Page 69 of The Diamond in the Rough

Once I’d managed to gather a bunch of frozen veggies, a few frozen pizzas, canned soups, tomato sauces, and beans, cereals, rice, pasta, and the small amount of fresh produce I could justify within my budget, I added some cheeses, milk, and bread.

The bags were extremely heavy, but I could carry them—although I also knew that I might end up with a smattering of broken blood vessels across my shoulders. Even though I have more bulk and muscle than I had four yearsago when I was released from Tranquil Brook, I’m still not exactly fleshy pretty much anywhere, so the pressure of the straps against my bony shoulders and collarbones often burst the blood vessels close to the surface.

I was sweaty and sore by the time I staggered into my kitchen, dropping the bags heavily on the counter and table. With a sigh, I started by turning on the oven and setting aside a frozen pizza, then began putting everything else away. Hungry, I washed and ate an apple while I waited for the oven to finish preheating, tossing the core just as it let out the beep that told me it was ready. I put in the pizza, set the timer magnetized to my refrigerator, and then sat at the table, trying to convince myself that I really should do what I was contemplating.

Namely, touching the damn bear.

I didn’t want to do it, but I couldn’t help but think there was something I was missing. Some trick or skill or piece of advice that they must have said, but that my memory was failing to recall.

And maybe there wasn’t, but I was getting desperate.

Pens that people had held for fewer than ten seconds were leaving traces I picked up weeks later. Paper bags touched only long enough to wrap a bagel or slice of pumpkin bread, then set in a cardboard carrying tray. Door handles. Things that had been safe for me to touch a month ago.

I knew that if I wanted to, I could just stop. I could use the same technique I’d used before, rebuild my walls brick by brick, careful mortar slathered between them. It would take time, but I’d be able to block out most things. Be able to go back to normal.

What I’d built as normal, anyway, that wasn’t any suchthing, it was just… closer to normal than where I’d come from or where I was now.

I’d been working for the last four years to be as close to normal as I could get, which, admittedly, wasn’t all that close. I’m a death witch, dreamwalker, and contact psychic who spent most of his life in an asylum. There’s only so close to normal I’m ever going to get, even with a lot of counseling and work.

Except I was suddenly finding myself wondering whether or not I actually wanted normal.

And that was making me wonder why I’d wanted tobenormal so badly for the last four years. Because I wasn’t ever going to be. My opportunity to be normal had been stripped from me at the age of six—or maybe I’d taken it from myself by killing my uncle. Or maybe I’d never have had the chance anyway, given the magic I’d been born with and the family who had given me nothing but their genetics and rejection.

I’d spent the last four years trying to make myself into someone who could exist in the world. Who could blend in with the rest of humanity. Who wouldn’t be a target.

Not that I wanted to be a target now, of course. But for the first time, I’d experienced what it was like to be different in a positive way—to have an ability that was useful and might make a difference in the world in a positive way.

I wanted to keep being able to do that.

But I also wanted to be able to function day to day.

And I was out of ideas that didn’t involve the bear.

She was nervous.No, scared. No, terrified.

She didn’t want to be here, in this room where everyone constantly stared at her and asked her to do things, try things, that left her exhausted and usually wet.

It was a hundred-thousand times better than Tranquil Brook.

St. Cyprian’s on its worst days was so much better than Tranquil Brook had ever been, even on its best days. Group therapy days were its worst days, as far as she was concerned. She didn’t mind the one-on-one sessions, but the group days made her feel self-conscious. And terrified that she was going to cause harm to someone else in the room, even though the lead psychologist was also a witch and capable of helping them control their abilities.

She was glad that Sam and Rayn were there, too. And Hallie, and Georgie, and Marta, and Davison. She wasn’t glad there were otherpeoplethere, but if there had to be, at least they were the others like her.

Witches. Arcanids. People with magic and no idea what to do with it, since they’d spent so many years of their lives having it ripped away from them rather than learning how to use or control it.

Her hand tightened around the paw of Rayn’s bear. They each had a bear, but hers always got wet, and it took days for it to dry. She held her black bear in her lap, its fur still slightly damp from the last time she’d accidentally soaked it with magic. She leaned into Rayn, needing his stoic strength.

Of all of them, Rayn was doing the best. Or seemed to be, anyway. She knew he found things hard or scary, too. Knew that he felt like he was struggling to keep his psychic abilities under control. But he was still calm. Collected. Even when touching things caused him to freeze while he experienced whatever he experienced in his own head.

She’d always been curious, but was afraid to ask, just in case some of the thoughts or feelings or whatever were hers. She didn’twant to know what Rayn had seen from her thoughts, even though she was really curious what sorts of thoughts people had.

As long as they weren’t about her. Those thoughts she didn’t want to know.

She wassoglad she hadn’t become a contact psychic like Rayn. It was hard enough when she didn’t know what people thought about her. She’dhateactually knowing.

“Alright, friends!” called out Dr. Nayak. She was a kind Indian woman who always wore her dark hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of her neck, had impeccably done makeup, and heavy, chunky jewelry that always looked lovely with whatever outfit she’d chosen for the day.

She was a little jealous of how put-together the woman always seemed to be.