Page 4

A Few Hours Later

W e have run out of time. The clock has ticked the end of lives away so cruelly.

Today is the day; one I knew was coming but didn’t believe I would live long enough to see.

However, Alpha Brock will finally put an end to my misery.

I turned eighteen a few weeks ago, and I was surprised he didn’t jump to put me down that very day.

Luckily, he was out of town because it gave Ivy enough time to ask to be tried alongside me.

Death is the least of my fears. No, my biggest fear besides leaving Tyson in Mrs. Daley’s hands is being put up for auction and sold to the butcher.

He’s a vile man, despicable. I shudder at the thought of his hands on me and suck in a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart.

I will kill myself before I ever let myself be placed in his hands again.

No, Doyle will not have me, won’t be allowed to violate me further, and I know Ivy will understand she will have to.

She knows the pain he caused me, though we never speak of it; she knows what he did.

If only she hadn’t climbed on that chair next to me and pulled the noose around her neck, too.

Perhaps then the rope would have held my weight, and my misery would have ended that fateful day.

Although, the very thought of leaving Ivy with our headmistress, Mrs. Daley, makes bile rise up my throat.

She’s a wicked old woman. I can’t stand her, especially after what she just did to us.

My back stings, but I know the markings that mar my skin are nothing compared to the whipping Ivy just got.

All because she gave us too many chores—more than usual—because the king is visiting today, and she wants her yearly donations.

He is the reason we are in this mess; he makes the laws.

As if we care if the stupid king is visiting the pack today; he would just be another to torment us if given the chance.

I flinch as I place the rag doused in medicinal herbs on her skin.

Ivy tries not to move or cringe, but I know it must be burning like crazy.

I remind myself it will be over for both of us very soon.

Eight horrendous years later, and we are finally going to be free of this place, this life.

Death.

Most would think it morbid to wish for death, but death will be more pleasant than the life we are living in this orphanage—forced by the very pack that killed our parents. The Alpha slaughtered them right in front of us mercilessly.

Grabbing a bandage, I start wrapping it around her torso. Ivy shudders and grips the comforter on the bottom bunk, fisting it, trying to hide the pain she is in. I sniffle, trying to stop myself from crying. Goddess knows Mrs. Daley would punish us worse if she saw a tear.

Once I finish dressing her wounds, I reach for her blouse and help her pull it on, untucking her raven hair as it bunches up inside it.

I smile sadly at her, hoping the herbs will help remove some of the pain for her.

Standing, Ivy swallows and nudges me, taking the leftover rags and tapping me in a silent message to turn around.

Ivy dabs the wounds on my back with a wet cloth to clean them; though mine are just raised skin and sting a little—hers are deep gashes.

When she finishes, she squeezes my arm gently and I pull my blouse back on hissing as my shoulders move.

Ivy watches me and silence falls between us.

If I have to go out, I’m glad I have Ivy by my side.

I would be lying if I said I’m not a little scared, though; however, I can’t help but wonder if I will be reunited with my parents.

Gosh how I miss them! It has been so long; I’ve almost forgotten what they looked like or even the sounds of their voices—it feels like a lifetime ago.

Reaching my hand out, Ivy places her calloused one in mine and glances around our orphanage bedroom—the room lined with bunks for the children we cared for, for more than eight years.

I will miss them but not this place.

I give Ivy’s hand a squeeze and she tightens hers back.

I don’t let go as we walk out of our bedroom and up long corridors passing each room.

It saddens me knowing there will be no little faces tomorrow for us; no little hands dragging us from our bed to make them breakfast.

The children here are the only good thing about this place.

As we pass each room, I slow, hesitating at Tyson’s door.

I’m worried–who will look after him? He is non-verbal and has a severe learning disability, but Mrs. Daley refused to have him tested.

Will he get fed or will Mrs. Daley lock him away again like some animal?

He is such a sweet boy, just misunderstood.

Emotions threaten to choke me as I stare at his little bed; the little bed I would sometimes climb into in the middle of the night to soothe his night terrors. The little bed filled with his scent.

