My hand shakes. The letters come out jagged.
I don't understand what's wrong with me. Normal people don't want this. Normal people would have fought back or screamed or done SOMETHING.
I just took it.
Worse—I wanted it.
Even now, sitting here barely able to move, everything hurting, I can still feel him inside me. Can still hear his voice. Can still smell him on my skin even after the bath.
And my body—god, my body—
I'm getting hard just thinking about it.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I press the pen harder. The ink bleeds through the paper.
Linda used to hit me when I showed signs. When my scent started leaking through the suppressants at thirteen. She caught me without my shirt once. Saw the changes.
Her hand cracked across my face so hard I tasted blood.
"Disgusting," she said. "You're disgusting. Do you know what you are? What this makes you?"
She hit me again. Closed fist this time. My lip split open.
"You're weak. Pathetic. This is your fault. Your body. Your sickness."
Then she made me kneel on the tile floor. For hours. Until my knees bled and I couldn't feel my legs anymore. Until I was sobbing and begging her to let me up.
"This is what you deserve," she told me. Standing over me. Looking down at me like I was something she scraped off her shoe. "Omegas like you need to be punished. Need to learn their place."
I learned.
I learned to hide everything. To take my pills. To make myself small and quiet and invisible.
I learned that wanting anything was dangerous. That my body was something to be ashamed of. That I was fundamentally wrong.
And tonight—tonight I proved she was right.
Because I went down to that basement knowing. I heard the music and I KNEW it was Zero and I went down there anyway. My body was already reacting before I even saw him. Getting hot. Getting slick. Wanting something I shouldn't want.
When he told me to leave, I didn't.
When he kissed me, I kissed back.
When he bent me over that bench, I let him.
No—I wanted him to.
I stop. My hand is cramping. I shake it out and keep writing.
I'm so fucked up. There has to be something wrong with me. Because Zero was ROUGH. He hurt me. Used me. Said things that should have made me hate him.
He called me pathetic. Said I was just a hole. That I belonged to him. That my body was his property.
And instead of being horrified or angry or disgusted—
I got off on it.
