It took me precious moments to finally realize the party isn’t real. But... the popping sound was.
Pop, pop, pop. Three more times. That muffled sound wasn’t champagne opening at all.
I bolted upright,nearly knocking the large box over. Josie jolted upright too, shoving her body against mine for protection. It had been a while since we’d been woken up by gun shots. The sound seems to be coming from tent city. Our box was far enough away to be safe, but Josie and I spent the rest of the night cleaving to one another out of fear anyway. When the world was silent—or as silent as the city ever got—Josie finally calmed down and curled into my lap. I cracked open a makeshift window higher in the box. It was on the opposite side of my lower ‘door’ and just as poorly cut. Chilly air wafted in, cooling the sweat along my body and making me shiver. I wasn’t hot, quite the opposite, but being afraid was nearly the same thing. I sweat when my mind created scenarios of all the terrible shit that might happen. Funny how people often couple fear with being cold.
For me, terror was hot.
It was burning.
My skin was left slick from it.
I ate the rest of the pickles as dawn crept over the city, splaying fingers of light over skyscrapers and early commuters. I knew it was a bad idea, but it was all I had to eat. Heartburn set in quickly and my stomach cramped. Wrapping my arms tightly around my abdomen, fighting back the churning and twisting in my belly, I watched through the sloppily cut opening in the box. Things got brighter, more and more people took to the streets, a parade of taxis drove through the underpass. Fresh beads of sweat built on my forehead as my stomach yelled at me for eating the wrong thing. Pulling Josie off my lap and holding her against my chest, I took a few deep breaths. Her body thrummed comfortingly against me. Second by second, the city moved into high gear like a giant. It yawned, stretched, and stood up to greet the day. It was strange how it felt so small and isolated at night, but so bright and big and busy in sunlight.
When a group of suit-clad Alphas passed by my box, a heady perfume of pine, coffee, fresh mint, and tonka bean slammed into me. My Omega stretched almost painfully, reaching out to their individual scents and testing them.
God, scents were...like a million different worlds. So many uniqueodors. Dances of cinnamon and turmeric. Songs of sweet orange and heady tobacco. Stories of forests and wet fur. My own jasmine and cedarwood scent desperately wafted outward, wanting to find its other half. Needing love. Hoping for connection.Hungry for touch.Of course, hungry for touch, more often than note lately, quickly shifted to hating every single person in the city. Then my mood would tilt again, sliding off a flat planet, and flushing with another symptom of false heat.Heat. Dammit.
I realized then that it wasn’t just the food I’d eaten. The sick was coming back, the nausea, the anxious energy that kept me from relaxing—as if someone can truly relax living on the streets.I must be nearing my heat. God, I didn’t know if I could take it again. Trying to nest, trying to stay comfortable and fight the overwhelming need. With every cycle, it got worse. Lust, longing, losing my ever-loving mind. When would it hit this time? In a few days? A week? Two weeks?
But maybe if I was lucky, it would be a false alarm again. That had happened more than once—all the signs of a heat, but it never actually hit. Funny how I was praying to not be healthy these days. Healthy Omegas don’t skip heats.
I held out until the nearby church’s bells rang nine o’clock, then I pulled myself out of the box, my satchel already firmly around my shoulder and Josie settled inside it. The night had been shitty. Remembering the good times, and how they’d felt, had tortured me. But it was Wednesday today. I was going to shower. I was going to change into the clean, extra pair of panties. And I’d get a proper hot meal from the Hearts Over Seattle sisters at the shelter.
The line at Seattle Saints was already wrapped around the block when I arrived. The sun wasn’t even that high, yet it beat down on us as if being in line for free food and free showers wasn’t enough of an insult. No, the pounding rays wanted to add injury as well. Joke was on it, though. Most of us were already too broken to feel a little extra pain.
