In a fit of rage fueled
stupidity, I spin around and slam my fist into the wall. Because I’m likely to
beat it in a fist fight. All I manage to do is bleed on it. That only serves to
piss me off further. And Connor’s barely concealed amusement is making his face
look like the next prime target. Not that I could beat him in a fist fight, either. But since when has logic ever stopped
me?
“You know, Girlie,” he
reaches for my hand and pries open my clenched fist to get a better look at the
damage I’ve done, “there are stages in grief besides denial and anger.”
I do know, or at least I’ve heard. I don’t think I’ve ever
actually experienced any of them, though. When my dad died, when my mom was
repaired with a new mate and taken away from me to go and live with him in
another colony, I sort of got stuck somewhere between those two stages and
never really bothered moving on. They worked for me. Most of the time I could
ignore the pain if I just didn’t think about it, and the rest of the time,
anger did a damn good job of burning it away. Bargaining, depression, and
acceptance never sounded all that fun to me.
It feels like I’ve sort of done things lopsided this time
around. I used the anger to fight back the denial and depression. I don’t have
much to bargain with, and I am so done with bargaining anyway. That leaves
acceptance, and I’m just not ready for that. Not by a long shot. I think they
need to add in one more stage before acceptance . . . Vengeance.
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