Page 4 of Crown of the Mist

"No excuses." His voice softens, but there's steel underneath it. "Just meet us. Mercer's. One hour."

The line goes dead before I can argue.

Fuck.

I drag myself off the couch, my feet hitting the cold floor. The mist hovers at the edges of my vision, but I ignore it. I’ve gotten good at that.

The bathroom is dark when I step inside, cool air curling around me as I shut the door. I flip the switch, and the overhead light hums to life, flickering weakly, hesitating—before finally settling into a dim, sickly glow. The old fluorescent bulb casts uneven shadows against the peeling paint, making my reflection in the mirror look even worse than I feel.

I don’t need a second opinion. I already know I look like hell.

Dark circles stand out against my pale skin, making the scattered freckles across my nose more pronounced. My wavy brown hair is a tangled mess, falling in limp strands past myshoulders. I reach up to push it back, but my fingers snag in a knot, reminding me just how long it’s been since I cared enough to do more than throw it in a bun. I look like I feel. Awesome.

I lean closer, studying my reflection with a grimace. Mom's eyes stare back at me, light green with flecks of gold - the only part of myself I don't mind looking at. Everything else feels wrong somehow. Too soft, too curvy, too much. My full lips, my wider hips, the chest that makes me want to hide under baggy hoodies - all of it feeling like an invitation for the wrong kind of attention. I step back, pulling my oversized sleep shirt tighter around myself.

I turn on the shower, wincing at the loud groan of the pipes. The water sputters, then steadies into a weak stream. It's lukewarm at best, but it's better than nothing. I step into the cramped stall, ducking my head to avoid the low showerhead.

As I soap up my body, I keep my eyes fixed on the cracked tile of the shower wall. I can't bear to look down, to see the map of pain etched across my skin. My fingers trace over the raised scar on my shoulder, a souvenir from the time Dad threw a bottle at me when I was thirteen. I shudder, remembering the sting of glass and the metallic scent of blood mixing with cheap whiskey.

There’s another scar, jagged and ugly, running along my hip. That one’s from Jason, my first realboyfriend.

My first real boyfriend at 21.

Pathetic.

Most people had already been through breakups, makeups, and whirlwind love stories by then. Meanwhile, I spent my early twenties dodging questions about why I’d never had one. It wasn’t like I wasn’t interested—I just... never let anyone close enough.

Then Jason came along, all charm and effortless attention, making me believe I was finally normal. That I could have what everyone else did.

He seemed so sweet at first, always bringing me flowers and telling me how beautiful I was. Until the night he got drunk and decided I’d been flirting with the bartender.

I’d never seen someone’s eyes go so cold so fast.

And I haven’t really had one since.

Not really. Not in any way that mattered. Not when the thought of hands on my skin still makes my stomach twist.

I scrub harder, as if I could wash away the memories along with the grime. My hand skims over my ribs, feeling the slight bump where one never quite healed right after Dad kicked me down the stairs. I was sixteen then, andit was the night I found a single daisy on my windowsill.

The first of many, though I never figured out who left them.

A ghost of a smile touches my lips—it’s the reason daisies are my favorite flower.

The smile fades as quickly as it came.

If they ever saw the scars, what would they think? Would they piece together the story written across my skin? Would they see the truth I try so hard to hide?

Would they finally understand how weak I really am?

It doesn't matter. I'll never let them see. Never.

I sigh, realizing if I don’t stop scrubbing soon I won’t have any skin left. Turning off the shower means wrestling with the rusty handle until the weak stream finally stops. The mirror has fogged over, giving me a brief reprieve from my reflection, but as I towel off, the steam starts to clear. Shadows under my eyes come into focus, stark against my flushed skin. I run a hand through my damp hair, letting out a bitter laugh. "You look great, Bree. A real catch."

My closet is nearly empty - another reminder of all the things I can't afford to replace. The familiar softness of my old hoodie welcomes meas I pull it on. Armor against the world, against their concern, against everything I don't want to face.

The mist swirls around my feet as I grab my keys and phone, almost expectant. "Not today," I mutter, stepping over it and into the hallway. But today isn't going to give me a choice.

3. Bree