Rain and Ashes

Bonfires are blazing in the garden in front of the packhouse of the Crescent Moon Werewolves Pack. Many pack members, especially teens or unmated adults, are gathering around, chatting or dancing. There is always booze and food involved, along with music. Let’s not forget about that, because what's a party without good music? Not that I am ever invited to the party, but I enjoy listening to the loud beat coming from the speakers. That probably was the reason I began hiding up the walnut tree. Ever since I was eight, I carried a piece of paper and a pencil with me, and I would draw while listening to what was happening around the bonfires.

The sketch I have been working on for the past few days lies forgotten on my lap. The fireflies dancing in the air captured all my attention as I slowly tuned out the music and the voices around the garden. I quietly observe them from the branch I perched on, my back leaning against the tree trunk. It is my favorite place in the pack. No one bothers me here. I usually hide between the leaves and watch the sunset while imagining I am far away from here.

Whenever I draw, my mind escapes into a world where colors, lines, and shapes align to create something beautiful. It helps me forget how much the pack I was born into hates me. I’ve often wondered if my status as an Omega has anything to do with it; traditionally, Omegas are supposed to be protected by the packs, especially by the Alphas. Unfortunately, inside my pack–the Crescent Moon Pack–the reality is different.

Everyone mistreats me. Not only because I am an Omega but because—according to them—I killed my parents when I was three. I was so little when it happened. I have no recollection of that night or my parents, but from what I heard, the house my parents and I lived in burned down until only ash remained. When pack members discovered what had happened, they found me among the ashes and burned wood, surrounded by fire. According to them, my eyes were like rubies, and my hair, once black, is now red. Hours later, the natural color of my eyes—green—returned, but my hair maintained a scarlet shade. A small crown of flames appeared on my left shoulder, that was what set them to label me as a murderer. Moreover, people believed I was cursed by the Moon Goddess since red is commonly associated with vampires. If there is something a werewolf hates the most, it is a vampire.

As a punishment for what I did to my parents and for being marked by the Moon Goddess as a murderer, I became a modern-day Cinderella. Every single day, around 5:30 AM, I start my day. Is expected of me to make sure the kitchen is spotless, equally for the dining room. Mrs. Marian, the lead cook in the pack, will not only yell or smack me around if I don’t clean everything to her liking, but she will starve me for days. Not that anyone seems to care about that. By the time I am done with work, at 9 PM, I am ready to pass out of how hungry and tired I am.

Even now, I can’t recall the last time I had a decent meal. If I have ever had one. Werewolves are stronger than humans and can go on without food for days and still strive. However… when you don’t eat enough to keep living for years on end, each bite is crucial. Especially when I am expected to maintain and clean the entire pack house, do the laundry, pack the pups’ school lunchboxes, and so much more.

Not that I mind the hard work. It helps me keep my mind off how the pack treats me. Most of the time, it keeps me away from trouble since many like to bully me. Soon enough, I will be nineteen. The moment the clock strikes midnight, I am leaving. Sayonara, baby! Let the pack deal with their own mess. I want to see how they will handle all the chores when I am gone since I am the only Omega here. They seem to think Omegas are only good for cleaning. Honestly, though, I am not the slightest bit curious.

My art teacher, Mr. Smith, is helping me to get admission into Bucharest National University of Arts or any other university. This is a bit tricky for me as I was homeschooled, and it is not recognized in Romania. However, Mr. Smith has friends who work in several universities across the country who can help me out. If it wasn't for Mr. Smith, I would be lost and in trouble. He is the only one who shows me any affection and without his help, I would probably become a rogue, which is not something I desire since Omegas go into 'heat' and would want to be around Alphas.

A burst of laughter rises above the music, pulling me out of my thoughts, and I sniff the air. Werewolves are very sensitive to smells and scents, but it is said that Omegas have the best noses in a pack. From where I am, I can spy without being seen.

I am lost in my thoughts when a sudden burst of laughter interrupts me. I instinctively inhale deeply, using my sensitive nose to identify the source of the scent. Being an Omega in a pack, I have the keenest sense of smell. I remained hidden, observing everything without being noticed.

Many scents float in the air, but the one that catches my attention is lavender. It belongs to Ruth, my cousin. Another one is oranges, which is Jordan -the future Alpha of the pack. I shuddered at the idea of Jordan being my Alpha. He and Ruth are the bane of my existence. Jordan laughs at something Ruth tells him. How could he not? After all, Ruth is everything I will never be: tall, healthy, blonde, blue eyes, amazing tits, great ass—every male’s dream. At least, that’s what most of the males in the pack say about Ruth—that she is gorgeous. I am not. I am so thin I might as well resemble a wood board.

As for Jordan… I guess females would fawn over him. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be with a strong, tall, blonde guy as a mate? Too bad his brain is the size of a pea.

