A Designer Dress From Heaven and Your Dirty Wedding Ring

xvii. for if i'm going down i guess i'll take you with me

this chapter contains warnings for the following: vomiting, ptsd, guns, blood, canon-typical violence, car accident

By the end of the week, the plan is set.

An offer to Makarov and Graves to meet at the club for an important meeting with Price. A false lure laced with the implied submission of the 141 and the promise of a special performance as a peace offering.

The bait is far too tempting for them not to take it. The chance to see the John Price admit his defeat? It's certainly not something you would've passed up, and your ego is only a fraction of theirs.

It takes them less than two days to respond. An eager yes written with all of the bravado and arrogance of two men who think they're about to win a decades-long powerful struggle.

The date is set, and in five days you'll have the revenge you've so desperately craved. You'll be free to go wherever you want without having to worry about being hunted. You'll have your father's estate—your rightful estate—back in your hands. Your hands will be smeared with the blood of the men who have spent so long haunting your every breathing moment.

In five days, you'll want for nothing more.

So, why are you so nervous?

Those five days are so torturously slow, letting you suffer with this violent storm of anxiety clawing at your chest. It doesn't matter what you do, this unending dread—this fear—never leaves you, keeping you awake into the early hours of the morning.

You're completely miserable, unable to understand why you're so on edge.

The plan isn't complicated, there are safeguards in place, you'll be surrounded by people who've sworn to keep you safe. You've gone over it in your head again and again and again. You know you'll be fine, that things will finally work out the way they're supposed to and the universe will right itself with karmic justice.

So, why? Why do your muscles twitch, keeping your body in constant flight or fight? Why does your mind so easily slip from the things you should be focusing on? Why can't you eat without the taste of Graves's chalky painkillers lingering in the back of your throat, choking you until you vomit? Why can't you sleep without seeing Makarov standing over you, eyes narrowed and knuckles soaked in your blood?

Why? Why? Why?

The others notice, of course, they do, but no one comments. Your attitude is short and your words sharp, and they take all of it with a grace that you're envious of. You don't mean to snap, not really. You just...

It hurts to admit that you don't feel right talking to anyone about what you're feeling. It's not that you don't trust them—though your trust in them is far less than what it used to be—you simply aren't ready to put your feelings into words.

If you speak them to truth you'll be admitting to your anger, your nervousness, your fear. You can't afford to be afraid, and you can't afford to be afraid around the people helping you. Not when this entire effort is for your revenge.

Weakness is not a luxury you can afford right now.

You know you need to talk to someone or find a way to get this buzz of unwanted energy out of you, but the idea of speaking to anyone leaves you feeling nauseous. Your more paranoid side tells you you'd be mocked, judged for being so weak-willed this close to the end, the disappointment on their faces so clear in your mind. Your logical mind says you'd be met with understanding, a concern for your well-being and safety above all else.