Punishment is the act of inflicting penalty or consequences on someone for a wrongdoing or offense.
This textbook definition echoed in my mind as I stared at the cold, sterile walls of the training section, why the hell was I being punished? I was called by my teacher from the training section. He informed me that one of my teammates had ratted me out like the dirty rodent she was, I understand we're not friends, but I thought we at least had some loyalty, she told him that I refused to complete the mission, and by the completion of the mission, he meant I refused to harm any of the children.
They were going to be killed by my teammates anyway, so there was no need for me to lose more of my innocence; as punishment for my 'deviance,' I was demoted to the cleaning crew till I learned my lesson.
The cleaning crew was just as important as the hunters; they waited when we were done "hunting" and cleaned up any print that could be traced back to us; werewolves have heightened senses, so they had to get rid of our smells, traces of blood if we got injured, weapons, and clothing. Just anything that indicates we were there.
They were, of course, taught how to do this and went through the necessary training just like us; they trained to work efficiently and timely, and they also had to make sure that everyone was dead.
Cleaning wasn't half as bad as killing; it was worse; nobody was fighting for their life, no shifting, just silence, the smell of blood, and my heart pounding in my chest. The feeling of dread settles in, looking at all the corpses lying around, knowing you caused the massacre, the blood, the bodies, the kids, and the silence that could be heard everywhere. The pink rabbit that was copying the little girl's lifeless form, hand in hand, as if playing some type of game.
No, Lyra, you cannot have a panic attack right now; you're a professional; you cause this; just count. Slowly...
1
2
3
"Lyra"
"Lyra," someone said while violently shaking me. "Lyra you rested enough, wake up!"
My eyelids rush open only to be shut close, trying to avoid the sun's invasion of my personal space; I blink once or twice before adjusting to the sunlight while my mom rolls her eyes and steps aside. "How was your not-so-little nap?" She asked with a tint of annoyance in her voice, "You slept so much your father taught you'll never wake up."
"I wish I never did."
She rolled her eyes once more before turning around "Stop with the dramatics and let's go, we're finally here" By here does she mean our house, the place they forced me to come to, we've been driving for a week straight (and father doesn't understand the concept of speed limit). I got out of the minivan, throwing my backpack over my shoulder.
We went from being wolf hunters to living in the suburbs; all the houses looked exactly the same; windows and doors were evenly shaped in front of the house, a center entrance and a sloped rooftop, a driveway, garage, and lawn. The house wouldn't be completed without a porch, with people sitting on their porches and smiling creepily at each other. It had this sort of calm that couldn't be explained; everything seemed to be in slow mode, no rush. The sound of kids laughter always takes me back to a dark place, the strong smell of grass harassing my nostrils to the point that it was overbearing, and yet the lawn looked so well kept, it all made me uncomfortable, so uncomfortable that I quickly walked into our house trying to avoid the way this view made me felt. It was as nice inside as it was outside, with a clean smell as if all the dirt had been scrubbed away; I walked around normalizing myself with the new place.
I saw my dad standing in the kitchen, golden curls that I wish I inherited, a tall structure (6'2) with muscular body; my first love. "Hi, Daddy," I said, causing him to lift his head from the boxes in front of him. "Hi, butter Cookie." My father does this weird thing where he changes my nickname every time he sees me. "Wanna help me unpack?" He asks with a smile.
"Nope. But I will be looking at the rooms, see ya" I ran out of the kitchen up the stairs. The house layout is pretty simple, three bedrooms; my parents have the biggest room and I have the second biggest the last can be our guests even though we'll probably never have guests over, my parents' room is the only place with a built-in bathroom, while I share a hallway leading to the bathroom with the guestroom. We have a living room, kitchen, and dining room, that's all. It's a pretty decent place overall, yet despite its size and neatness, it felt wrong. The house added to the long list of things that weren't right, normalcy that I already knew I couldn't live with. Where are the weapons hanging and hiding, the trace of blood from training, the smell of sweat that we all somehow got used to, the hunters? You probably think I'm ungrateful; I think I should be happy, but it feels uncomfortable not to have my gun on me at all times.
We moved all the boxing out of the minivan and unboxed everything that needed unboxing; by the time we were done, I was too tired to do my room (or maybe I'm hoping we won't be staying long). We had dinner together as a family, something we always did when we could. Sometimes we didn't even talk, just the comfort of each other's company and the welcome quiet.
"You'll be starting school on Monday " my mother informed.
"Tomorrow, Monday, or the week after, and please be the week after cause I can't afford to go to school right now."
"We're a lot of things, but we'll never push you into school when you're not mentally ready," My dad said with a tense voice before stuffing his face.
"So you're aware that I'm not mentally ok and just choose to ignore me" I sigh.
"Honey, we only want what's best for you," my mother said.
"How is what's best for taking me from what I have known all my life, moving far away, quitting our jobs, and changing my school?" I asked.
"If you wanted me to be normal, you wouldn't have let me harm the innocent. You would have quit when I was a baby, but I trained and worked so hard only for you to take it all away in a day," my voice slightly broke at the end.
Breathe in and out. Do not cry Lyra, remember to do your counting; why aren't you counting right now? Count.
"Do you want to keep killing?" My mom asked calmly.
"I didn't want to start."
"Do you hate us?" My dad finally spoke, sounding so sad I just wanted to hug him; how could I ever hate them? It seems he shocked even my mom with that question cause she turned so fast to look at him; I didn't have time to answer before we heard the doorbell.
"I'll get it," my dad said while rushing to the door clearly not wanting to hear my response. It was one of our neighbors bringing us a housewarming pie; how could they bring me here when it's reflex for my hand to tighten against the knife when I heard the doorbell? When talking it out isn't ever my first option, it always comes down to hurting someone. It hardly ever happened since I like food so much but I lost my appetite.