Page 3 of Agor the Merciless
The words didn’t bring shock or devastation, but settled as a hard truth she had long tried to avoid.
“Reckless? The lift cable was frayed. It would’ve broken no matter who was under it.”
“And you knew that, right? You saw the danger and went right to it.” Mark ran a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. You dive headfirst into things most women would avoid.”
“Most women?”
“You know what I mean. My mother warned me about you. She said a girl who works with her hands would never be satisfied with dinner parties and neighborhood barbecues. With me.”
Zoe counted the tiny holes in the ceiling tiles. His admonishment wasn’t new, just another version of what her family had been saying for years. A narrative where her passion was a flaw, her strength was pure carelessness, her knowledge was intimidating, and her independence was a threat.
“I’ve tried, Zoe.” His voice softened with resignation. “God knows I’ve tried. But this…” he gestured at her cast, “…makes it clear we don’t fit.”
She wanted him to leave but didn’t think it was worth making the effort to say it out loud. She had spent years trying to contort herself to fit their world, apologizing for taking up space, for knowing too much, for being too strong.
Mark stepped to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. He seemed to wait for her to beg, to promise she would change. The old Zoe might have.
The door clicked shut, leaving her in the quiet room. A blessing, for once.
***
Three weeks crawled by. The apartment walls closed in.
The can of soup mocked Zoe from the kitchen counter. Her left hand gripped the opener, fighting for leverage while her cast-bound right arm hung useless. The metal edge dug into her palm as she twisted. The can skittered away.
“Dammit.”
She tried again, sweat beading on her forehead. On the fourth attempt, the opener caught, breaking the seal with a pop. Victory over chicken noodle soup. She’d hit a new low.
The TV provided a low murmur in the background. Zoe sank onto her secondhand couch, bowl balanced on her lap. The news anchor’s mouth moved, but the words didn’t register in Zoe’s head. She just needed the motion and sound, she didn’t care what was happening on the screen. Her phone sat on the coffee table. Not one call since she was discharged from the hospital. Not from her father, not from Rick. She tried not to think about it. The silence said more about them than about her. Pain pulsed in her arm, but the hollowness in her chest was worse. The apartment felt both too big and too small. Too big for one person, too small to contain her loneliness.
Night fell. Sleep wouldn’t come. Zoe lay in bed watching shadows dance across the ceiling, then grabbed her phone. The screen illuminated her face as she scrolled, a desperate search for distraction.
A headline got her attention: “Beyond the Veil: The True Heart of an Orc Horde.” She paused. Orc stories were common, but this one was written by an insider. The author’s name was Wendy Bennet. She tapped the article.
Life with the orc horde is defined by simple principles: strength, resilience, and an unwavering commitment to honesty.
Her eyes traced each sentence.
Orcs embody a raw, enduring strength that goes far beyond the physical... This resilience isn’t just about enduring hardship; it’s about thriving within it. They value truth. Trust is earned only through constant honesty. When they discovered my own deception, their disappointment was profound. Yettheir commitment to me transcended my lies. Through that radical acceptance, I learned the meaning of genuine connection.
The article painted a world so different from Zoe’s, yet it resonated. Apparently, this Wendy woman had infiltrated an orc horde under false pretenses, and when she was found out, instead of being despised and punished for her lies, she was forgiven and accepted.
Being an orc bride isn’t about giving up modern comforts. It’s a life where community is paramount and connection thrives, far beyond the veiled deceptions of my old world.
Zoe lowered the phone. Strength and resilience – the very qualities her family and Mark punished her for. Honesty and directness – the opposite of the manipulations and backhanded compliments she’d had to live with. The words on the screen showed an alternative. She could leave it all behind – the garage, the family, the life built around making herself smaller.
Another path existed. Terrifying, but it was a path.
***
Six weeks later, Zoe stood in her bathroom. The cast was gone, revealing a jagged scar from her wrist to mid-forearm. She flexed her fingers. The physical therapist had been impressed with her progress. She’d pushed through the pain, determined. She turned her arm, examining the mark. Time would fade it, but never erase it, just like the memory of her family discussing insurance claims over her bleeding body. The accident had broken more than bone. It shattered the illusion that she could fit into their world if she just tried harder.
“You broke my arm,” she muttered to her reflection. “Fuck you if you think you broke me.”
The woman staring back from the mirror was not the dutiful daughter, not Mark’s “little tomboy.” Just Zoe Cross. Strong, capable, and done apologizing.
She left the bathroom, crossed to her bedroom, and picked up her phone. Her hands were steady.
