Page 6 of The Ecstasy of Sin (Brutal Brotherhood #1)

Wren

My agony has a heartbeat—and it’s the brutal, rhythmic pounding on the right side of my skull.

Every step I take is erratic, and my trembling fingers drag along the surface of the cool, concrete wall of the nearest storefront, seeking a break in the structure.

I need an alley, somewhere I can disappear.

No matter how many years I’ve lived with this illness, it never stops humiliating me. I know how I must look; stumbling around, my eyes red and watering from the pain, while I quiver like I’m strung out.

People must think I’m drunk, or that I'm just another fucked-up girl rotting in the city streets, chasing my next high.

The truth is, I’d rather lose an arm than taste the bitterness of alcohol on my tongue. I’ve seen what substance abuse can do to someone, and I won’t go through that again.

Most people look right through me, like I’m not even real. The ones that see me, sick and stumbling, look at me like I’m a pest worthy of extermination. The kindness of strangers doesn’t exist for me, not outside of the shelters and meal centers I frequent.

I can barely see, the aura is in full swing. Nauseating geometric patterns slice across my vision in every color my brain can process. They arc like broken glass in a kaleidoscope, splintering my sight and turning the world into abstract chaos.

It takes me longer than I’d like to find a narrow alley, but when I do, I slip into it fast. The last light of sunset filters in behind me, casting sharp shadows along the corridor. It’s a quiet, empty space, and I’m grateful for the privacy as I drop my backpack at my feet.

Crouching down, I fumble around with my numb, stiff fingers in search of my medication. I pull a bottle free, and although the label was torn off a long time ago, I know it contains a mix of Ibuprofen and Acetaminophen.

At least, it’s supposed to. I thought I had a few more pills, and I haven’t had the chance to buy more. I should’ve checked sooner, but I’ve been so caught up in the stress of losing my job these last couple of days that I failed to check my stock of OTC painkillers.

Misery simmers beneath my frustration, turning every breath into a fight not to scream. Thoughts of waving a metaphorical white flag once again cross my mind as I stare at the empty container.

“Fuck.” I feel utterly defeated as fresh tears blur my already distorted vision. “Please don’t do this to me,” I whisper to no one in particular, squeezing my eyes shut against the surge of dread for what’s coming.

I can’t do this anymore.

I can’t live like this. I can’t afford my preventative medication. I can’t even afford to keep basic over-the-counter painkillers in my backpack .

I’m homeless, I’m starving, and I’m in the kind of agony no one should have to endure.

This isn’t living. I have no quality of life. My story is one that speaks of slow, silent erasure.

I’m tired of living in absolute poverty. Of suffering endlessly, with no help in sight, and a condition that ruins my every effort to save myself. No one can say I haven’t tried, that I haven’t fought like hell to survive.

When I’m not working, I’m taking as much overtime as I can get. When I inevitably lose my job, I'm immediately out there job hunting from dawn until dusk.

Enough is enough.

I’m going to apply for Medical Assistance in Dying .

I already have the form, I just need to fill it out and submit it.

If they deny me, I’ll take matters into my own hands.

I find my own way to free myself from this living hell.

It would be an act of self love at this point.

A kindness the world would otherwise deny me.

Oblivion must be better than this never-ending nightmare. The quiet emptiness of nothing, a promise of thoughtless peace… it sounds like heaven compared to this.

I slide the rest of the way down the wall, collapsing into the filth of the alley. I cradle my aching head in my hands as I silently cry.

Holding back the thunderous sobs trying to break free only worsens my head pain, but at this point, what does it even matter? Everything already hurts. What’s a little more pain? At least I can save some dignity and suffer silently .

I never wanted this, but sometimes no matter how hard we try, we just aren’t meant to survive.

The truth of that sits heavy on my chest as the tears fall harder.

I wanted to live, to find a home for myself, and enjoy a quiet life reading books and learning how to bake.

I wanted to work in a grand library, just like my mom did, shelving books and helping people discover the magic of literature.

Instead, I’m sitting in a filthy alley begging for the mercy of death.

I lower myself to the ground completely, no longer caring about the garbage pressing against my sweat-slicked skin, or the stickiness of unknown substances that surround me. I curl up into the fetal position, seeking safety in the cage of my own body.

