A Designer Dress From Heaven and Your Dirty Wedding Ring

xvi. what you'll see is the worst me (i will ask you for mercy)

this chapter contains warnings for the following: ptsd & anger issues

The nights are the hardest.

Hours spent staring into the dark trying to get your body and mind to relax. They fight against you at every turn, waiting until you've floated to the precipice of sleep to flood your muscles with unending anxiety. Every creak and groan of the house sets you on edge, the shadowy outlines of Price's furniture shifting in the darkness to take nonsensical shapes.

You know there's no one there. You know the manor is well-guarded. You know you should feel safe here.

But something creeps from the crevices of your mind to remind you of all the times you had felt safe before, only to be dragged from your bed and brutally interrogated for hours.

You see it every time you close your eyes, nerves running on overdrive at the expectation of being suddenly stolen from this room.

You're resigned to getting no sleep, instead filling the night hours with daydreams of all the things you'll do once you get your hands on Graves.

That sleeplessness shows in your mood, only worsening with each day.

You're snappy and rude and so much unlike your old self, commanding the manor with hurtful remarks and sharp orders. You try to temper yourself around Kyle and Tabby, at least, the two wholly repentant and undeserving of your ire, but then Soap or Alex or Price interrupts you, and your anger is fueled again.

It isn't good for you to be like this, you know this, but you're too filled with the sick satisfaction at how easily you can hurt them. The broken looks on Alex's face every time he offers you a drink and you make a show of pouring it down the sink. The way Soap deflates as he comes to you with a wide smile only to have you immediately brush past him. The way Price refuses to meet your eyes.

A twisted part of you revels in their hurt, only wishing that you could make them feel even a fraction of the pain you carry.

It's not healthy for you to be like this, so bitter and vengeful.

You know you should see someone, talk to someone, work through your uneven emotions. Shepherd's card burns a hole in your pocket and your brain, haunting every revenge-filled thought of yours like an unwanted ghost.

At first, you're defensive, your walls building up brick by brick as you scoff at the audacity of him. How dare he assume to know how you're healing? Who is he to think he knows what you need? In what world would he believe that you would trust him after a few sugar-coated apologies to sweeten the venom he drips into your ears?

Part of you knows he's right, though. Holding on to this anger, taking it out on the people trying to help you reclaim what's yours is only going to hinder you in the long run.

But you need this anger, this rage...don't you? You need the drive it gives you, the focus on making sure this ends with your victory. You just have to measure yourself, keep it contained until you finally meet Graves face to face.

"Canary, Laswell wanted to see you–"

You flinch at the sudden voice so hard it causes your muscles to ache, spinning on your heel to level Alex with a furious glare.

He puts his hands up immediately, apology already on his tongue, but you don't care. You don't care how sorry he is about anything. You don't care about keeping your wrath in check, or only directing it toward Graves and Makarov.

You have every right to be angry with this entire house and all of the people in it.

"I didn't mean to scare you, sorr–"