He said I belonged to him. That I was his.
He was cruel and rough and he hurt me.
But for those minutes, I was HIS.
Not invisible. Not nothing. Not the foster kid charity case that Margot took pity on.
His.
And god help me, I want to be his again.
I want his hands on me. His voice in my ear. His body pinning me down. His cock inside me making me feel things I shouldn't feel.
I want him to use me again. Want him to hurt me again. Want him to call me pathetic and an omega and his property.
Because at least then I know I exist. At least then I know I matter. At least then I'm not invisible.
Is that what Linda meant? Is this what being an omega is? Just wanting to be owned? Wanting to be claimed? Wanting someone to take away every choice so you don't have to be responsible for the wanting?
Maybe she was right. Maybe I AM disgusting. Maybe this is the sickness she tried to beat out of me.
But I don't care anymore.
I don't care if it's wrong. I don't care if it makes me everything she said I was.
Because tonight, for the first time in my entire life, someone looked at me like I mattered.
Even if he hated me for making him feel it.
Even if he left me bleeding and broken on the basement floor.
Even if this thing between us is toxic and twisted and doomed from the start.
I mattered.
And I'd let him ruin me all over again for that feeling.
I close the diary. My hand aches. My chest heaves.
The words sit on the page. Raw. Honest. Terrible.
But they're out now. Out of my head. Where I can see them.
Where they make some kind of fucked-up sense.
I'm broken. I know that now.
And maybe that's okay. Maybe that's just what I am.
I crawl to my bed. Every movement careful. My body screaming.
Lying on my back is impossible.
I roll onto my stomach instead. Face pressed into the pillow.
The bed is soft. The pillow smells like fabric softener.
My body is wrecked. My mind is fractured.
