"The sun'll come out tomorrow," I sing-sob in my childhood bedroom, the words twisted into something desperate. "Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there'll be sun."
Except there won't be. There's only Columbus in three days, if I survive that long.
I wake fully, sheets soaked with sweat, throat raw from singing or screaming or both. The late afternoon sun streams through my window, casting long shadows across the collection of playbills Dad's framed on my wall. Proof that I existed beforeNorthwood. Evidence that I was someone before they tried to make me nothing.
The memory lingers—Mom's shaking hands, the way she touched her neck like it hurt. I was too young to understand then. But now, with three marks burning on my own throat, with rejection sickness eating me alive, I wonder.
Was she sick too? Is that why she left?
Dad never talks about it. But the pieces are there if I look for them—the way he goes quiet when omegas and bonding come up in conversation. The way he looked at my marks with something that might have been recognition.
Annieat Franklin Community Theater, age 8.
Our Townat Franklin High, age 16—Emily Webb, the girl who only understood life's value after death.
A Midsummer Night's Dream, senior year—Helena, chasing love that didn't want her.
How fucking prophetic.
I force myself out of bed, legs shaking but steadier than yesterday. Three days until Columbus. Three days to get strong enough to work eighteen-hour days. Three days to rebuild myself into someone who can disappear into roles instead of disappearing into death.
My suitcase sits open on the floor, half-packed with leotards and tights, character shoes and leg warmers. The uniform of someone who transforms for a living. I add more—black clothing for tech work, since the work-study position will probably have me running lights or moving sets when I'm not on stage. My lucky warm-up shirt, soft from a hundred washes. The small notebook where I write down character observations, filled with everything except notes from the past year. Northwood doesn't get to come with me.
Except it does. The marks on my neck throb in time with my heartbeat, reminding me that I can pack all I want, but I can't leave behind what they carved into my skin.
Dad knocks softly. "You up, sweetheart? I've got news from Marcus."
"Come in."
He enters carrying a folder and his laptop, settling on my desk chair with the careful movements of someone trying not to spook a wild animal. "Marcus sent over the summer intensive schedule. Thought you might want to look it over."
I take the folder, scanning the contents. Six weeks of intensive training. Voice and movement every morning at 7 AM. Scene study. Audition technique. Stage combat. Shakespeare workshop. And at the end, a showcase for industry professionals—agents, casting directors, people who could change everything if they like what they see.
"There's more," Dad says, pulling up something on his laptop. "They're doingMedeaas the summer production. He thinks you'd be perfect for the title role."
Medea.The woman who loved too much and destroyed everything when that love betrayed her. Who killed what she created rather than let it be taken from her.
"That's... a choice," I manage.
"It's a powerful role," Dad says carefully. "The kind that gets noticed. The kind that launches careers."
"The kind where a woman burns everything down rather than submit."
He looks at me then, really looks at me. He catalogs the weight I've lost, the fever still burning in my eyes, the way I unconsciously touch the marks on my neck.
"Sometimes burning it all down is the only choice they leave you," he says quietly.
We sit in silence for a moment, both of us thinking about women who leave, who run, who choose destruction over captivity.
"Mom would have loved seeing me play Medea," I say, surprising myself.
Dad's face does something complicated. "She would have. She always said you had the kind of talent that could make people uncomfortable. The kind that shows them truths they don't want to see."
"Is that why she left?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
"Your mother left because..." he starts, then stops, running his hand through his hair. "She left for her own reasons. That's all I know for certain."
It's not an answer, but it's more than he's ever given me before.