My head throbs relentlessly where it rests against the cold, cracked concrete beneath me, but it all bleeds into the rest of the input laying siege on the war zone that is my brain.

I fold my arms over my head and close my eyes. I don’t care who finds me like this, not anymore. I don’t care if anyone finds me at all.

I’m giving up. I’m letting go. None of it matters anymore.

The pain crescendos—and I don’t fight it. The electrical storm in my brain reaches full strength, and when the darkness comes, I let it take me.

** *

By the time I regain consciousness, night has descended on the city of Toronto.

Flashes of light from passing cars flicker into the alleyway, making everything look a little more dangerous. My eyes open slowly, blinking through the pain induced fog still clinging to my mind.

I uncurl from my position gradually, cringing as my aching muscles and sore joints protest the movement. I force myself into a seated position, awash in the totality of my unmedicated pain.

The throbbing inside of my skull is unyielding and severe as I push myself to my feet.

I nearly collapse, my knees buckling, and throw my hands out to grab for the wall before I crash back down to the ground.

I anchor my fingers into the jagged cracks between the bricks, and a wave of nausea washes over me.

I swallow hard against the urge to vomit, knowing the dry heaving won’t be productive since I haven’t eaten in more than enough time to leave me with an empty stomach. It will only make the pain worse, and might even knock me out again.

Shouldering my backpack, I cinch it tight and lean into the wall, taking a couple of minutes to collect myself and catch my breath. Once the nausea settles into a dull, burning ache in my gut, I push off the wall and stumble out into the street.

My vision is blurry from the agonizing pain. The left half of my face is completely numb, along with my arms and hands, as though parts of my body are disappearing beneath the blanket of agony.

I move carefully, one aching foot in front of the other, scanning for any landmarks that can help orient me .

If I can find a shelter and get some food and water, maybe even a sample packet of painkillers they often have on hand, I’ll make it through the night.

Tomorrow, I’ll fill out the application I keep stored in one of the side pockets of my backpack, and walk the application for Medical Assistance in Dying back to the doctor I got it from.

I have no other options. Even if I manage to secure some painkillers, there’s no way I can afford my prevention medication. Without that, securing a job is nearly impossible.

I’m so damn tired. I have nothing left to give.

I wander for several blocks, stopping often to take breaks whenever the nausea spikes and my stomach begins to cramp painfully. My body, desperate to purge an invisible enemy, can’t fight without support.

Although the pain makes it nearly impossible to focus, a familiar symbol catches my eye. Bright, red, and glowing—the large cross hangs above the door to a tucked-away building on a quiet back street. It glows like salvation in the haze, and I follow.

A twenty-four hour clinic, an oasis of hope in this miserable hell.

I climb the three steps to the door, grip the handle, and pull myself inside.

They probably can spare a few sample packets of over-the-counter ibuprofen, if nothing else. Anything to reduce the intensity of the headache will help.

If they’ll even tolerate my presence. I can’t imagine passing out in a grimy alleyway has left me looking even remotely presentable .

The door closes behind me with a weighted click. The space is small; understated, but clean and tidy. It’s minimally decorated, but appropriate enough for a clinic.

I shuffle towards the front desk, but it’s empty. I scan the white counter for a bell to announce my arrival, but they don’t have one.

I lean against the clean counter top, the strong scent of disinfectant invading my delicate senses, while I brace my head against the palm of my hand.

My vision darkens around the edges, and I realize I’m running out of time.

If I don’t find something to take the edge off the pain soon, I’m going to collapse.

I push back from the counter, doubling over to clutch my stomach as intense nausea hits me. I clench my jaws shut as my body threatens to vomit nothing but bile, saliva pooling behind my teeth.

It’s better this way, if I’m being honest. This dry heaving on an empty stomach. Wasting food, when it never comes easy to me, feels like the universe is rubbing salt in my wounds.

I swallow, then blink back tears and glance around the room. Other than the door behind the front desk, there’s only one other—off to my right, past a row of empty black chairs lining the stark white wall.

I head for it, my hand fumbling for the cold, silver knob, only to find it locked.

Frustration overwhelms me, and a small sob leaves my chest as I rattle the doorknob, willing it to open so I can find someone to help me .