Home > Neon Drops(2)

Neon Drops(2)
Author: M. Sinclair

Was this healing?

Or was this simply a bandage on an open artery? Maybe it was both. Maybe it was a bandage to aid me in keeping my soul together until I figured out how the fuck to sew myself up. Because right now, the wound was open and pastel blood was nearly drowning me like a goddamn pool of disappointment. I was shaking, trying to hold my body together, the pieces fracturing and skin flaying as the savage wounds seemed to deepen with every memory that filtered through my very sober brain.

This is why I’d done drugs. This is fucking why.

Why wasn’t I healing correctly? Why wasn’t I getting better? Why did it feel so much worse some days? Right when I was positive things were getting better, the sober reality of my past came up on me like a tidal wave. How the fuck was I supposed to fix myself?

I wanted to believe that this was just how I healed. Maybe I was projecting my disappointment in myself because everything in the world told me I was healing incorrectly. I shouldn’t have subjected myself to it, but when I tried to look up anything on healing from abuse and coping with PTSD, I only came across information on the correct way to heal.

As if it was a prescription.

As if everyone was the goddamn same. Judgement for anything different was very evident, and if you strayed from that hardline ‘healing’ path, you faced the consequences. I wasn’t nearly as untouchable as I’d been before, when I was so high that I could easily forget my own name.

Now I felt the effect of the world’s judgement, and I knew that no matter what I did, I would never be whole in the eyes of everyone. Something that shouldn’t matter to me but did, in a very little way.

What if my men saw me that way?

I mean, they had to know that damaged vessels were never truly fixed.

And what if I needed the boys’ help? Was that so wrong? To need the support of people that loved you? Or at least cared about you? I mean hell, why the fuck did I have to do this all alone? Why was someone else allowed to decide how I healed? How I was supposed to feel about my past? It fucking infuriated me.

Only a few hours ago, I had made the mistake of signing onto social media. Immediately I’d been assaulted with messages, comments, and tagged photos about how I had gone to rehab, possibly overdosed, and partied in Europe, all within the past few days. I know, I was surprised—who knew I was so goddamn good at multitasking?

Honestly, I would have never cared before, but for some reason this had hit me hard. I had watched people comment about my weight, clothes, lifestyle choices, and more infuriating than all… my men. All of it was fucking overwhelming, but it was like a car accident.

I. Could. Not. Stop. Looking.

I had never been a bullshitter, nor was I a liar, so I wasn’t about to go through a damn media tour to fix my image. That just wasn’t my thing. I would never try to claim I wasn’t damaged and would no doubt always be.

After all, my body was like a fucking car. If you got into a car accident that left your vehicle nearly totaled, you’d be given the option to take it into the shop to have it fixed. There would always be underlying issues though, randomly popping up to remind you that the car was never going to be perfect again. Just ask my purple convertible— she’d been through a lot, according to her records.

So yeah, my vessel is fucking damaged. It remembers the tears. It remembers the torture and pain. Pain that seemed to fucking follow me as if I were a magnet for it. Oh wait, that is exactly what fucking sirens are: magnets for others’ pain. Goddamn trash bags for everyone to dump their most awful thoughts and desires into.

So why did those fuckers get to tell others that they were healing ‘wrong?’

Especially when most of them craved things that were so evil and vile it made me sick. Me! That shit was impressive. Earth and all of the other realms were filled with vicious and horrible creatures that tried to act normal while harboring hatred, anger, and violence. Their need and hunger to snuff out light was a steady, pulsing beat that could easily suffocate you.

So fuck them.

My vessel may be broken, but I was being sewn back up and glued together. Piece by shattered, torn piece. Stuck together despite how fucking painful it was. Despite how it would have been easier to never get back up, to lay in the shredded remains of my soul.

Tears welled up as Adriel whispered soft, comforting words against my head. The stars pulsated in response to my sadness, and the star calls echoed through my ears in warning, their deaths attempting to not be in vain as the dark ones killed them.

Brutally extinguished them.

Just like the creatures around us that tried to keep me as low as possible, that tried to put weights on my ankles when I began to surface for a goddamn breath.

Yet, these demons, humans—hell, everyone— didn’t pose the biggest threat.

No, the dark ones were coming, and they planned on extinguishing every light.

Every star.

Every good speck in this world.

What they didn’t know? I had something to fight for, and I wasn’t about to let those fuckers take the one thing I had finally grown to have.

Hope.

I closed my eyes and felt Adriel’s magic float through me as cosmic patterns played through my consciousness in neon colors. For now though, I would enjoy the beautiful dream that my nightmare king crafted. I could handle the rest in the morning.

 

 

1

 

 

Lorcan

 

 

“I can't help but love you

Even though I try not to

I can't help but want you

I know that I'd die without you.”

-War of Hearts by Ruelle

 

 

The morning sun attempted to blind me as I slid on a pair of dark sunglasses, my legs stretched out in front of me from my place on the hood of Dean’s BMW. After yesterday's attempt to wear the uniform correctly, I had decided that was a good enough try for the week. Instead, I’d chosen today to wear designer sneakers with my uniform skirt and tank top. Maybe I just really wanted to get kicked out. Or maybe I was just that much of a fucking rebel. A third option? I was lazy as fuck and didn’t want to be uncomfortable all day.

I could not emphasize how ridiculously hot it was here. I mean, we had to be easily hitting over one hundred each day. Mind you, it was a dry heat, but damn, I could practically feel my skin burning. I wondered briefly if I would get a sunburn, but somehow I didn’t think that was going to happen. If my wounds from torture didn’t stay around, then there wasn’t any way some UV rays were going to cause any lasting damage.

Unfortunately, certain things could not be rebelled against, including the fucking photo shoot that was supposed to have happened last night. When Dean had been called about a pride member issue, I’d been thrilled, thinking that we would be able to cancel. But no such luck. Not only because my boys wanted the world to know I was theirs, but because my siren wanted to return the favor.

My agent was thrilled beyond measure, and I am positive that she considered this an early Christmas. The woman lived for this crap. I inhaled on my cigarette, shaking my head and letting the warmth of the early morning sun seep into my tanned skin. I would have much rather spent my day outside by the pool, or you know, naked in bed with some of my very hot boyfriends (yeah, wasn’t positive what else to call them at this point…), but I had my word to keep. I did a lot of things, but I didn’t break my word when I gave it.

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