The Luna's Sweet Revenge

Chapter 5 Wanted To Be Free

The other shifter students often displayed their hateful sentiments towards me, as if Andrew's actions weren't sufficient, and my father's influence had not been extensive. They seemed compelled to contribute to the existing turmoil that defined me, regardless of whether they struck my arm, face, or stomach. It was clear to me that if the Alpha had witnessed the mistreatment I endured over the years, he would have commended them.

Just the previous day, for instance, Andrew, or 'Satan' as I mockingly referred to him, along with his cohort of malevolent 'minions,' took turns tormenting me. These individuals were part of the arrogant and dull-witted football team, obedient followers of their nefarious leader. They had relentlessly pushed me around, laughing callously, to the point where I ended up inebriated, regurgitating my meager breakfast onto John, known as Andrew's right-hand confidant. Enraged, he forcefully shoved me, causing me to be flung through the air and harshly collide with the ground, leaving my hands, elbows, and knees inflamed and marked with infections from the dirt particles that had deeply cut into my skin.

I had ceased counting the numerous times I had to tend to the various cuts and bruises inflicted on me daily by my classmates. Among them, Andrew stood out as the cruelest, earning the title of the worst bully among them.

When all this torment began, the bullying, I used to rely on disinfectants and ointments to tend to my wounds, as the infirmary healers never extended their help, following my father's directives. However, as time passed, it became futile as the other shifters and my father perpetuated the cycle of mistreatment. Each day brought new bruises, fresh scrapes, and cuts, adding to the constant injuries I endured.

I not only neglected caring for my wounds over time but also grew apathetic towards my appearance. My mother always emphasized the importance of presenting oneself well, even for a quick errand like a supermarket visit. Throughout her life, she epitomized elegance and beauty, always exuding readiness for a night out or a romantic rendezvous. Unsurprisingly, she had been the Luna of the Lemuel pack, standing out from the rest.

I can still picture her graceful form before me, reminiscing about her with the same admiration I held as a child. Her platinum blond hair cascading gently over her shoulder, impeccable makeup, and dresses adorned with floral patterns painted a picture of beauty. Fragrant as a bouquet, she enchanted those around her with her captivating presence.

I have always looked up to my mother, aspiring to emulate her grace and elegance in every way possible. I took it upon myself to learn the art of walking with the same poise and sophistication, carrying myself with a natural air of grace that kept my head held high and my gaze steady as I acknowledged each and every member of the Lemuel Pack.

I made it a point to make each individual feel valued, going above and beyond to lend a helping hand to anyone in need, regardless of the scale of their request. The loss of my mother inflicted a profound devastation not only upon me but also reverberated throughout the entire pack.

Contemplating how my mother would perceive me now – tainted, weakened, a stark departure from the woman she had envisioned me to be by the time of my impending high school graduation, marking the threshold of my official entry into adulthood – prompts a deep sense of introspection. The nearing day of emancipation stirs within me a fervent desire to break free from the shackles of this town, its populace, and above all, my father, Thor. The prospect of liberation from his oppressive presence fuels an insatiable longing for autonomy.

Yet, amidst the fervor for escape, my thoughts inevitably gravitate towards Leonard, my younger brother, who remains sheltered from the viciousness of Thor and shielded from the brunt of the abuses directed at me. Concerns about Leonard's safety post my departure linger in my mind. Could Thor's wrath eventually turn towards his only heir, Leonard?

Despite harboring doubts, given Thor's regard for Leonard as the potential future leader of the Lemuel Pack, recent displays of intensified brutality by Thor sow seeds of uncertainty regarding Leonard's ongoing safeguard.

The uncertainty of leaving Leonard exposed to the unchecked ire of Thor weighs heavily on my conscience. I am resolute in my commitment to shield my brother from the loss of innocence and joy that I, too, have endured. I hold steadfast to my belief in Leonard's capacity to steer the pack towards a brighter future, both in terms of economic prosperity and moral integrity. The endurance of the torment inflicted upon me is a necessary sacrifice to secure the opportunity for Leonard to lead the pack towards a transformative and positive destiny.

Perhaps, I should contemplate the audacious act of gathering our possessions under the shroud of night and embarking on a daring escape together with Leonard. We could venture towards a new existence far removed from the oppressive grasp of our malevolent father and the stringent decrees of his pack. The notion lingered in my mind that the Lemuel Pack might be irredeemable, teetering on the brink of irrevocable decline, a melancholic thought that starkly contrasted with the eternal optimism that defined my late mother's legacy. Her unwavering commitment to instigate change, to be the beacon of positivity and deliverance, stood in stark contrast to my current state of detachment from her noble ideals.

In the reflection of the mirror above the sink in the confines of my basement quarters, I could discern the fading semblance to a younger iteration of my mother with each passing month. Physical scars such as bruises and swellings were not the sole contributors to this transformation; a gradual erosion of self-worth had also taken root within me. Despite possessing the basic essentials of soap and a basin to maintain a semblance of hygiene, the lack of motivation to tend to my personal upkeep had gradually gnawed away at my will.

The yearning for a simple luxury, the indulgence of soaking in a steaming bath to cleanse my body of the accumulated filth and grime, served as a stark contrast to the harsh reality of mere survival over the past five and a half years. The mundane ritual of cleansing my entire body in a small basin with cold water became an arduous endeavor, particularly when attending to the cleanliness of my hair under the unforgiving stream of the faucet, a discomfort amplified during the frigid winter months.

Initially, I endeavored to emulate my mother's refined grooming practices, adhering to the belief instilled by her on the importance of maintaining a dignified appearance. However, as time wore on, the futility of cleansing myself continually in a relentless cycle of degradation inflicted by my tormentors eroded my resolve. The medley of stains, whether self-inflicted from wounds or laughter-induced dirt and mud, left me drained of the vigor to eradicate the visible remnants of my suffering. With a body and hair tainted by dirt, grime, and scars, and a school uniform mirroring my neglected state, in dire need of washing and repairs, the person I once was had become unrecognizable from the vibrant individual I had been just a few years prior.