my body, a spear aimed at my heart. The muffled sounds of their intimate movements drive me into a sort of desperation. Rushing down the stairs, hearing their voices grow dim, I retrace my steps to the kitchen in search of a familiar potion. A potion of healing.
The downstairs is vacant, so I don't bother to act presentable. I sift through the cabinets but come up empty-handed, then I doubtably move to the pantry to find nothing again. With this intense desperation, I wander through the rooms until I come upon an elegant sitting room. In the corner, I spot an unusual cabinet, and with sudden excitement, I swing it open. Inside are bottles of all shapes and sizes—being no experienced drinker, I don't know what to grab. Each one looks deliciously numbing, so I grab a tall bottle of clear liquid and I know it is vodka. Not only the label tells me, but I am familiar with the liquor, having had it in my own house.
Hoping to receive a feeling similar to that given from the wine, I claw at the wrapped cap and screw it open. The smell is not pleasant, but neither are the feelings in my chest, so I take a gulp.
Grasping onto the bottle like a child to their milk, I wander towards the back of the house until I find a back door. Sneaking through, I ignore the intense and unpleasant taste in my mouth, and I sit down on the edge of the porch, my legs filed in between the fence posts, my feet dangling and kicking back and forth. After a few more sips, I abandon the bottle and wander out towards the trees.
I know this feeling. It feels like the end of a book or movie, and in a few seconds, after one more page, you know the story is over. Where else am I supposed to go? What else am I supposed to do? I can't live with my mother forever—that's saying I get out of this hell—and I can't stay here, left to wither away. All I have right now is the forest and my muzzy head left to wander these woods until someone realizes I'm missing, and that could take days.
Nothing hurts more than knowing your mate is sleeping with someone else. Maybe rejection could come close, but it is a different kind of pain. Being hurt like this is degrading, he's spitting in my face, telling me just how much he doesn't care about my existence.
I know I should have expected this, and in ways I did, but I didn't expect to feel so worthless. I have to get out of here.
Not knowing exactly how much vodka I drank, I stumble through the trees, tripping and stopping every now and then. At one point I slowly trickle to the ground, and slump against a tree, wishing I had brought the bottle with me.
Why couldn't I be one of them? The pretty girls who dress nice and brush their hair and flirt with boys who may or may not be their mate, but they don't care. They have that security in knowing one day they'll find their mate, one day someone will love them until the end of their life. I will never have that security. I shall forever live not knowing if I will ever be happy. It's up to me, I suppose, but is it so bad to yearn for someone to lend a hand when I've fallen? Someone to pick me up and kiss me and tell me that everything will be alright because they love me?
This pain is causing all of my self-taught life lessons to slip away from me. All of the hours spent convincing myself that I'll be okay, all of the tears shed for nothing. I was strong before this Alpha. I would have been okay without him.
Lazily getting up, I wander farther into the blackness of night, letting the forest caress my aching soul.
I come to a halt when I notice the glowing eyes of a wolf ahead of me. It must be a guard working on the borders. Before I can explain, the creature dashes off, and I find myself alone again.
Not soon after, a voice is calling at me.
"Hey!" The man yells, "You're too close to the border. I'm going to have to ask you to head back."
Glancing up, I wave him off, smiling to myself. I couldn't even escape if I wanted, could I? I'm stuck here. I'm a prisoner.
"Miss? I told you to—are you alright?"
Feeling quite hopeless, I chuckle and say, "Yeah, I know. I'm going," my voice swaying. The stranger nears me. "I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm going, now."
"You're quite far from. . ." His voices fades to confusion. "Where did you come from?"
The pack house must be the only thing over here. "I came from the Water's pack," I murmur, no longer wanting to talk, "I have to go."
"The Water's Pack? What are you talking about?"
Not wanting him to go to Alpha Grant about this, in my drunken stupor, I start to walk off, speeding up.
Weaving through the forest in an attempt to lose him, I cling to trees for stability, flying from one to the other. For some reason, this amuses me, and I can't help but laugh.
My life is over.
Somehow, I make it back to the pack house, and I hurry inside before he can emerge from the trees and catch me. I fall closed with the door and slide down it like water slides down glass. My butt hits the floor and part of me is expecting my mother to step out and question me. Where have you been? What have you been doing? You did what to the Alpha? I already miss it. Right now, being suffocated with her worry seems better than being discarded as something useless.
The sounds upstairs have stopped, and I climb into bed surrounded by nothing but darkness. I don't want to sleep here.
I could have been happy alone, back at my pack—but no—he had to take me away, he had to bring me here. Why? He knows that we have no future together, that I am nothing to him but a roadblock, medication to his wounds. He didn't want any of this—he didn't want me, so why must I suffer? To make sure the Alpha stays strong? It's criminal. While I wither away, he grows stronger, feeding off of my soul.
In the morning, I find myself making my way downstairs, heading for the kitchen. My head is a foggy mess, pounding relentlessly. The bright lights hurt, and I hold my head down, not wanting to run into anyone like this.
Hearing voices to the side, my eyes are lead to the door, and I surprisingly see Alpha Grant standing in front of it. He's speaking to someone, his body filling up the space, blocking me from seeing who.
As he shuts the door, moving to the side, I catch a glimpse of the person—the girl. The one from last night.
My chest, it hurts again—that feeling deep down inside of me, the one I attempted to drink away last night. My head is no longer the only thing that is aching.
Alpha Grant turns and sees me, our eyes connecting for a second or two before I swiftly look away. No longer hungry, I turn back and hurry up the stairs.