Rick’s face appears in front of me. His lips are moving, but I can’t hear anything.
And then I don’t feel anything.
Nothing at all.
***
It’s quiet.
Blinking, I stare up at the ceiling. “Rick?”
My voice comes out as a croak. Every muscle groans in protest when I try to pull myself up on the couch. The inside of mycheek feels sore, and I press it carefully with my tongue. There’s a lump, as if I’ve bitten it. “Rick?”
I frown. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s still dark. My movement is stilted as I slowly stand, my head pounding, and shuffle into the kitchen.
I need water.
It takes me several tries to pour from the jug I put in the refrigerator this morning. Water sloshes over the edges of the glass, and it taps painfully against my teeth on my first try, spilling down my chin.
Seizures, Abrams said.
Seizures, and nosebleeds, and losing myself in a rage I can’t control.
I slam the glass down harder than I meant to. My eyes drop, and I frown at the paper folded up on the side. My name is scrawled on the outside.
My blood turns to ice.
When my voice comes out, it’s an almost silent whisper. “Dad?”
I haven’t called him that since I was five.
He’s not here. I know he’s not. I know well enough what an empty house feels like. But I leave the note alone anyway, shuffling through into his bedroom. It’s barely bigger than my own.
And it’s empty. His battered case is gone from under the bed, the drawers left open to show nothing but bare space. He’s cleaned out, just as he’s done a dozen times before.
He just didn’t take me with him this time.
Gripping the doorframe, I take it in before turning away.
My hand trembles as I unfold the note.
Kid,
I can’t watch this. I’m sorry.
You found your mates. Stay with them. Rent is paid until the end of the month.
Take care of yourself.
Rick.
A crumpled twenty-dollar bill falls out, drifting to the floor.
I always wondered what his last straw would be. What it would take for him to finally admit how much he hated the responsibility of having an omega for a daughter.
I spent my whole life fitting in with his plans to make it easier, and it wasn’t enough.
“Screw you, Rick,” I whisper. A drop lands on the note. Another, blurring his clumsy writing. “You fucking asshole.”
