Ever since my wolf awoke within me, the beatings have become a lot worse. My father knows I am no longer just a fragile human; he no longer has to hold himself back… not when my broken bones and bruises heal overnight.
My physical injuries heal, but I’m still left with the sharp echoes of his rage ringing through me. Words so venomous, and spoken so often, they feel like they are a part of me.
You are so fucking useless.
I shouldn’t have let your mother keep you.
A son at least would bring this family rank. Not some bitch that can’t even make dinner.
I was stupid. I know better than to flinch… his fists aren’t even clenched, just twitching down at his side, like he’s forcing it to hold steady, and his eyes grow dark with quiet fury.
Apologies ready to spill out of my mouth—it was all my fault, I should have done better—if I had been paying more attention, this wouldn’t have happened—he speaks first.
His voice drips with disdain as he sighs and says, “Just make me a fresh one. And be quick about it.”
I don’t question him.
Rushing back to the fridge, I pull out the other steak and get to work.
I spoon butter over the meat, searing it as quickly as I dare—all the while trying not to hyperventilate—if I ruin this one too, there is no way he won’t explode. Once the new chuck eye is properly cooked, I put the plate on a tray before walking it carefully over to his seat at the table, bracing myself with every step. Still, my father doesn’t say a word.
I tense as he takes his first bite. His teeth shift into his wolf’s fangs, tearing into the meat and dripping spots of blood onto the tablecloth. I know exactly what it feels like for those teeth to sink into my own flesh.
It would have been better if he’d at least slapped me. This calm doesn’t feel safe.
Instead, he just keeps tearing into his dinner. Gulping it down, bite by bite. At last he finishes, leaving his dirty plate on the table and walking away to his room.
I sag with relief.
Away from his sharp eyes, I can finally breathe. I pick up his plate and bring it over to the sink, washing it by hand.
I grab the fallen steak off the floor and wipe the dust off—I mopped the floors yesterday, so it shouldn’t be too bad. Even though my stomach is still locked in hard knots, I force myself to eat. I rarely get protein and I know that my body needs it. Usually I am left with the scraps… I am so nervous as I try to eat that it feels like I’m choking down mud.
As soon as I finish, I get down on my knees to scrub the scuffed laminate until it shines—until not even a hint of the buttery scent of dinner remains on the floor to remind my father of my most recent failure… I won’t give him another excuse.
With all my chores done for the day, this is the time I like best. Ignored by my father and left to my own devices, I might actually be able to finish my homework in peace tonight. Some nights I’m simply left in too much pain to finish, either that, or a broken hand or arm makes it too hard to hold a pencil. Once, I tried to force myself through the pain before I healed, and blood smeared all over it. I’m sure my answers sucked, too—by then it wasn’t even worth explaining what happened. I would just leave the work at home.
The past couple of days have beenbad. My father has been brutal, even for him. If it weren’t for the strength of my wolf, he would have killed me several times over… but I can’t think about that.
So, my homework—though I understood the concepts in class—I have a hard time focusing on the equations when I feel so on edge. I spend longer than I want to staring blankly at the numbers, uselessly willing them to make sense.
After taking some calming breaths, looking through the textbook again, I push everything else out of my mind. Soon the numbers start to click, and the work gets easier.
I hum as I work on the algebraic equations. It’s peaceful—like a sort of puzzle that I need to put together.
When everything is done, I write my name neatly in the top corner and tuck the work into my homework folder. At least tomorrow, I won’t have to make up more excuses about why it isn’t done.
I’m more tired than I expected. Collapsing onto my bed, I don’t even bother to pull the blankets over myself. I just reach over to my rickety nightstand and switch the lamp off.
I am almost asleep when my bedroom door slowly creaks open.
Every inch of my body goes tense. Gripped by a fear that won’t let me go. As blood pounds through my veins so hard, it’s the only thing I can hear.
He hasn’t let the incident at dinner go. Of course he hasn’t.
I clench my eyes shut tighter, trying to keep my breathing even, knowing that it won’t do me any good. Knowing that even if he thinks I am asleep, it won’t stop him—I close my eyes tight, anyway.
His heavy footsteps approach the bed, and my body tenses..