Always is.
Mind blocks it out when I'm not confronted directly with it.
The pharmacist takes the license. She tries—fails—to keep her expression neutral as she looks at the photo.
The blood drains from her face.
Her eyes widen slightly.
She glances up at me, then back down at the license. Then up again with that familiar look.
Shock.
Feels like my throat is closing.
Can't breathe right. My heart thrums against my ribs like it's trying to escape, to distance itself from the monstrosity attached to it.
"I, um, need to scan this and verify this is you." She clears her throat. "Could you lower your mask?"
I freeze.
Nobody wants to believe the picture is real. That I'm not fucking with them. She doesn't need me to pull my mask down. The scar over my eye already gives me away. The one thing I can't hide. She knows I'm the monster on my ID.
She just wants to see.
To confirm it's real.
To have a story to tell later.
I check over my shoulder. No one is watching right now. All busy with their phones, all in their own worlds.
Taking a deep breath to steel myself, I hook a finger under the edge of my mask. The fabric clings, as if trying to protect me from what's about to happen. I tug it down just for a second.
Her reaction is immediate. Visceral.
Fear spikes her scent, sharp and acrid. My ID falls from her hand to the counter with a clatter that draws eyes.
I jerk the mask back up, securing it tightly before anyone else sees and all hell breaks loose. The momentary exposure leaves me feeling flayed. Raw. Vulnerable in a way that makes me lightheaded, makes my skin crawl.
Her eyes widen, then dart away, unable to maintain contact with what she just saw. She swallows hard, throat bobbing. Looks like she's going to faint. Wishes she hadn't asked.
That makes two of us.
She busies herself with her computer, typing with shaking fingers. "W-what's the suppressant for?" she asks, her voice unnaturally high. "Um, I mean,who'sit for?"
Another unnecessary question. Alphas can get whatever we want, no questions asked. Another excuse to keep talking, to pretend she's not fucking traumatized.
I sigh and type another message.
Girlfriend.
The omega's suggestion rings in my head.
Simple word. Sharp edges.
Carves out something hollow inside me.
The lie sits between us like a third person.
