𝐓 𝐎 𝐑 𝐓 𝐔 𝐑 𝐄 𝐃. / ww ff.

𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝖺𝗇. / edited.

— 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞.

I gasped for air on the pungent floor of the leaky attic. I was laying on my side, one hand clutching my now bleeding stomach. The other hand lay sprawled above my head. My ribs heaved up and down as dust swirled in the atmosphere around me. I was barely conscious; a learned routine of forcing myself to be aware of my surroundings despite my injuries.

I barely registered the Beta spit on my bony frame, the glob of hot and dirty saliva landing directly against my cheek cruelly, as he then proceeded to bury his fist into my scalp and pull me up by my brown and tatted hair. You would've thought me to scream or cry out, but, this has happened so many times before that I don't feel it anymore. The numbness finally and gratefully settling into my skeleton.

Once my weak knees were upright, he threw me into a wall with ease, due to his inhuman and werewolf strength. My body crashed into the European hard wood, a choked and barely audible gasp crying out of me, the blood from previous injuries beginning to slowly pool out of the gash on my stomach.

Beta Sterling stepped over to me, leering over me like an awful tyrant, before delivering a harsh kick into my ribs, increasing the pain and anguish by tenfold. I coughed up hot blood onto the floor as a groan escaped my lips. The routine beating felt as if it'd spill into forever, a continuous blurred image of all the times he's abused me.

My battered face cringed slightly, awaiting another blow or kick, my black eyes swelling up with unshed tears. But I didn't let them fall. I'd never let them fall in front of him.

"Pathetic," Beta Sterling spat before raising his knee in an evil ascend, delivering a agonising stomp to my face with the sole of his black boots, a sickening crunch following suit.

My entire world of pain was swept away with darkness, a sweet but limited release I'd sometimes get from the abuse whenever my battered body couldn't handle the beatings anymore.

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Slowly, blearily, I awoke to the feeling of my lifeless body being moved. Dragged, even. Additionally, there was also a very sharp pain coming from my head. Oh. Oh. I know what this is. I can remember this from all the times it has happened before. Someone is dragging me to one of the many bedrooms in the pack house by my hair to have their way with me.

With a slow and resigned fluttering of my eyelids, I finally closed them. I didn't fight back.

But God, please, don't think of me as useless. I've tried fighting back and running away many times before, but after every failed attempt the werewolves catch me and horrifyingly break one of my bones as a warning. The first time I kicked and screamed and begged and howled like an animal being led to the slaughter, but swiftly my wrist had nearly been snapped in two. I became desperate, hysterical, on the brink of despair, and would try anything despite the abuse, but I was always met with a world of terror and torture.

I finally gave up every ounce of fight and defiance in me ever since my mate took charge of the punishment, beating my body to near exhaustion and nearly popping a vital blood vessel in my neck. The worst part, was that the mental pain of the abuse coming from my mate, was far more psychologically damaging then any wound he could've physically inflicted onto me. I could barely fight back without my weak heart breaking against my will.

So, I let them drag my limp body. My matted and mousy hair in their hard and trained grip. My frail body curved around slightly as a sort of protectiveness, hiding my previous injuries that The Beta had inflicted. A black eye, a bloody nose, a cracked rib with plenty of bruises. The worst, the long gash across my tummy that had been crudely wrapped with a makeshift bandage during my unconscious state. A dry laugh almost, almost escaped my throat. Where's the fun in beating and raping the human girl if she's died from blood loss and infection?

My tattered white dress wasn't white anymore. It was a manipulative gift from my mate when he'd first found me, to lure me into his terrifying hold. I fell for it, I fell like dead wood. Now, being the only piece of cloth I was permitted to wear, I did my best to take care of it, but a victim of abuse usually has more pressing matters on their mind than a silly, white dress. Now, it was scarred with blood and dirt and yellowing, ripped and shredded by many fatal bruises.

My skin, once porcelain and smooth and attractive enough from days passed to have young boys giving me flowers in my most innocent days, was scarred and bruised and bloodied with the essence of my mate and his men's torture.

I couldn't cover it. It was all over me.

All over my body. I've got scars up and down my legs, arms, stomach and face. Ive got scars in places you've never even heard of. Dried blood attached itself to my skin, finding a familiar home in tattooing itself to me. For now it was apart of me.

And it doesn't stop there, no, it'd never just stop there. My face was called 'beautiful' once, by my friends, by my family, by my admirers. Now, you'd probably laugh at the person who'd said it. For my face is masked by crimson blood, indigo bruises and silver scars. Even my eyes were called like a storm once, a lively visage of roaring skies, always alive. But now that storm has calmed and disappeared, gone.

I will forever have that lost look in my eyes, the one most victims have. The one where they're looking somewhere else. Somewhere beyond. Searching. Always. For I'm trapped in my mind, lost and unable to do anything except watch myself get tortured.

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edited 2021. thoughts?

edit 2022 - name changes.