My File
1181 Words
Zahraa POV
My first thought was how unexpectedly small it was. With all the visits, appointments and tests I remembered from throughout my years here, I’d expected my file to be fat with receipts and reports.
Instead, it was so thin I might’ve confused it for empty.
“Hey,” Jacob nudged me as I chopped vegetables. We’d decided on late night omelets. I liked a lot of veggies in mine, and Jacob wanted bacon, ham and tomato in his. He was frying bacon while I turned perfectly good vegetables into perfectly uneven and abnormally shaped chunks. “Stop thinking about it. I’m sure we’ll find something in there.”
How could I stop thinking about it? It was all my mind would focus on. The file that I’d been obsessing over since Jacob had brought it up was sitting on my coffee table right now, ready for me to rifle through it at my own leisure.
“Sorry,” I laughed, if only to cover up my own discomfort. “I’m just…”
Anxious. Apprehensive. Frightened. Eager. Impatient.
“…Excited.”
He chuckled, flipping the bacon over with a fork. “Understandably so. I am too. Maybe…” he trailed off, pushing the bacon down with a pensive look on his face.
When he didn’t continue, I repeated, “Maybe…?”
“Sorry,” he laughed again, but this time it sounded forced. “I was thinking maybe this would be a good distraction from the factory business.”
The factory was so far removed from my mind at the moment, I had to remind myself that we’d just performed a successful two-person search and rescue mission. That file was so much larger than the factory in my eyes. Though it appeared to hold nothing at all, it held everything – everything about me. My past. All that was currently known.
And, hopefully, something might stir up a memory. If not that, perhaps it contained something overlooked. No matter how small, any lead could be something.
When the bacon was cooling and drying, Jacob took a new pan out and started whisking together eggs. I watched in quiet awe as he skillfully cooked the eggs, topped the omelet and folded it perfectly. It slid onto my plate with ease, and he started on his own. “You can go ahead. Those things never stay warm for long.”
I was glad he’d said it, because the sight and smell had awakened a long-forgotten appetite. I leaned against the counter, my plate in one hand, fork in the other, and tried it. The first bite was divine – buttery, with a slight crunch from the bell pepper, and a burst of juice from the tomatoes, all gloriously stuck together with a thick layer of cheese. “Oh my goddess,” I breathed through a too-hot mouthful. “This is so good.”
He laughed, and it sounded warm and genuine. “Thanks.”
Once the bite was swallowed, I looked down at his second masterpiece – though this one was thoroughly soaked in bacon grease. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
He froze for a second, and I wondered if that question had somehow hit a sore spot. “Well, when we were younger, we were served by this young omega. She was pretty bad. She did just enough of her job to escape dad’s notice – but she never cooked for Jada, Amalia or I. Jada was always busy feuding with Jared, and in her later years, she went with him to the Western pack to work as an apprentice under that alpha. When it was just Amalia and I, I took care of our meals.”
“You didn’t say anything to your dad?” I pushed, confused.
Jacob shrugged. “It’s hard to explain. She was bad at her job, sure, but she was amicable. If we asked for help with homework, she’d struggle to do what she could. If we asked for advice, she offered some of the worst you’d ever heard.”
My brows shot up. “Oh?”
“Oh yeah.” He laughed, flipping his omelet together and waiting for the cheese to melt a bit more before he pulled it off the heat. “She used to tell us to fight everyone for anything. We got in a lot of trouble for that. And one time, someone kept stealing out of Amalia’s back pack. The omega told her to bring a gamma to the classroom and have him search everyone. It was kindergarten chaos. Kids were crying, the teacher was in the corner trying desperately to reach out to dad. I wish I’d been there to see it.”
There was a pause, and he grew more somber. “She was stealing from us,” he explained, when he seemed to notice the look on my face. “She’d been taking some of our more expensive decorations and swapping them for knock-offs. She was banished from the pack for it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, unsure what else there was to say on the matter.
Jacob brought his omelet to the table. When everything was settled, he shrugged. “That’s life as part of the alpha’s family. Especially for the leftovers. Jada, Amalia and I barely have roles or expectations.” He huffed a frustrated chuckle, “Sometimes, I think we’re just around for looks.” Another pause, then: “Sometimes, I wonder why he and Luna Jasmine ever had more kids.”
In the hefty silence that followed, I pondered something.
Luna Jasmine.
He never called her mother.
I almost asked, but decided Jacob would tell me when he was ready.
I put a gloved hand over his, once again wondering how warm it might be to break down that barrier, to be able to touch him with my bare hand, and not feel pained. I had no words for him once more, and we ate in heavy silence.
When we were done, we moved to the living room, sitting side by side on the couch, backs straight, faces grim. Squared on the table in front of us was the file.
My file.
In a plain, unmarked manila folder were a few loose sheets of copy paper. “I confess,” he said, nervously wiping his hands on his jeans, “that this isn’t the original file. It’s just a copy of what Rowan uploaded – but Rowan is pretty meticulous with his record keeping, so I have no doubt that it’s all in here.”
I nodded. Still, I was afraid to reach forward and touch it; as if it might turn into a snake, coil and strike at me.
Jacob breeched that barrier for me, reaching forward and dragging the coffee table closer. He took the folder in his hands and opened it as if he were ripping off a band-aid, moving quickly and decisively.
I gulped at the title on the first form that greeted us.
Intake Record: Zahraa, last name unknown.
- Writer
