I hate the thoughts in my head and hate myself even more for allowing my brain to do this to me.
I vaguely hear the voice of my mother, scoffing when she saw me in tears as a kid.
“Stop crying, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
“You’re just a little crybaby, Maeve. You think your life is so hard? It’s not, you spoiled little brat.”
“It’s not that bad. Quit being dramatic.”
“Don’t embarrass me in public. Shut your mouth and quit crying.”
I grit my teeth and dig my nails into my palms, carving little half-moons with my fingers.
“Always crying over nothing. Wasting my time when I could be doing other things.”
Her words from the past morph into toxic taunts in the present, a ghost I haven’t seen in years torturing me with verbal lashings.
“Why would Fang, Logan, and Ivan want to deal with a pathetic whiny brat? You can’t even function as an adult, Maeve. How pathetic.”
“Of course you turned out an Omega. Needy, selfish, and always acting like a baby.”
I snap.
Standing from my bed, I yank every blanket off, toss every pillow aside, and untuck every sheet until all that’s left is the bare mattress underneath my nest.
Then, I find my odor erasing spray and douse the fabrics in it, erasing the scents of Fang, Ivan, and Logan.
I punish myself the best way I know how—cutting myself off from the people that care about me and the comforts I enjoy.
Every ugly sob that escapes me only confirms the words I heard growing up.
I’m just a crybaby. A too sensitive, weak little Omega that can’t handle when life gets hard.
I stopped my own brother from being able to leave home.
Who’s to say I wouldn’t stop Fang, Ivan, and Logan from living their lives?
Sitting on the floor, staring at the aftermath of my ruined nest, my inner Omega weeps.
There’s knockingat my door.
I’m not surprised.
Of course, the pack would come to check on me.
Even if I wasn’t sure it was them, their scents permeate through my apartment, wafting from the closed front door.
My inner Omega screams at me to let them in.
Besides the panic and worries, my head hurts, and not from my obsessions.
Being apart from my scent matches begins to make me feel unwell.
The knocks get louder, but I stay sitting against my bedroom wall, looking at the remnants of my nest.
I took scissors to my old nesting blankets. I couldn’t ruin the ones that Ivan bought me, though.
I only destroyed the ones that I purchased myself. They’re in ribbons on the floor, and the pillows I loved the most have the stuffing torn out of them.
