Page 72 of Pack Fever

Lightning streaks across the dark sky, and the monstrous rain feels like a suffocating shackle around my throat, making it hard to breathe.

Seth’s saying something, but I can’t hear him, not when my mind’s flashing with images of my dad and me screaming in the car that’s lost control in the rain, the empty look in his eyes, the agony, the loss. Then the bus racing down the mountain during a storm, the trauma of being trapped inside, the flames.

I gasp, grasping myself tighter, staring at the rain, knowing I can’t do this.

I just can’t.

My throat thickens as Seth reaches out for me.

“I’ll carry you, so you don’t get your shoes wet.”

I pull back instinctively, shaking my head. “I-I can’t go,” I stammer. I’m shaking hard, my head throbbing with my hammering heartbeat.

Seth’s brows pinch together. “Have you changed your mind?”

I blink at him, then turn my gaze back to the storm outside. Another deafening thunderclap has me shaking hard.

Seth studies me, his expression softening. “The storm scares you?” he asks tenderly. “I promise I’ll hold and protect you on the bus.”

But it’s too much. I can’t stop seeing my father’s dead eyes, and tears are forming in mine.

“No, you don’t understand,” I murmur. “It’s not just the storm. I mean, it is, but me and storms and buses and cars don’t mix. I’m bad luck, and I’m going to get us killed.”

His lips are pinching tight. “Wait! What brought this on?” His voice is soft, and there’s confusion dancing behind his gaze.

No words come out as tears well up in my eyes. Before I can find a response, another thunderous roar rattles the building.

I jump in fear, and without hesitation, I turn and bolt back into the building, rushing to our quarters. I don’t stop until I’m inside my room, the door locked, and I’m stumbling into the bathroom, also locking the door behind me.

I want to be alone. Alone. Alone.

I flick on the lights, and the walls feel like they’re closing in on me.

Tears stream down my face as my legs give out, and I collapse to the floor on my knees. I hug myself tightly, rocking back and forth, trying to stop the revolving images of my father’s dead eyes in my mind.

“Dad…” I groan, trembling, crying, terrified.

He’s suspended in his seat belt, almost like a puppet with its strings cut through, as his arms hang lifelessly, swaying slightly with the rocking of the car.

But his eyes steal my breath.

They’re wide open.

Staring at nothing. Empty.

All I can think about is that accident, as it vividly plays in my thoughts. Barely able to stand it a second longer, I shove myself up from the floor and stumble to the sink. With shaking hands, I reach into a hidden corner of the cabinet and retrieve a blade from a razor I’d stored there. It shakes in my hand, catching the harsh bathroom light. My head feels cloudy, my vision blurry with tears.

My head is a chaotic mess.

I yank down the sleeve of my top, over my shoulder and lower, revealing a heavily scarred arm. I cringe on the inside, hating the way it looks.

Marred skin with raised bumps from the countless glass cuts I endured during the accident. Some of the cuts are still red, like they never really want to heal, and there are areas where my skin looks disfigured. A horrid reminder I can’t escape, a reminder of everything I lost.

I hate looking at it, and I hate myself for what I caused.

My hand moves deftly with the blade in my grip, slicing the skin, the sting instant, blood already bubbling. I grit my teeth, welcoming the pain that chases away the memories. The sting sharpens.

A loud knock pounds on the bathroom door.

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