Cruel Beauty

Chapter 1

Cold.

My room was always cold, with a permanent stench of hopelessness and despair hanging thickly in the air. The walls and floor were stone. Chains dangled from the ceiling. Every time I see them, I see myself. I saw a girl, bruised and broken beyond repair.

My mind reeled with memories of being bound in those very chains. My lower back burned, and a fresh wave of pain coursed through my body as I pressed the freshly burnt spot against the cold metal of my cell. Yes, cell. My room was a prison cell, one in which I’d spent the last twelve years.

I was never alone. There were others like me. They came and went, but never returned. My ongoing theory is that they were dead. I’ve heard whispers and murmurs about what might have happened to them, but no one knew for sure what actually happened.

The door to the dungeon burst open, followed by familiar heavy footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Prisoners scramble away from their cell doors, sinking themselves into the walls. Everyone was fearful that it might be their turn—everyone except me.

I relax against the cool metal, legs outstretched before me with my eyes closed. Listening closely as the footsteps drew closer and closer until they walked past me and stopped a few feet away.

I hear the desperate plea of a woman, but I keep my eyes closed. It wasn’t any of my business, anyway. It was everyone for themselves down here—I had to learn that the hard way at a very young age.

“Please!” The woman’s voice carried through the silence, screams bouncing off the walls. “Please! Kill me, but spare my daughter. She has nothing to do with this,” followed by the muffled cry of a young child.

Something inside me stirred, but I had to swallow back the emotion before it surfaced. It was no use anyway—emotions make you weak. I block everything out. I block out their screams. I ignore the hand that gripped my shoulder before someone forcefully rips it away.

No matter how hard I try to ignore everything—to block out everything—a single tear slid down my cheek. I wiped away the tear quickly with the back of my hand before anyone noticed, but everyone else was too preoccupied with blending in with the wall to care.

Their screams carried through the quiet hallway, their echoes bouncing off the walls of the dungeon until I heard the door slam shut. Then it was quiet again. Slowly, the other prisoners began detaching themselves from the walls, their shoulders sagging in relief.

This was everyone who had ever entered this place's biggest fear—the fear that they would be next. Nobody wanted to be the next person dragged through those doors, because we all knew that they would never come back.

The usual whispers erupted from the silence. I could feel their eyes boring holes in the back of my head, but I ignored their stares and whispers. They were talking about me. They were always talking about me.

I’ve never left my cell. I’ve never shied away from the guards or the Beta, who paid personal visits to me every full moon. He would come in the night. With the help of the guard, he would chain me, then rip the back of my ragged clothes, and press a fiery hot metal on my back.

Although I was a werewolf, and we were known for our faster-than-average healing without leaving scars behind—these wounds always left scars behind. When I ran my hand along my back, I could feel the scars they left behind. It felt like strokes of a tally chart with the four long strokes followed by the one stroke that went across.

I received one stroke on every full moon to mark the passing of my mother, who died on a full moon. This was my father’s punishment to keep count of all the full moons since his mate had died.

I remember the first time it happened, twelve years ago. I was six years old and had just witnessed the murder of my mother at the hands of someone who had sworn to protect and love her for all eternity. What a load of bullshit!

Naïve and oblivious, six-year-old me held on tightly to the same hands who not too long ago had killed the person they swore would never come to harm by them. Confused, I let them lead me through the dimly lit dungeon until we came to a stop at a cell.

Those same hands threw me inside. I yelped in surprise when my tiny body collided with the cold, hard floor. I convinced myself that those hands didn’t mean any harm, and that they were just messing around.

“Father.” My small voice called out, while I rose to my feet, reaching out a hand for him. He looked down at my outstretched hand in disgust. The look on his face was frightening, one that I wasn’t accustomed to. I didn’t understand it then, but now, you could say that if looks could kill… well, I’d be dead.

“I’m not your father.” He spat at the floor, lips curling into a sneer. He glared at me with so much hatred in his eyes, I was afraid it would be enough for me to evaporate into thin air.

“Fath-” I didn’t get to finish whatever it was I was going to say. A slap across the face sent my body flying across the room and crashing into the wall, effectively cutting off whatever it was that I was about to say.

It happened so fast; I didn’t even see it coming. My cheek burned as fresh tears stung my throbbing cheek. My hand shot up to cradle my cheek. I winched at the contact but kept my hand there. My back slumped against the wall as blood started to trickle down my forehead.

My vision blurred. At first, I thought I was seeing two of my fathers until the image cleared to show that my father was, in fact, only one person. There was someone standing behind him. He handed my father something that glowed at the tip.

My father took it and stalked over toward me. Terrified, I pushed against the wall, willing it to let me pass through so that I could get as far away from him as possible. Of course, that didn’t work. This wasn’t like the cartoons I saw on TV, this was real life—and in real life, people can’t walk through walls.

I was a sobbing mess, pleading with him to leave me alone. I even promised that I wouldn’t tell anyone what he did to Mom, which only seemed to enrage him even further.

“I didn’t kill your mother, you did!” He screamed at me. With that, he grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around so that I was facing the wall.

He leaned in close to whisper in my ear, low enough that no one else would hear. “Yes, I killed your mother,” he confessed. “But you know what? No matter what you say or do, no one will ever believe you. Do you know why? Because you’re the one who killed her, you bastard!”

Hot, searing pain shot through my body. My skin burned, and I could smell the faint scent of burnt skin in the air. A scream pierced my ears, so deafening that for a moment I didn’t even realize that it was coming from me.

Fresh tears flowed down my cheeks as I cried out in agony. Everything hurts. It felt like someone was pointing a flamethrower at me because my entire body felt like it was on fire.

That night, I cried and cried until I had no more tears left to cry. My body collapsed on the ground, weak and broken. I didn’t move, even when I heard the sound of a lock clicking in place or the distant sound of a door slamming shut.

Overcome with exhaustion, sometime in the night, my eyes closed and I prayed they would never open again.