Page 17 of Hard Knot

Something in my chest contracts painfully.

They still haven’t gotten rid of those things.

"Dad..."

"I mean it, Abbie. You don't have to prove anything to anyone. Certainly not to those stuck-up?—"

"I'll stay here for all eternity if I have to," I whisper, cutting him off. The words come out raw, and honest in a way I usually try to avoid. "I'd rather be the Forgotten Omega forever than let some pack of entitled Alphas turn me into their perfect little doll."

The silence that follows feels heavy, loaded with all the things we never say out loud. All the fears, hopes, and regrets that live in the spaces between our words.

"You're so much like your mother," he finally says, and I hear the pride mixing with pain in his voice. "Too stubborn for your own good."

"Pretty sure I got that from both sides," I manage, trying to smile even though he can't see it. "Look, I should go. Call me when you're sober?"

"Love you, Abbie girl."

"Love you too, Dad."

The call ends, leaving me alone with the harsh fluorescent lights and the echoes of everything we left unsaid. I stare at the skull on my thigh, tracing its delicate patterns with a fingertip.

What would you say about all this, Jessie? Would you still tell me to shine?

Would have been nice to have her company through all this shit. To hear her voice and listen to her sweet voice. I can only recall how they never opened the casket at her funeral. Didn’tsee the need to show her bruised body to the world, as if they even cared.

Maybe they were doing her a favor.

Giving her a pinch of respect to hide what those sick fuckers did to her. I just wish she was here to give me that push she always did when I felt like this.

Down…lost…hopeless…

But the reality is…Jessie's not here to answer me.

No one’s here to save me from this constant cycle.

It’s just me, my broken toes, illegal tattoos, and my stubborn refusal to become what they want.

The Forgotten Omega.

Maybe it's not such a bad title after all.

Better forgotten than fake.

Better alone than trapped.

Better this endless limbo than having my wings clipped.

I stare at my battered feet, sighing heavily as I weigh my options.

The shower calls to me — I can feel dried sweat making my dance clothes stick uncomfortably to my skin.

But the thought of standing on these abused toes for another fifteen minutes...

"This is so fucking annoying," I mutter, reaching for my bag to grab some antiseptic cream.

At least I can treat the worst of the damage before…

That's when it hits me again.

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