Page 219 of Broken Saint

“Mom, please,” I beg, my eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“I’m worried about you.’

“It’s just low blood pressure and too much stress. I’ll be okay,” I lie.

If it’s possible, the frown lines on her forehead get deeper.

“You’re not eat?—”

“When we get home, I’ll eat anything you make for me,” I promise, already feeling physically sick just thinking about it.

“Anything?” she asks.

I nod, although I’m already regretting it.

There’s movement over her shoulder before a woman of a similar age appears before us.

“Here,” she says, thrusting a can at me. “The sugar should help pick you up,” she explains with a soft smile.

“Thank you so much,” Mom says, cracking the top for me and encouraging me to drink some.

My stomach convulses and my mouth waters—but not in a good way—as the sugary scent hits my nose.

Mom glares, waiting for me to refuse after the promise I just made her. Unable to disappoint her, I move the can to my lips and hesitantly take a sip.

It takes everything I have to swallow down the ridiculously sweet drink, and the second it hits my stomach I’m sure it’s going to immediately reappear. But after a few deep breaths, everything settles.

“I’m taking you home,” Mom says as the woman goes back to whatever she was doing before I interrupted her day with my dramatics.

She steps back and is about to close my door when I remember why we were here in the first place.

“We need food,” I blurt.

In reality, I probably should have kept my mouth shut.

“But—”

“Go,” I encourage. “I’ll be okay here. I’m feeling better.” I give her the best smile I can muster while she debates her options.

“I’ll be super fast. We were pretty much done anyway.”

I cringe as I think about the reason I was running from the store in the first place.

Hatred burns through my veins. But it’s not just for him, the asshole who made me feel unworthy, ugly, fat, worthless. But also, for myself.

He might have done all those things, but I allowed him to. Hell, I can’t help but wonder if I encouraged him at times.

I’m a masochist. I enjoy the pain. I deserve the pain.

I embraced the teasing and the bullying as a child and hurt myself because of it. And I did exactly the same after Colt and I finally ended, and I put myself in the hospital.

It’s exactly what I’m doing to myself now.

Punishing myself for my stupid decision.

Deep down, I knew we wouldn’t last. I knew I’d be the one broken at the end of it. But I went there anyway, and now I get to suffer the consequences.

He was right, I am weak.

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