Ever since I was a child, their stares followed me like hungry wolves, Not curious stares, but disgusted ones. A wrinkle of the nose here, a furrowed brow there, whispers like hissing snakes behind my back.
I used to tell myself they were wrong, that I wasn't different from anyone else, that all I needed was time. But when I turned eighteen, the truth scraped against my heart like rusted nails.
I was different. A freak. A Half-shifter, a mix-up, a mistake.
The silver glint of the knife I was holding mocked me as I placed it on my wrist. It felt cold and heavy in my hand. With trembling fingers, I traced the sharp edge of the knife against the vein popping out of my wrist, a silent scream escaped my lips as I summoned the courage to slice it open. The searing pain mixed with a strange sense of relief as crimson blood trailed down my arm, staining my skin. It wouldn't be quick, that much I knew. But maybe, just maybe, the pain would finally drown out the emptiness.
My tears trailed down my cheeks as I dragged myself towards the dusty doorway of my mother's room. It had been untouched since the day she passed.
There, in this room filled with the memories of my mother, I would finally find peace, even if it will be a cold and lonely one. Because in that quiet, dusty room, the whispers and stares won't be able to reach me anymore.
Reaching the doorway, I pushed the door open. The rusty edge of the door creaked loudly. The furniture sat covered in dust, untouched since my mom's death. A half-finished knitting project lay forgotten on a chair, a forgotten picture frame here, and a faded bouquet there, a silent reminder of her final days.
I stumbled towards the bed, collapsing on the worn out sheets. "Mother," I whispered. "Why did you have to leave?" The silence pressed down on me, suffocating.
With a defeated sigh, I turned to face the window ignoring the blood soaking the sheets. But as I did, a glint of light caught my eye. A small crack snaked across the wall by the window. I walked towards it and scraped off the loose plaster.
Panic set in when my fingers brushed against something solid. A small wooden box, tucked away in the crevice. I opened it and a gasp escaped my lips. Inside the box, on a bed of dead velvet flowers, laid my mother's silver amulet, the one she always wore.
But it wasn't just the amulet. Under it was a folded piece of paper, aged and yellowed. The familiar scrawl of my mother's handwriting sent a fresh wave of tears trailing down my face. With trembling hands, I unfolded the letter, my heart beating in my chest.
"My dearest Layla," it began. "If you are reading this, then it means I am gone. I am so sorry, my sweet girl, that I couldn't be here to see you grow up, to protect you."
"You are strong, Layla," the letter continued, "stronger than you know. Don't let anyone tell you differently. You are my miracle, my moonbeam in the darkness. Live and never lose sight of your light, no matter how difficult it becomes."
The final sentence hung heavy in the air: "I love you always, with all my heart. Until we meet again, my brave girl."
I crumpled to the floor, the letter clutched in my hand. "Mother," I called out, tears streaming down my face.
How could you be so selfish.
I tore a piece of the worn-out sheet, my hands shaking so violently it ripped more than I intended. I wrapped it around my wound, a desperate plea echoing in my head: please stop the bleeding, please. But as the fabric turned red within seconds, a new wave of terror crashed over me. "This won't do!" I rasped, my voice choked with panic. My eyes darted around the room, searching for anything more substantial, anything to stop the blood.
The creak of the door sent a jolt through me. My head snapped up, and my breath caught in my throat as my eyes met his. Father. The world seemed to seize into that single point of contact - him, and me.
"Greetings, Father," I stammered, my voice barely a whisper. My heart pounding in my chest.
I watched his eyes raked over me before settling on the pathetic excuse for a bandage, he stared at it for what felt like an eternity before finally looking up to face me. "Three rejection," he stated, his voice flat, yet somehow laced with a disappointment that cut deeper than any blade.
Shame burned in my throat, choking back any attempt at explaining myself. I stared down at the bloody mess on my wrist, my heart beating twice as much.
"Do you have nothing to say for yourself?" He asked and I flinched. His voice was a whiplash, sharp and laced with disappointment.
"I... I'm sorry, Father," I mumbled, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.
A silence followed, heavy and suffocating. It stretched on for what felt like hours, squeezing the air from my lungs. Then finally, he spoke.
"Get that pathetic scrap of fabric off your arm and find some proper bandages." His tone was clipped… dismissive.
"Yes, Father," I managed to say, my voice barely a squeak.
A scoff escaped his lips, a single harsh outburst of breath that spoke volumes. "Tsk," he muttered. "And you wonder why you can't keep a mate."
A defeated sigh escaped my lips as he turned and walked away. Three rejections. Yes, that was indeed a lot.
With numb limbs, I pushed myself up from the floor. Just get the stupid bandage, I thought dully, shuffling towards the familiar route to my room.
But as I rounded the corner I saw Maya, my maid, or would I say only friend sitting on the edge of my bed. Her brow furrowed with concern as her eyes traced the blood stain on my wrist.
"What happened?" she whispered, her voice filled with worry. Relief washed over me as she took some steps closer. Anya's presence surprisingly felt like a lifeline.
Before I could answer her questions, a choked sob escaped my lips and with trembling hands, I gestured towards the makeshift bandage on my wrist. "Can you help me change this?"
She didn't say a word as she carefully removed the blood-soaked fabric. But when she saw the wound itself, a clean, deliberate cut, she paused, her gaze locking with mine. It was a very clean cut. Even a fool would be able to tell what had happened. A flicker of something that seemed like disgust crossed her features before she scoffed. "Let me guess..." she said, her voice dripping with disappointment, "...you chickened out?"
"Yeah," I admitted, my voice barely a rasp.
"You really are pathetic, you know that?" she added not even sparing me a glance as she cleaned the cut.
I gritted my teeth. "Yeah…" I breathed out.