The shame is a physical weight, crushing my lungs, making every breath a struggle. I can still feel her touch on my skin, the ghost of her fingers on my cheek. I almost hurt her. The memory of that animal rage, that black nothingness that swallowed me whole—it makes me sick. I shove my fist against the cold stone wall, welcoming the sharp pain. I deserve worse.

She won't come back. Why would she? After I screamed at her, after I showed her the monster I've become. The thought is a cold blade ...