VEUX

Twenty Three

March 3

When Saoirse was thirteen, she'd accidentally stabbed herself in the palm with a knife. She'd been slicing an apple above her kitchen counter, never on the surface for her mother would hang her by her hair. The surface of the fake granite was to remain unmarred; Use a cutting board, her mother repeated time after time. Yet Saoirse never did, for her laziness deemed it a hassle to grab the large block of wood for such a tiny fruit. Then to wash it, dry it, return it. She'd rather risk an injury.

It took a couple of seconds for Saoirse to remove the blade from its incision between her thumb and pointer finger. She'd gotten too confident slicing so quickly, accidentally missing the mark and meeting her hand instead. Now she was the mark. Saoirse muffled her cries as she pried out the knife, instantly running her palm under warm water. It burned. She longed for the cold but seventh grade biology told her not to. Told her that the cells needed water similar in temperature to clot her blood quicker. If only she had listened to her mother as well as she listened to her teachers.

Even after hiding the wound from her mother for the two weeks it took to scab over and fall off, she didn't use a cutting board. Never has, for Saoirse didn't think of the injury as karma, or Murphy's law. But a lesson. To learn to be more swift next time, less cocky. Calculated.

Though the venom from her bite erased the scar from her palm, she never forgot. Couldn't afford to.

Pull hand behind back. Collar grab. Push and crank shoulder. Fall.

For the eighteenth time that day, Saoirse fell on her side from Oak's force. The dirt and pebbles from the slightly frozen ground dug into her skin without mercy, nesting into her tissue. Still, she huffed and drawled herself back to her feet. A sheen of sweat had encompassed itself over her skin, small baby hairs frizzy from her damp hair. She wore nothing more than her shifting shirt, jogging shorts, and a look of determination. She got to her feet for the nineteenth time.

Saoirse and Oak squared again, the Alpha barely having broken a sweat. They bounced on their feet in the training field, feeling the nearly Spring time earth spit up twigs and stones beneath their bare toes. The look on Oak's face was unforgiving.

Holding the record for eight female wolves on his territory, Oak was smug about his achievement. Oracle only had Saoirse as his first, Obsidian with three. Osric and Osias, well... they didn't even have territories any more.

Though several arguments occurred between Oak and Oracle over Saoirse's training, it never got any easier for the girl. She'd get beaten into the dust before Oak would relent. He knew this. He heard the words from his brother that he should give her more time; she's young. Oak claimed to know this, yet when they trained, Saoirse saw the glint of forget in his dark eyes. His females were born as animals. He took that for granted.

Again and again, Oak said he wanted to make Saoirse strong.

When Saoirse lunged for him, heavily out of breath yet with her fists still raised, the cycle repeated.

Block punch. Rotate arm outwards. Shove to ground and restrain.

Again and again, Saoirse got to her feet.

Oak finally took his weight from her frame, watching her rise like a deflated ball beneath him. They'd been at it for hours, Oak well aware of Saoirse's constant huffs of frustration. His remarks weren't helping.

"If all you do is block, Saoirse," His tone was never the one you'd expect a trainer to have. Rather than praise or recommendation, Saoirse felt embarrassment with every word from his lips. "You will end up getting killed. You need to attack."