“Last night was frightening. You hurt me against the wall in the alley.”

She steps forward, smacking my chest. My mouth gapes open, but no air gets through.

“You woke up around three a.m., and you were outside and then on the ground. Then, we had sex. I’ve been ignoring all the signs, but they’re there. And I’d be with you through it, but you won’t talk to me. You know how I feel about you. But you won’t tell me what’s happening, and you’re lying!” she screams loudly, punching me in the chest, hurt and angry and in fucking pain.

My temper flares up, giving me fuel to speak.

I step up to her terrified face, covering her mouth with my hand. “Enough!” I scream.

I can’t hear this shit anymore. I’m frantic. I take her by the arms, shaking her. I need to keep her quiet. She’s making it all sound worse than it is. I’ve got to make her understand!

“I’m fine. I’m going to be fine!”

What the fuck is happening here? To me? To us?

My shirt is heavy from sweat. Her face is completely terrified. I stop.

A flash in front of my eyes. Rex crumbling to the floor. He’s on fire. I’ve got to get to him …

Lauren screams. I blink. I’m hurting her.

Turning her body around, I hold her wrists tightly behind her back with one hand and lift her shirt with the other. I need to see it with my own eyes. Her back is … it’s … raw. Sliced. Cut up and streaked. Blue bruises line her shoulder blades.

Is this me? Did I do this? Who am I?

“Let me go,” she cries, begging. Her face is red and wet.

But I can’t let go. I need to refocus my brain. My anger is opaque smoke, infiltrating every sinew within my body and impossible to see through. I need to take something. Without drugs, I’m insane.

I turn her back around, scanning her stomach, wondering what I’ve done. She has handprints on her hips.

From me? I can’t remember. We had sex last night. I was rough.

I’m trembling as a fresh round of sweat breaks out on my forehead. I’m a lowlife. Damaged goods. I finally release her wrists.

“You were awake,” she sobs. “Talking. I can’t—” Her breaths are erratic.

Like a thump, my chest shuts. It’s a horrible suction. A vacuum. The whole world zeroes in on me, like one of those TV shows where the lens focuses on one character, and everything else becomes a blurred static. Everything I’ve been hiding, maneuvering around, and controlling has been slammed back into my face. As though every private truth of mine has been scooped out from my lungs and then flung from Lauren’s mouth for me to eat. Emotional force-feeding. I step backward. I made a mistake and should have listened to my gut. I don’t deserve Lauren. I don’t deserve anyone. I’m nothing but smashed glass.