"I should have come earlier," I muttered, joining the back of the line. I’d thought about it, but after my shitty night sleep, I just hadn’t been able to muster the energy to get out of my box any earlier than nine, when those cheery church bells pushed me to face the day. My stomachcramped again, and I pressed my palm against it, as if that would help. The pickles had been a mistake, but then again, when you're starving, you don't get to be picky about consequences. I wondered what the good sisters had to offer today. I really hoped it wasn’t a chowder again. I think if I looked at a bowl of anything creamy and lumpy, I’d definitely throw up. Maybe it would be those sticky, honey-soaked rolls again with ham. A few months ago, Hearts Over Seattle had a huge donation of holiday sized spiral hams which hadn’t sold at one of the city’s grocery stores. There’d been so many smiles that day, even the sullenest kid had laughed as his mom gave him a second bread.
I really hoped the food was good today.
I really hoped the line for the showers moved quickly.
A few yards ahead, a group of three Omegas huddled together. They had their old book bags on backwards, held against their chests so no one could steal them from behind. One of them, the strawberry blonde, furtively glanced back. She gave me a small smile. I smiled back. We recognized one another, but even if we didn’t, we would. Most of us had the same aura around us. The forgotten. Fighting the same battle to survive each day.
At precisely ten o’clock, one of the good sisters opened the side door to the shelter.
Today was the only day they threw open their doors to everyone, not just the registered residents. Desperation, like a bad perfume, hung in the air, yet the minute that door flung open, the scent of laundry detergent, powdered soap, and baked bread wafted out to float over the crowd.
It was Sister Margaret, who always smelled lightly of clean air and cotton. It was artificial though, in the way Betas liked to douse themselves in smell to feel better. She held her clipboard at the ready, and her beatific smile was so warm that it put the horrible sun to shame.
“I know that everyone is tired and hungry and ready to shower,” she quipped kindly, “I’m going to take down a list. Per usual, we’ll be separating by birth genders firstly, and then we’ll categorize by Alpha, Omega, and Beta. If you do not identify yourself within the two-gender system, we will ensure that you are taken care of as well.”
It was a canned speech, outlining the caste system mandated by federal regulations if any organization received government funding. There were never any Alphas among us, so that didn’t even need mentioning. The only advantage an unbound female Omega had on the streets was that she got priority. Unbound male Omegas, though few, came second because of their potential for breeding. And Betas were mostly clumped together, regardless of birth genders, since they were fully outside the ruling class. I was always surprised when one of the good sisters mentioned folks identifying outside the two government-recognized genders. The current laws for differently gendered Alphas, Omegas, and Betas were still so constricting. The sisters could probably be sanctioned for even recognizing them as a different group. It was wild to me, considering our biology, that the government would restrict an Omega male, for instance, from identifying as something other than ‘born male’. Of course, I also think people should marry whoever the hell they want, even if it may not produce an Alpha or Omega pup.
“Women and girls to the left. Men and boys to the right. If you fall outside of these, please group together at the back.” Sister Margaret was giving instructions.
Those of us with experience were already mechanically moving into our respective lines. You could always tell the newcomers, who looked confused for a while before fumbling around and finding their place. I flicked a glance to the back. No one was grouping there. I wouldn’t either, even if I did identify differently. We didn’t live in the kind of world where you could fully, freely be yourself.
About twenty minutes later, I found myself fifth in line for showers. That wasn’t too bad. The three younger Omegas, including the strawberry blonde, were in front of me. And an Omega I thought might be a few years older than me too. That surprised me. If she wasn’t mated yet, I didn’t know how she was controlling her temperament at such an advanced Omega age. I wasn’t even twenty-one yet and it was already insufferable. I wondered if she prayed to skip her cycles too, or if she’d figured out a better way to deal with nature’s needs.
Only two could shower at a time, so I slid down the wall and sat onthe floor, pulling my bag against me. Josie was being an absolute angel and not making a single peep. The other Omegas didn’t speak, and I didn’t volunteer to break the silence.
My gaze wandered as I gently petted Josie through the thick burlap sack. A bright, happy flyer on a billboard opposite me caught my eye. I almost smiled; it was so silly.
The Cupid Company makes love happen. Be a part of the magic!
A silly fat cherub shooting an arrow flew beneath that claim.
Love. Who cares about love.
