Page 80 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

For Ivy.

Ivy needs me to be calm.

Ivy needs me to not lose my fucking mind.

The door bangs open behind me.

"Fuck, Wraith, I'm sorry—" Whiskey's voice is ragged. Guilty. "I didn't get a chance to explain. I've been trying to tell you, but there was never the right moment, and then the reporters⁠—"

I spin around.

Sign the words sharp as blades.

TELL ME WHAT?

He flinches. Actually flinches, like my signing hands are weapons pointed at his throat.

"I was reading the fan chats again." He pulls out his phone, then stops. His thumb hovers over the screen, and he pauses again. "While I was in the shower. I saw... fuck, man, I don't know how to tell you this."

His hesitation makes it worse.

Makes whatever's on that phone a thousand times more terrifying.

So does the fact Whiskey jokes and laughs and makes everything lighter, even when it drives me fucking insane, but right now he looks like someone's ripping his heart out through his throat.

I grab his wrist.

Make him look at me.

SHOW. ME. NOW.

Whiskey's face crumples.

He turns the phone toward me.

The screen shows a photo.

My photo.

My driver's license, displayed in crystal-clear resolution from a scan for everyone to see.

My back hits the wall.

Don't even remember fucking moving.

I haven't seen my own face in years, not completely. Not since I learned to scuff every mirror, every window, every piece of metal that might throw back my reflection. Don't even risk going without my mask alone.

I can't look away.

The photo stares back at me.

I look like every nightmare I've ever had about myself, except worse. Because nightmares fade when you wake up and this is real and everyone can see it now.

Ivy saw this.

Bile surges up my throat.

I'm going to be fucking sick.