I park and don’t bother locking my car. I learned that lesson the hard way. It’s better to leave it unlocked than replace another shattered window when someone goes digging for anything they can sell.
The walk to the trailer is short, past overgrown grass and cracked concrete. I pause at the door, listening, trying to gauge the temperature before stepping inside.
The smell hits first, cigarette smoke and sour, moldy takeout containers. My dad is yelling at the TV, and my mom ispouring him another drink. His voice, raised and angry, has been the most consistent thing in my life. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll miss it when I finally leave.
They loved each other once. I know that much. Drugs and disappointment burned it all away.
I’ve seen the old photos. My mom, a beautiful siren omega cheerleader; my dad, a broad-shouldered lion shifter alpha football captain. In a town like this, they were royalty. A perfect couple with a perfect future. Watching that fall apart was practically a spectator sport.
I don’t remember them before the drugs. I only know the stories. Fated mates. Childhood sweethearts. Something real and good that couldn’t survive the years of disappointment and regret.
I slip past them quietly, down the mold-stained hallway, and into my tiny bedroom. I close the door with care and collapse onto my narrow twin bed. The shouting fades to a dull background noise as exhaustion finally wins.
Maybe I can get a few hours of sleep before their high wears off and the fighting starts all over again.
The sound of glass shattering drags me out of a dead sleep, my dad’s rage reaching its inevitable peak. A moment later, the front door slams so hard it rattles the trailer. An engine revs violently, tires screaming as he peels out of the driveway and disappears into the night.
Silence follows, thick and ringing, broken only by my mom’s sobs bleeding through the paper-thin walls.
The sound twists something deep in my chest. With a tired sigh, I swing my legs over the side of the bed. I already know what I’m walking into. I always do.
The living room looks like a war zone. The old, boxy television lies face down on the matted carpet, its plastic casing cracked. Clear liquid trails down the wall where he must’ve hurled a half-empty tequila bottle. Shards of glass glitter under the dim light, scattered around the TV stand like debris from a grenade.
In the kitchen, another chair is destroyed, snapped clean through the back. That makes two left now. Not that it matters. No one ever sits at the table anymore.
I follow the sound of my mom’s crying into the kitchen. She’s collapsed on the filthy linoleum, face buried in her knees. Her yellow dress is twisted, one strap slipping off her shoulder. Her legs are painfully thin, her arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold her body together.
“Mama,” I say softly. “Are you okay?”
She jerks her head up,eyes glassy andunfocused. “What?” Her voice is small. Distant.
I kneel so we’re eye level. “Are you okay, mama?”
Sheshakesherheadonce,thencurlsbackinon herself, crying harder.
I look around at the wreckage. At her. At what this place does to people.
If I stay, this will be me one day.
The thought settles heavily in my gut. Just because I’m an omega doesn’t mean I’m immune to rage. I’ve felt it. Sharp and hot and ugly. My mind flashes to Aksel, to the way mytemper flared so fast it scared me.
I shake my head, breathing through it.
No. I won’t become him. I won’t let myself rot into something cruel and broken just because it’s all I’ve ever known.
Decision made, I grab a black trash bag and start cleaning. Broken glass. Ruined furniture. Evidence of another night we’ll pretend didn’t happen. When the living room is as safe as it’s going to get, I return to the kitchen and carefully lift my mom into my arms.
She’s light. Too light.
I carry her to bed and tuck her under the thin, threadbare comforter. I press a kiss to her forehead and tell her I’ll be back soon.
For a moment, just one, clarity flickers in hereyes.
“Don’t come back, baby boy,” she whispers, her hand trembling as she cups my cheek. “That man offers no good to anyone. I’m so sorry.” Her throat works as she swallows. “I love you.”
My chest aches. “I love you too, mama.”
She nods that she understands, her eyes roaming from my hair to my chin like she’s memorizing my face. Then the fog rolls back in, and she turns away, crying softly into the pillow.
