Powerless (The Powerless Trilogy)
: Chapter 68

I don’t stop running until I stumble into the woods beside the road leading home. Running is soon replaced with tripping when roots catch my ankles and rocks stub my toes. The rain hasn’t slowed its attempt to drown me yet, pelting each of my open wounds.

My finger finds its way to the gash trailing from my jaw and down my neck, tenderly following the torn and bloody path that I know will never look the same. Then my fingers fumble across my chest, stopping only when they meet the shredded skin right above my heart. I wince, and I wish it was because of the pain.

O.

I trace the jagged lines that form that single letter. That single letter that will forever scar, marring it with the memory of him and what I am.

O for Ordinary.

The brand is just as mangled as the heart barely beating beneath it.

I stagger onward, hand pressed against the O carved into my skin and every meaning behind the seemingly simple letter.

A pop of color catches my eye, bright against the dark foliage of the damp woods. My heart splinters at the sight, lungs squeezing and legs shaking. It was only yesterday that the sight made me smile, that the symbol was slid into my hair by strong hands, sure fingers. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“A forget-me-not, since you always seem to be forgetting who I am.”

I stare at the bundle of blue flowers, mocking me with the memory of stolen touches, silent promises.

Now all that’s left are shouts of revenge, steely eyes that promise no mercy, and a stolen silver dagger so dear to me, yet so likely to be the blade that’s stabbed through my heart.

“I don’t give a damn if you forget who I am in title, so long as you remember who I am to you.”

I open my mouth to laugh only for a sob to slip past my lips instead, my body deciding to shake with hurt rather than humor.

Oh, I remember who he is to me.

How could I forget my father’s murderer?

I stumble forward, blinking through the constant stream of rain and tears.

Thick, hot liquid runs down my brand, my body, my very being.

Honey.

That’s what I tell myself.

It’s just honey.

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