The Luna's Sweet Revenge

Chapter 6 The Changes In Me

A profound metamorphosis not only manifested externally but also substantially altered my internal being. Previously brimming with vivacity and depth of emotion, I had once relished the freedom to experience and express my feelings with unwavering intensity. Consequently, it was unsurprising that I had found solace in shedding tears and baring my emotions when faced with the initial onslaught of bullying from my fellow werewolves. The derogatory names, physical intimidation that culminated in my stumbling, and the ensuing derision had inflicted a profound wound, further exacerbated by a recent significant loss in my life.

However, as the torment persisted relentlessly, I consciously undertook an arduous task: withholding the gratification of my reactions from my tormentors. With disciplined resolve, I restrained my emotions to such an extent that I began to question the remnants of feeling lingering within me. A hollow and echoing emptiness pervaded my emotional landscape, save for the enduring warmth and care I harbored for my brother, Leonard, the sole individual who held a place of significance in my heart.

As doubts emerged regarding my ability to shed tears, my eyes resembled desiccated wells, devoid of any inkling of replenishment. It was as if an internal switch had been covertly flipped at an unidentifiable juncture, leading me into a state of numbness, detached from the reality that enveloped me. Amidst the affliction of relentless bullying, persecution, or paternal chastisement, I sought refuge in the illusion of residing elsewhere, a mental escapade that offered momentary respite from the turmoil that besieged my existence.

I've become quite good at using my mind to wander off to different places. Sometimes, I picture the meadow from my childhood, peaceful streams, or a calm sailboat on a distant lake, finding a brief sense of peace.

Lately, my thoughts have been focused on a man who appears in my dreams. He's gentle yet confident, a stranger in real life but a strong presence in my subconscious. Each night, I dream of him, his touch sparking delightful sensations all over me. His kisses on my neck, shoulders, and chest are intense and compelling. Just thinking about him sends pleasant shivers down my spine, but also leaves me feeling unsure.

The hunger in his dark eyes captivates me in every dream, sending my heart racing. Even now, pondering him evokes a mix of emotions, making me torn between wanting to be close to him and feeling uneasy. The conflicting feelings lead me to brush off these dreams instead of giving them much thought.

I contemplated whether this handsome stranger could be another tormentor deliberately sent to cause me pain, even if he existed solely as a phantom within my dreams. Despite the added difficulty, I made an effort to handle this ethereal presence in the same way I did with my father and Andrew, pushing the emotions they provoked deep down into a dark and hidden part beneath my chest. There, I suppressed the fear and anguish before they could fully engulf me or allow myself to acknowledge them.

I wasn't certain if this coping mechanism evolved subconsciously or whether it was a natural consequence of enduring continual abuse, but I found solace in its presence. The ability to mentally escape from my current reality acted as a temporary refuge, sustaining my sanity, or at least I hoped it did. However, this coping strategy had its disadvantages, notably impacting my academic performance, especially since the appearance of the intriguing and unfamiliar male figure in my dreams.

Reflecting on the past, I recalled a time when I excelled academically. I once cherished spending hours engrossed in books, immersing myself in reading, studying, and completing assignments. Learning new things had always brought me immense joy! My teachers used to commend me to my mother, describing me as the most curious and brightest student they had ever encountered. I wondered if their opinions of me had changed over time.

My grades took a sharp decline, barely hitting the mark ever since my life took a nosedive five years ago. There's no use in revisiting the circumstances that led to this chaos. I was caught kneeling in my mother's blood, holding a bloody dagger as my father found me. Wrongly accused, subjected to ridicule, and punished for a crime I never committed. I had come to terms with this unjust reality. Trying to prove my innocence, especially to my father, had proven futile and draining.

No matter how much I pled with Thor, begging him to trust that I was innocent, he simply refused to believe his own daughter. The thought of me being capable of such a horrendous act never crossed my mind. Yet, my father remained resolute in his judgment. Shaking my head, I tried to erase the memory of that night. Despite my repeated attempts to uncover the truth and understand my father's disbelief, I couldn't fathom why he was so quick to accuse me. He discovered me in my mother's blood, a dagger poised as if speaking of guilt. The image was clear, but his refusal to seek the truth from me left me bewildered.

Did he perceive me differently? Was his love for me not strong enough to hear my side of the story and consider my innocence?

Thor's increasingly severe treatment of me left no room for doubt: it was a resounding NO. Every single night, after fulfilling his duties as the Alpha, he returned home in an irritable state. I couldn't discern if his demeanor still stemmed from the past accusation or if brooding and aggression had become his default state, but his behavior had notably deteriorated over the past two years. While the previous years had been far from easy, the recent escalation had introduced a disturbing element, characterized by the drawing of blood in his punishments.

The satisfaction he derived from witnessing my blood drip to the basement floor from a fresh wound had become his sole fixation. The wild look in his eyes seemed to only diminish as warm blood flowed freely. It had evolved into his new obsession, a troubling trend that promised to spiral further into barbarity over time.

Undoubtedly, Thor had morphed into a more vicious and inventive version of himself in doling out punishments for the alleged transgression from years past. The nagging thought that I could be complicit in my mother's tragedy lingered, plagued by the belief that my intervention with the dagger might have hastened her demise. The burden of potential culpability weighed heavily on my conscience, fueling self-blame and resigned acceptance of the nightly torments.

Interrupted from my reverie by the echoing laughter enveloping me, I found myself oblivious to the catalyst of their amusement. Unperturbed by their mockery, I withdrew into the solace of my thoughts, the sole refuge from the harsh reality that engulfed me. However, a sudden realization gripped me as the collective gaze of the classroom converged on me amid the laughter.

I didn't need to speculate on the source of their derision; Andrew Brook's ice-blue eyes fixated on me with a malevolent sneer. Despite a surge of dread, I concealed it behind a façade of composure, steadfast in my resolve not to exhibit vulnerability. Though I couldn't decipher his words, the sinister intent in his gaze foreshadowed an impending episode of bullying. Acquainted with the malevolent glares Andrew cast my way over the years, I steeled myself for the forthcoming torment hinted by the darkening of his eyes fixed on my shoulder.