I might be the only one in the pack that hates Jordan with a passion. Ever since I can remember, Jordan has bullied me. It was nothing serious, but it still made me hate him. I do try to hide my feelings from him. Not sure how he would react if he ever learned how many nights I spent dreaming he would slip on ice and break his neck. Impossible, I know, since werewolves have two sides—a human side and an animal side. Thanks to this, were-creatures are harder to kill.

Jordan dips his head and says something into Ruth’s ear. She turns her head, and she almost kisses him, but he jerks away from her. I am sure everyone in the pack knows that Ruth is irremediably in love with Jordan or… with the idea of being the pack’s future Luna. She turned nineteen four months ago. So when she realized she wasn’t Jordan’s soulmate, she had a meltdown -since Jordan would only settle for the one meant for him, his soulmate. He is yet to find her. In the past year, he has become a little impatient since he is twenty-two, and the pack is pressuring him to find her. I might hate him, but I still don’t want to be in his shoes. The constant nagging of ‘have you found her yet?’ would drive me crazy.

Safia, my wolf, sends me an image of Jordan with a redhead female next to him—caramelized apples above her head—and I mentally arch an eyebrow at her. I am not like most people, as I suffer from prosopagnosia or face blindness. I can’t see faces. They are a blur to me, so being a werewolf is a blessing. I can tell by scent and smell who is who and how they are feeling. Safia is also… different. The animal side of a werewolf is able to talk to the human side, but Safia has no voice, so she sends me images when she wants to tell me something. Over time we created our own way of talking, and now, we communicate without any problems. Oranges are used for Jordan; lavender for Ruth; gray clouds for when someone is upset; thunderbolts when she wants to let me know someone is furious; while rainbows are for happiness.

Ruth tries to make another move on Jordan, but he pushes her away. Safia lets me know Jordan is angry. I roll my eyes.

Up until Ruth turned nineteen—the age when werewolves are considered adults and can feel their soulmates—Jordan was into Ruth, and I might have caught them having sex once or twice. I pretended not to see and continued with what I was doing. Ruth was more than happy to let everyone know Jordan was interested in her. The day she turned nineteen, and Jordan knew they were not fated, he turned his attention to another female. Although, since she was in love with another pack member, Jordan backed off. Since then, he has been single. Not that I care.

Safia insists on the image of Jordan and the redhead female, which I assume is me since my scent is of caramel and apples. For a few months now, she started being obsessed with Titan, Jordan’s wolf.

’You do know how much I hate Jordan, don’t you? And I doubt he would be entertained by the idea of me being around him. The few times that happened, he ended up creating more work for me,’ I tell Safia.

If he doesn’t kick the bucket of water I use for cleaning the floors, he will find other ways to antagonize me. He will probably call me names or, if he is in a very bad mood, even push me or make me trip.

Safia whines. Being a lone wolf inside a pack is difficult. When it is a full moon, we usually run alone while the rest of the pack runs together. I prefer it, anyway, because I would probably look constantly over my shoulder if I had one of the pack members run next to me, wondering if I would get attacked.

’One day, we will find the one meant for us. Our soulmate. We will never be alone then. When the full moon rises above the forest, we will run next to our soulmate,’ I say, trying to console Safia. Of the two of us, she is the one who suffers the most from the lack of friendship and companions. I am more than happy not to talk to anyone from the pack, for days in a row.

Werewolves are not meant to be alone. That is why many rogues go mad after years of solitude. Some of them band together and form packs that, while not accepted by the Council of the Elders, will keep them sane.

Safia tries to explain to me that Titan is not only a good wolf, but he would also love to run with us. Gag me! Not that I have something against Titan. But Jordan would probably kill me before running with me.

I put the sketchbook in my backpack and climb down, wanting to go into my room and sleep. Jordan’s birthday is in two days, and that means more work for me. Unmated females from other packs are expected to come and parade themselves in front of Jordan, to see if any of them are his soulmate. While I feel bad for Titan, I hope Jordan never finds his soulmate.

To get to my room, which is in the Packhouse, I have to pass by the bonfires. I hope no one pays me any attention. Please, please, please….

“If it is not the mongrel,” someone says.

I don’t even need to smell her scent to know it is Ruth talking since she is the only one who calls me mongrel. Or mutt. Or any other insulting word she can come up with.

I try to keep walking, to pretend I did not hear her, but her friends’ group is blocking my path. They usually ignore me, just like I ignore them. Tonight, however, was one of those nights when they wanted to fuck with the Omega. Figuratively, not literally.

Before I can say something back to Ruth, she adds, “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to make sure everything is ready for Jordy’s special day? Am I right, Honey-Bunny?”

I try not to roll my eyes, but they would probably spin at the back of my head, like slot machines. Who talks like that? Jordy… Honey-Bunny… who is, of course, Hannah, Ruth’s best friend.

“You are always right, Ruthy,” Hannah replies.

What are they, six?

What did Jordan, or any of the other males in the pack, see in Ruth? She is annoying as fuck. I’m guessing it’s because she is beautiful, but since I can’t see faces, I find other things attractive.

