The Nameless Luna – Book One: Chapter 9

That night, all the beauty and comfort of my room in Tristan’s villa can’t keep my demons at bay.
In my dreams, I was back in my uncle’s pack house, tending to the garden. It sounds strange, but I was at my happiest with soil under my nails and sweat on my brow, hunched over a flower bed. When I heard footsteps approaching, I set down the rusted old water tin, frowning at the familiar sound.
My cousin rounded the corner, followed by two of his friends. One of them was the girl that would become his future mate, and the other I recognized as the Gamma’s eldest son. He was a low-ranking lackey of the pack that liked to follow Oscar around like a lost pup, scrambling for scraps of his approval. One of the easiest ways to obtain that approval was by tormenting the one person in the pack who ranked even lower than he did, assuming I mattered enough to the Banes to rank at all.
I lowered my head, keeping my eyes trained on the flowers at their feet.
In dreams, time and season do not matter, and all the blossoms were in full bloom. Poppies flowered next to chrysanthemums and petunias, filling the air with a scent that became sickly rather than sweet as the dream became a nightmare, mixing with memories that were all too real.
“What do we have here? A witch tending to her weeds,” the Gamma’s son snickered.
“Oh please, don’t insult witches like that,” Oscar retorted. “The mutt doesn’t have any powers. At least if she were a witch, she’d be interesting.”
“Didn’t her mom go crazy and kill herself? Maybe she realized her baby was cursed, and that’s what drove her insane,” cooed the girl by his side, quirking her head to the side in a catlike motion, like a predator examining its prey. “Or was it the childbirth that killed her?”
“Either way, it was probably the mutt’s fault.”
The words cut deep, not just because of the malice behind them but because I could not refute them. No one knew for sure what drove my mother mad, and for all I knew, it could very well have been me.
You tell yourself that people are kind and decent, you tell yourself the world is good, and then life proves you wrong.
I tried to shrink away from them, but Oscar and his friends closed in, their laughter ringing in my ears. They thrived off of each other, their taunts becoming crueler and more cutting.
“Maybe her father knew she was a cursed freak, too,” said the girl, tapping her chin as if pondering the possibility. She took a step forward, stomping carelessly over the flowers. “That’s why he abandoned her and refused to mate with the mother.”
The petals were crushed underfoot, the stems snapped in two, and the soil churned up. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest, and my hands were shaking. I couldn’t take my eyes off the destruction, feeling like it was a reflection of my own shattered self-worth. My eyes stung with unshed tears for the soft, pretty things that grew from the earth.
Did it feel good? Did it make her feel beautiful to crush something pure? Did it make them all feel strong and safe to destroy that which is different from them?
The urge to fight back was there, muted and choked down but still burning like the last flickering ember of a fire that refused to entirely go out. But my voice was stuck in my throat. I was paralyzed by my own experiences, unable to move or speak.
The Gamma’s son stepped forward, eager to get a word in. He reached out and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me up from where I was crouched among the flowers’ remains. I winced in pain, but I was too scared to even cry out. I knew there was no point.
You can only get knocked to the ground so many times before you inevitably learn to stay down.
I could feel my cousin watching him in approval, which only egged him on further. My heart was pounding in my chest as he tightened his grip on my arm. I could feel bruises forming where his fingers dug into my flesh. I was trapped, and there was nothing I could do to escape.
“Aw, look, the mutt got dirt on her clothes,” he hissed, tearing at the hem of my shirt with his other hand. I tried to stagger away from him, but I tripped over the ruined garden. He yanked on the shirt as I fell backward, the fabric ripping as I landed in the battered soil. Surrounded by the broken petals of the daisies I had so carefully tended to, I wrapped my arms across my chest to cover myself.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, my cousin shifted into his wolf form. He bared his teeth and growled, his eyes glowing with malice. Behind him, Oscar’s girlfriend shifted uncomfortably, her expression growing distant. Her eyes glazed over with boredom. It was easier than seeing what was being done to me. Apathy is softer than horror, quieter than guilt and shame, comfortably close to numbness. They say sticks and stones are the worst of it, but I can tell you that I would choose words over teeth and claws any day.
Oscar was massive in his wolf form, his fur a dark, mottled grey. His eyes were a burning, rabid shade of yellow, and his muscles rippled under his fur as he moved, making him look even more fearsome. As he growled, his ears flattened against his head, and his elongated jaw revealed sharp fangs.
His breath came in frenzied pants, the sound sending shivers down my spine. There is nothing more frightening than a cruel predator, one that has abundant time to tear its victim apart and play with the pieces.
I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the impact, but it never came.