Page 121 of Pretty When She Breaks

Wait, I understood now.

It was because she didn’t feel safe at home.

I slowly edged closer, unable to keep away.

It was so cozy, tucked away up here.

It was calling to me, especially as the noises from the crowd below still reached my ears.

I crawled into the nest, wanting her scent to drown it all out. Scooting back, I turned to grab a pillow and froze as I caught my reflection in a small mirror mounted to the wall. It was so small that all I could see of myself were my own dark eyes staring back.

Accusing.

Inescapable.

Monster.

I lunged forward, grabbing the mirror from the wall and throwing it as far as I could. There was a tinkle of shattering glass as I held my head in my hands, my breaths coming too fast.

I’d never escape it.

After I’d gotten out of the Blood Well, in the first couple of months, I’d had hope that I could change. That something I could do would make me new, like magic.

When it hadn’t happened, I’d figured I’d try something to force the change.

Perhaps pain and ink would help me. So I’d gotten inked and pierced all over my body. But no matter how my appearance changed, I remained broken.

Then I’d tried to send a message to myself. I’d refused to cut my hair, letting it grow long because long hair was stupid to have if you wanted to fight.

When the hopelessness had sunk in, when I realized that I’d never escape the monster I was, I’d given in to the fog and forgotten to eat. But I wasn’t even mad that my muscles wasted away because maybe, finally, my brain would get the message that I wasn’t supposed to be a fighter.

But with just my eyes reflecting back at me, I clearly saw the truth.

The crowd sounded below me, a faint roar, and I heard the bell signalling the start of the fight, and my heart skipped a beat at the memory of auras and adrenaline.

There it was, the stark truth.

I wanted to be down there.

I’d grown up as skinny Gritch street trash, too small towin when it came down to it. The fog had dogged me back then, too, but it hadn’t been as strong.

When I’d claimed my aura, everything changed. Suddenly I was the one people feared, I could get what I wanted. I could finally give back by doing something that I was good at. Rut fights weren’t just about making money for me; they were the only time I came alive.

My day-to-day fog was a white, soft nothingness, but the fog that came to me when I fought was a crackling red storm.

Demon.

They’d called me that because I’d played with my opponents. I’d drawn out the fights where I was ahead, wearing down my opponents wound by wound. Death by a thousand cuts. Or bites or scratches. Whatever. Not because I particularly enjoyed their suffering, but because the longer the fights went, the longer I could stretch out the feeling of being alive. It was over too soon, otherwise. Though, in the end, did it really matter why? The end result was the same.

The guilt was screaming, clawing at my insides, because I was a monster and a liar and didn’t deserve anything good. Ocean treated me like I was a victim, when I was the one who’d made countless others suffer. Who’d dragged out their pain.

Until the fight that had changed everything.

SIXTY-SIX

5 YEARS AGO

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