She did not survive.
Tears blur my vision as I click through pictures of the victim.
She was eighteen years old, with bright blue eyes and a soft smile. Her face hadn’t lost its baby fat yet, and the picture of her at a high school graduation makes me sob.
Omegas don’t present until they’re at least eighteen.
She was the youngest there.
They’re killing us,I think wildly.They’re killing us, and they don’t care.
And yet here I sit,Edenpractically within view and not doing anything.
Except getting my brains fucked out by Alphas who could never understand.
And I know they feel bad. Iknowit affects them.
I remember Brock’s haunted look as he watched the video of the girl being sedated.
I remember the way his jaw clenched, and his scent soured, as if he was going to vomit.
But hewantedto send me there.
He was hell bent on turning me in, no matter how I pled with him.
They can sympathize, but they can never empathize.
And it breaks my heart.
I shut the laptop and kick the blankets off me. I open the closet and rifle through the clothing they’ve purchased for me, wondering what the hell I’m doing here.
Something needs to change.
But I don’t know what.