There are two new faces: a man with faded red wings and twitchy hands who is clearly still coming down, and a young woman with sunken eyes hugging herself next to the haughty prick in charge.
If this is supposed to fix me, then why am I looking at the same old dusters I’ve seen every other time I’ve come? Why aren’t any of them getting better?
I’ll tell you why: because rehabilitation doesn’t fucking work.
Our families stick us in here to feel like they’re doing something to help, when in reality, we’re too broken to mend. We’re all missing pieces of ourselves, but instead of stitching them up so they can heal, we dump dust on our wounds and escape among the stars.
After a brief introduction, the facilitator asks if anyone would like to go first. No way in hell am I volunteering. If Bilson, my day guard, weren’t watching me from across the room, I wouldn’t even be here. I sink lower in the stiff chair and cross my arms. The facilitator’s eyes glaze over me, and he nods to one of the regulars. The woman picks at the skin around her nails as she introduces herself. Maura. Seventy-four. Using for twenty years—ever since her mate was killed while stopping a riot in the burrows.
Johnson is next. He is a good deal younger, although it’s hard to tell beneath his scruffy orange beard and lanky hair hanging in his eyes. He has only been using for two years, since he lost his tower over gambling debts.
This is how the hour passes, with everyone sharing their depressing stories of tragedy and loss. It’s not that I don’t feel sympathy for them. We’re all struggling with the same addiction, so of course I do. I just don’t see the point in airing our grievances. This doesn’t make life better. Doesn’t bring anyone back. It only brings pain to the forefront when I’d rather feel nothing at all.
When it’s my turn, all eyes land on me.
I smile and say, “My name is Gerrard Tolken, and I’m a duster.”
The lilac-haired man next to me snorts into his fist, choking back his laughter.
The facilitator’s mouth pinches and eyes narrow. No doubt he’ll be running straight to my brother when this is over. “We all know that is my name and not yours,” he says.
My smile never falters.
“Fine.” He sighs. “Welcome, Gerrard. How long have you been using?”
“Not long enough.”
A few of the others chuckle under their breath. But not our darling facilitator. His jaw pulses, and the vein in his forehead bulges. “You need to take this seriously. Your rehabilitation has been mandated by the king himself.”
As if I need the reminder. “The king can take his mandate and shove it up his?—”
Gerrard stamps his foot on the ground the way Kyff used to when he didn’t get his own way. “That is quite enough. You cannot overcome this addiction if you do not do the work. I beg of you, Prince Senan, please try.”
“It’s Gerrard.”
Closing his eyes with a quiet curse, the man rubs his temples. Part of me feels sorry for him. Who wants to spend all day sitting around in a tower that smells like stale coffee with windows so tiny you can barely see the sun? If Gerrard wants people to recover, he probably shouldn’t bring us to such a depressing shithole in this crumbling tower that barely reaches above the clouds.
With another sigh, he closes the notebook on his lap, meeting my defiant gaze with his own. “Do you want to talk about what happened four years ago?”
The smile slips from my face, and my blood turns to ice. Who the fuck told him about that? Only two people in my family know the truth of what happened. One lives in a different kingdom, so it can’t be him. That leaves our dear king. “Absolutely not.”
Gerrard doesn’t get the fucking hint. Instead, he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, like we’re about to have a major breakthrough. “It will help to get it out instead of keeping all the pain and grief inside.”
“I said, I’m not fucking talking about it.” Everyone is staring at me with pity in their eyes. I don’t want their pity. I don’t want a fucking thing from any of them. “This is all a bunch of shit. You’re not fixing anyone. You’re sitting there judging us forbeing broken.” And I’ve had enough. I shoot to my feet and stalk toward the door.
“Prince Senan? Prince Senan!”
Not a fucking hope in hell am I going back.Do you want to talk about what happened four years ago?
Does that prick want to end up in the pit? Because I can make it happen. One word from me, and he’ll find out firsthand what it feels like to be consumed by darkness.
Bilson snaps to attention. He says not a word, but his dark blue wings appear as I stalk past. Together, we fly in silence back toward my cage.
I smooth a finger down the silver scar on my left hand, hidden beneath a glamour I wear every day.
I don’t need to be fixed.
I’d rather be broken.