Page 37 of Broken Omega

It was early. She was probably thirteen or fourteen at the time.

It doesn’t usually happen until an Omega’s at least sixteen.

The only time it ever happens early is when it’s fated.

He knows we’re true mates then, and he doesn’t care.

I have no chance of ever getting into that academy.

No way to reach my mate.

I close the door to my apartment, and move my weary ass across to the kitchen, opening a text message to Lana and telling her she can forget it. I know why I can’t get approved to see Brooke.

I’ll never be approved.

I need to let go.

I put the phone down and open the cupboard under the sink.

The bottle of vodka’s been sitting there since I moved in. The seal has never been cracked.

I set it down on the counter. If I’m waving good-bye to the only dream I’ve ever had, the only life I ever imagined, I’m going to need a little help to give it a good send off.

KELLAN

Ipass out after a few shots of the potent clear liquid, and it’s morning when I pull myself up off the couch. I should probably shower and find some work shit to occupy myself, but my head is pounding, and I won’t get far if I don’t do something about it. So, I sink another shot and then look through my kitchen cupboards for an unhealthy snack.

There are no snacks to be found, but I have some cheese left in the fridge that I decide to have for breakfast. It helps a bit, I think, but the vodka helps more.

Eventually, I put on the TV. Then I turn it off and put on the radio instead.

Music seems more soothing, and I go back to sitting around on the couch, getting drunk while the muscles I overworked at the gym ache quietly with every breath I take.

I spend a whole day on the couch, only getting up to poke around in the fridge for food.

Microwave meals are unappetizing at the best of times. There’s no way I’m going to chance making one today. So, I settle for an apple for dinner and the rest of the cheese when the apple isn’t enough. Meanwhile, I consider going to the bank and withdrawing a massive pile of cash to take over to my parents’ house. Who gives a shit about money goals anymore?

They can have it all. I’ll just ask to move back in so I can eat good food again and that’ll be that.

I can be the guy who gave up on his dreams to live with his parents for the rest of his life.

I turn the radio up when I hear something rattling at the door.

“Go away!” I call out.

The neighbors can complain about the noise all they want, I’m not turning it down.

They don’t turn their shouting down when it’s wildly inappropriate, and I would never suggest such a thing, so they can fuck off. It’s not as if it’s an unsociable hour or whatever.

I down another gulp of clear liquid poison and sink down lower into my slouching position on the sofa. It’s not really comfortable, but it’s notnotcomfortable, either.

What do I care anymore about things like posture? Cares are for people who have dreams.

I don’t have dreams. I have money.

Maybe I can buy some cares with my massive piles of cash.

Someone can sell me shares.

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