“I am going to my room since it is my free time,” I reply. Not that I have to give explanations to Ruth, but it is easier if I do.

“If I am to become the Luna, I would have to make sure you never had a free moment,” Ruth says, and her friends approve. Shocker.

“Well, good thing you are not the future Luna. Now, if you all will be kind enough to let me pass….” I say.

“I don’t even know why we bother speaking to her,” Ariel says. She is not bad per say, but since she started spending more time with Ruth and her minions, she has started saying the same bullshit as Ruth. “What if the Moon Goddess, I don’t know, punishes us for being close to her?”

Is there an epidemic of reptile brains around the pack? This is why I hate living in this pack because they always blame me for whatever shit happens to them.

I try to push through the circle forming around me when someone jerks my backpack off my back. I spin around, hoping to catch the scent of whoever took my stuff away from me, when a strong scent of oranges hits me.

Jordan.

He is the one who took my backpack. Of course, it had to be him.

“May I have my backpack back?” I ask, trying hard not to sound as pissed as I feel.

After being on my knees all day long scrubbing the floors, all I want to do is retire to my room and sleep. Is that too much to ask?

Jordan smirks—according to Safia. A cigarette is in the left corner of his mouth. “Only if you ask me nicely.”

What is his problem with me? Hadn’t he bullied me enough, now he has to make me beg for my stuff? “Please.”

Ruth snorts. “For someone that lives off the charity of the pack, you should work more on your ‘please.’”

Since I have no family to provide for me, the pack throws me their leftovers—from their old clothes, which most of the time are either too small or too big, to whatever is left from their meals. But I am grateful for everything I get. The shirt I am wearing belonged to one of the warriors of the pack, and when it was too worn out and full of holes, he gave it to me last Christmas. I have a basic sewing kit, so fixing it hasn’t been a problem. And the old jeans, I am pretty sure, belonged to Ruth at some point.

The Crescent Moon Pack isn’t too big—around a hundred members—nor wealthy, like other packs, so hand-me-downs are pretty common. Ruth loves clothes, but she has never been forced to wear stuff from other females. When she is bored of them, she either gives them to another female or to me… if she is generous enough and the clothes are always ruined.

Jordan dangles the backpack in front of me, and I try to grab it. It might be as old as Tutankamon and missing a strap, but it is where I keep my sketches and pencils. I can’t not draw. It is the only thing that keeps me sane, except for Safia. Jordan takes a puff from his cigarette and blows the smoke in my direction. If I suddenly grab the cigarette and put it out on this tongue, will I at least be granted a quick death?

“Tell you what,” Jordan says. “After I look inside the backpack, I will return it to you.”

I would much prefer you did not do that, thank you very much, since I never let anyone see my drawings except Mr. Smith. But of course, I don’t say that out loud.

“No,” I start saying, but Jordan ignores me and opens it.

His eyebrows inch up—courtesy of Safia to let me know— as he pulls out my sketchbook. It is still open on the page I was drawing on—Safia and Titan running through the forest on a full moon night. It is my gift to her for when I turn nineteen.

“What is this?” he asks, his voice shocked and confused.

I feel the others staring at me, but I ignore them. It’s not like I have drugs in there.

“Nothing.” It is not like it is his business anyways. “Give it back!” I demand.

Jordan looks at me, and when Safia lets me know he is angry, I swallow nervously. Jordan is a nuisance, but angry Jordan is a nightmare. The last time I made him angry, he had me starved for days. I do like food.

“Did you just give me an order?” he snarls. His orange scent turns spicy, and I don’t need Safia to know how angry he is.

“No,” I say, my voice low.

He shoves the sketchbook into the backpack before throwing it over his left shoulder. “Since you had the audacity to draw Titan, I am keeping this. I want to see what else you have drawn.”

Ruth laughs. “This mutt knows how to draw?”

“I would not call them drawings. They more resemble scribbles,” Jordan replied sarcastically before leaving—with my backpack.

I am crushed. Scribbles or not, they are mine. I put hours into making them, and I want them back. Though, I know that Jordan won’t return my stuff to me. Tears pool inside my eyes. Without pencils or paper, I can’t draw. Maybe Mr. Smith can give me more, but I feel bad about constantly asking things from him.

Ruth and the others start laughing, and I rush towards the Packhouse. Luckily, no one tries to stop me.

Only three more weeks, and I am free of this pack, especially free of Jordan.

When I get to my room, I slam the door behind me before I fall on my mattress and pull the old quilt that covers it on top of me.

The second I am away from here, I will forget everything about this pack. I won’t miss anyone or anything. Not the old floor that squeaks beneath my feet, nor my room—which used to be a laundry room—not even the walnut tree. I shift on the mattress, and I accidentally hit my leg on the coffee table that is at its foot. In an outburst of anger, Jordan or one of his friends kicked it and broke two of its legs. I saved it from being tossed into the garbage and fixed it.

I huff before removing my sneakers and crawling back under the quilt. As I fell asleep, I realized that I would miss the walnut tree. And Mr. Smith.