All the tiny humiliations stacked like bricks until they built a gallows.
Five years of dying by inches.
What’s a little exhaustion compared to that?
Ihate feeling weak.
No. Hate is too soft. Iabhorit. I want to dig my fingers under my ribs and peel the feeling out of me like rot. Maybe it’s because I spent too much of my first life being everyone’s favorite chew toy for fate, but helplessness hits me like a phobia now—a full-bodyget-it-off-get-it-offreaction.
And of all the times for it to hit?
Now.
Trying to walk to a bathroom.
A bathroom.
Imagine being undone by a hallway. I survived death, undeath, a wraith, cosmic bullshit, and here lies my downfall: twelve sad feet of linoleum.
My legs drag like they’re shackled, and I really don’t want to think they won’t get better on their own, because, heaven help me, if I need to suck some dick just to regain the vitality of the living, I’d rather drop dead.
Sucking dick takes a lot of effort.
You need to use your muscles right. The tongue, the neck, fuck, even the biceps. Holding your balance while you’re on your knees? No joke.
And right now?
It’s like I’m made out of soggy tissue paper.
All I can hope is that I’ll magically regenerate on my own, and push all thoughts of servitude on my knees to later.
One foot, then the other. Pathetic, but it’s progress.
By the time I drag myself in, I’m greeted by cracked tile and the familiar scent of mildew and bleach. I grab the sink for balance, stare at my reflection in the speckled mirror, and try to ignore the way my hands are trembling.
“Pain, are you here?” I mutter at my reflection. Talking to myself in solitude is familiar. The difference now?Myselfmight actually sass me back.
“If I find out you’re lurking and enjoying this like some invisible creep, I swear I will—”
“—what? Scold me to death?”
I whirl. Or, correction, I pivot at the blistering pace of a mildly motivated snail.
And there he is.
Standing behind me like he spawned from my irritation alone.
Dark eyes, dark hair, dark aura. Not really looking like a teenager should, to be honest, but a close enough copy. Now that I know what he really is, I realize that his appearance is just a reflection of his inner self.
Skin pale enough to make the shadows under his eyes seem painted on? Hair falling into his face in jagged black pieces? posture all cool indifference?
The baby is feeling sorry for itself.
And, well… since the baby’s a part of me, that must be saying something about me. But I decide to ignore that part.
“Cut your wings off,” I finish, my hands finding a wall instead of the sink. “That’s what I will do.”
He shrugs one bony shoulder. “See any wings on me, Skye?”
