The word hurts. I have not been brother in a long time.
"You're not in the cell Fen."
Wood. Window. Bed. Door.
Not cell.
The chair is in the corner. The wanting does not care. The wanting wants her.
I take my hand off the handle.
Slow.
The wanting follows me across the room.
The choice stays mine.
I look at the chair.
Blue paint. Wood.
Not her.
The chair is light in my hands.
I remember the corridor.
Brother carrying me.
Alpha standing.
Quiet sitting outside my door.
Pack. Safe. Alive.
The wanting twists. The chair comes down.
Wood cracks.
Again.
The leg snaps.
Again.
The seat breaks apart.
Again.
The back explodes into splinters.
The sound fills the room. I keep going until there is nothing left to hit.
Silence.
The chair is everywhere.
Splinters.