If I wasn’t going to my own funeral, I would take him with me, but death is no place for him.

He deserves the world, and I hope one day he will have it at his little fingertips.

It takes all my willpower to keep walking.

This will be the last time we walk these halls; the last time we see the little faces we helped clean and the little hands we held.

The corridors are silent as we descend the spiral staircase to the floor below.

As we reach the bottom, the weight lifts off me. We are finally free–free of this life and free of Mrs. Daley. I will no longer have to hide whenever the butcher comes to drop off meat; I will no longer have to see his face again after today.

With that thought in mind, I glance at Ivy, knowing she’s feeling the exact same thing as me. We’ve endured enough and today our suffering ends along with our lives.

“Let’s go home,” I whisper to her.

Ivy pushes on the double doors leading to the small courtyard out front.

The porch creaks under our feet and I see the kids playing out front on the run-down play equipment.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I have had to patch the kids up after falling from it or pulling splinters from tiny feet and hands.

We step out into the bitterly cold air, though the cold has never really bothered me.

I spent most of my life on autopilot, anyway, barely feeling anything.

It’s one thing I can say Mrs. Daley taught me: emotion gets us nothing; pain and tears won’t save us; she taught me just how easily someone could break when she locked me in that damn basement with the butcher.

After that day, I learned it was better not to feel, just switch it off – it is what it is.

So, I hold that thought as I step outside.

The day is overcast, clouds hiding the sun, making it gloomy. The gray clouds are low, and it looks like it will rain later in the day.

The kids stop what they’re doing and rush over, grabbing and reaching for us, wanting us to play.

Tears threaten to bubble and spill but I fight them back looking for my boy and enjoying seeing them one last time when a car pulls up and parks on the curb.

It is sleek and black, with windows tinted so darkly we can’t see who is inside.

Yet I don’t care because I notice Tyson coming over to me.

His plushie in his hand is missing an eye that I have sewed on one too many times before giving up.

His eyes are glassy, and Kimmy stands not far, his ratty blanket tucked over her arm.

Besides Kimmy, the kids have no idea where we are going.

But looking at Tyson’s little face, I feel he knows now – like he can feel the sadness bleeding out of me at leaving him.

He knows I’m not coming back, and seeing the distress on his little face breaks my heart as I scoop him up.

“Shh, don’t cry, don’t cry,” I whisper, kissing his temple.

He is skinny and fits perfectly in my arms. “You be a good boy, try to stay away from Mrs. Daley okay, and stay with Kimmy or wait for Katrina. Katrina is good, remember,” I tell him, and he nods sadly, clutching my neck.

Ivy brushes her fingers through his hair.

Both of us have a soft spot for Tyson. He was only a few days old when his parents were killed, and he was a colicky baby.

The first year of his life, I hardly slept, and when I did catch a few moments, it was because he was on my chest. Now I’m leaving him to this horrid woman.

I inhale deeply, soaking in his scent one last time, savoring it as I silently pray to the moon goddess to not let anything happen to him.

Ivy nudges me, telling me we should go, and I place him down before noticing the car is still parked by the curb.

The passenger door opens, and two men hop out. They are dressed well, in clean crisp clothes, not a hair out of place and look picture-ready. Neither looks like what I expect so-called royalty to look like. Mrs. Daley rushes out in a hurry.

She looks like a mutton dressed up as a lamb.

The old hag has changed into a super tight pencil skirt and blouse, having popped the first two buttons open as if either of these men would be interested in her wrinkling, old floppy tits.

They look like golf balls in socks; I’ve seen her naked once and can tell you she had old floppy tits and sported a 70’s afro that would need a hedge trimmer.

It scarred my eyeballs, and Ivy and I snickered about it for weeks afterward.

I try not to laugh and let Ivy tug me along to meet Alpha Brock.

Mrs. Daley stares over at the two men as they approach the small brick fence surrounding the place.

“You must be…” she stops trying to figure out who they are.

“I thought the Lycan King was coming today?” Mrs. Daley asks, looking slightly upset.

I nod toward them, and Ivy shrugs, looking them over with the same curiosity.