Page 18

Chapter eighteen

Levana

I press harder, grinding the fabric into the cold surface like I can scrape the memory out of the metal if I just push hard enough.

It’s still there.

I can’t see it, but I can feel it. The weight of it hangs in the air, sour and cloying. It’s in my skin, under my nails, in my fucking lungs. No matter how hard I scrub, I can’t get it out.

I dunk the cloth back into the bucket. My knuckles are red and raw, but I don’t care. I just go back to scrubbing. Harder this time. Faster. Like if I keep going, I’ll erase it. Like I can drag this horrible feeling out of me and let it dissolve in the murky water.

I feel disgusting.

Patrick had to go back to work after we… after we fucked this afternoon. He kissed my forehead, smiled like nothing was wrong, and left. And now it’s past 2a.m. and I’m still here, scrubbing like a lunatic.

I can’t believe I let it happen.

I was so caught up in it that I didn’t even think. I didn’t stop. I didn’t care. Not when his hands were on me. Not when he grabbed me and pressed me against the table like I wanted it—and god help me, I did want it.

But now? Now I feel like I can’t get clean.

I fucked him in here.

Here. In this room. This room where I work. This room where I care for the dead.

This room where I’ve stitched wounds closed with steady hands. Where I’ve combed tangled hair and washed blood from lifeless skin. Where I’ve held cold, fragile bodies in my arms—infants so small they barely filled my palm—and whispered soft apologies to them as I worked.

I respect this room. I respect the people who I tend to in this room.

And now I’ve ruined it.

I drag the cloth over the table again until my wrist feels like it’s going to snap. My breathing’s shallow, too fast, and I can’t seem to slow it down.

The cloth slips from my hand and slaps against the floor, but I don’t pick it up. I just lean forward, pressing both palms against the embalming table, and squeeze my eyes shut. My breath hitches in my throat. The walls are closing in. I’m choking.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I should’ve stopped. I should’ve known better. But I didn’t.

I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I let him do it.

I lunge for the cloth again, snatching it off the floor with shaking hands. My breath breaks out of me in a ragged sob as I slam it back down and start scrubbing again.

The table screeches beneath my hand, the sound sharp and shrill, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I don’t deserve to stop.

I can feel my face crumpling, tears burning hot down my cheeks as I drag the cloth back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until my arm aches and my tendons feel like they’re splitting apart.

“You fucking idiot,” I whisper, my voice shaking. “You disgusting—stupid—bitch.”

The words come out in between sobs, loud and broken, but I keep scrubbing.

I’m the worst person in the world.

I’m a selfish, disrespectful, vile excuse for a human being.

This is where I care for people, where I clean them, prepare them, make them look peaceful so their families can say goodbye. This is supposed to be a place of care, of respect.

And I treated it like a fucking motel room. Like some sleazy backseat. Like it—like they —don’t mean anything at all.

I hate myself.

I fucking hate myself.

I’m a joke. A pathetic, selfish idiot who let her hormones run wild in a room where lives have been laid to rest.

Ever since that stupid convention, things haven’t just been off, they’ve been unbearable . It’s like I can’t exist in my own goddamn skin without feeling like I’m about to snap in half.

Patrick in one ear. Elliot in the other. Both of them clawing at me, pulling me in opposite directions like I’m some prize they’re fighting over.

Patrick keeps telling me Elliot’s got ulterior motives—that he’s always had a thing for me, that all this concern is just a ploy to wedge himself between us. And I know Patrick—I know he’s possessive—but I can’t stop thinking about the way Elliot’s been watching me lately. Always hovering, always there. Always asking if I’m okay like I’m made of fucking glass. Always whispering that Patrick’s no good for me, that he’s manipulative, that he’s worming his way deeper into my head with every gentle word, every kiss on the forehead, every “I’m just worried about you.”

Neither one of them will leave it alone. Neither one will just let me fucking breathe.

They’ve given up on trying to be subtle. They don’t even pretend to tolerate each other anymore. The second we’re all in the same room, it’s like a fucking warzone—snide comments, hard stares, tension so thick I can feel it crawling up my spine.

It’s suffocating .

I can’t move without stepping into their mess. I can’t speak without one of them twisting it to fit their own stupid narrative.

I slam the cloth back into the bucket, water splashing up the side and soaking my sleeve.

I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

I’m used to being alone. I’m comfortable alone. When it’s just me, I don’t have to answer to anyone. I don’t have to force myself to smile, or pretend I’m okay when I’m barely keeping my head above water.

And now, I can’t even stand in my own kitchen without someone breathing down my neck. Can’t leave a room without one of them following like they’re scared I’ll disappear the second they blink.

I’m so fucking sick because of it all.

I’m not myself.

Constant headaches. Nausea that won’t quit. My body feels heavy, like I’m dragging it through wet sand.

And I’m so fucking out of it, that apparently I’m doing reckless shit now too—like letting Patrick fuck me in the damn embalming room.

Something isnt right.

I just need space. Time alone to breathe, to unwind, to stop feeling like I’m being swallowed whole.

And now, I’m burning up again.

For fuck’s sake.

I pull my coat on and stumble outside, practically crashing through the door, and I don’t stop going until I reach the memorial garden.

It’s freezing. It’s perfect.

I fumble for the crumpled pack of cigarettes in my coat pocket, tearing it open with fingers that won’t stop shaking. The lighter nearly slips from my hand twice before it finally catches, the end flaring bright in the dark as I take a long, heavy pull.

The heat sears down my throat, and I tilt my head back, exhaling slowly, watching the smoke curl into the air and vanish into the night.

My chest still feels too tight, my pulse hammering too hard in my ears. But at least in the garden, no one’s talking. No one’s hovering. No one’s filling my head with questions or reassurances or concern.

Out here, I can be angry without anyone asking me why.

I pull my phone out of my pocket, flicking it on without really thinking. The screen glares back at me.

Two texts from Elliot.

Five from Patrick.

I don’t open either.

What’s the point?

Neither one of them will listen when I say I just need space. They’ll smother me with their worry, bury me under it until I can’t fucking breathe.

I shove my phone back into my pocket without replying.

Let them both stew in it. Let them both wonder.

Fuck them. I want to be alone for a minute, and I don’t owe either of them a goddamn thing.