No one will ever love you.
You're filth.
You're scum.
I never wanted you.
Owen stares at his reflection in the mirror.
He can hear her even now, see her standing in the dank little council flat in South London where she'd brought him up. Remembers her drunk and screaming, cursing the day he was born and telling him how he'd ruined her life.
He splashes water on his face and runs his hands though his hair.
But it's all right, Owen tells himself as he pockets the pheromone spray. He doesn't need love. It's not like it's real anyway.