Page 12 of Fallen Omega

The idea of leaving this place horrifies me. The apartment is so entwined with Dad that it would be like killing him myself.

But I have to.

What is there for me but a mate I’ve never met? Who I know I don’t want.

Maybe if the cruelty hadn’t been captured in his eyes, or his lips hadn’t looked so fish-like…

Or if he wasn’t older than my dad.

As the booze-induced softness dissipates, panic starts to swirl and bubble. I need…I have to go, get more to drink. Get through this heat any way I can and tonight’s the last night I can go out, stock up, before I’m hit hard. Tomorrow.

It’ll hit me tomorrow.

Swallowing down bile, I shower, dress. Combat boots, a loose floral dress, and Dad’s old leather biker jacket. I’m so beside myself I don’t even indulge in singing in the shower.

While I haven’t sung properly or to anyone but myself since Dad was killed in that car accident, I always sing in the bathroom. It’s a ritual, something Dad liked. He always told me it would ring through to wherever he was in the apartment and sounded better than the radio.

Brushing teeth, doing my skincare, getting ready for work, I’d sing in the bathroom.

But not tonight.

I can’t. That gnawing inside with sharp, painful edges strangles my voice.

Or maybe it’s what I’m about to do.

I shove most of my money into my socks, down deep below the top edge of the ankle high boots. And then I pack a small backpack. I keep it light.

Two pairs of underwear, a bra. Socks. Jeans and a hoodie. Sneakers.

It’s light and something I hope won’t arouse suspicion if someone comes in. Then I just leave it by the door with black pants and a top on it, like that’s what I take to work.

Next, I take important things. Dad’s tablet that has everything I need on it, thumb drives, an external hard drive. Some polaroids of me and Dad. Money, my pitiful jewelry, an address book of his that has numbers, addresses, code names and names for places all over the country.

He always told me that it could be handy if anything happened to him. At the last minute, I take the letter I stuffed back in the envelope with my supposed mate’s photo.

My bag’s a big bucket bag and it’s got a hidden bottomzipper that I put all those things into. Then I dump makeup, a brush, gum, and a book in the main compartment.

I feel better having packed to run if I decide, or if I need to tonight. And having my important things, treasured things, on me is soothing. The last thing I do is put Dad’s old black hat on.

I’m not sure what type it is, but it always makes me think of old school detectives.

With a breath, I add the money I have for emergencies and extra food.

Whatever happens, I won’t be here much longer.

And having things on me so I can run in an instant gives me some kind of solid ground to stand on, even if it’s false. The bag at home is for the reality.

After I get some booze, I’ll go home, wait out the heat, and then run.

But the panic’s fluttering hard, threatening to break through and leave me a mess, so I take a breath, spray myself with cloying drug store perfume, and head out into the night.

Someone’s following me. Someone’s following me.Someone’s following me.

The mantra won’t leave my head as I grip my bag hard. I’m fighting not turning around and bumping into whoever it is. Because there’s a compulsion to seek this person out, to run just enough to make it thrilling, and to then get caught.

The wind occasionally washes over me with a smokey scent that’s so wild, it almost brings me to my knees. It’s up there with the scent of the alpha in the car. Just as compelling as him. As delicious.

I throb. Ache. And I know my thighs are slick.

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