The Lone Wolf's Lycan Princess

Panic

ERIN POV

I choked for air, desperately gasping for breath. The sound of my own wheezing filled my ears, drowning out the world around me. I pressed my back against the cold, rough wall of the building, seeking some semblance of stability. The darkness outside shielded me from prying eyes, but it also intensified my sense of isolation.

In the midst of my panic attack, a familiar voice, soft and melodic, resonated within my mind. It had been there for nearly a year now, offering solace during these terrifying moments. It was a voice filled with tender love, though I knew it was a creation of my own imagination. Gasping for air, my chest burned, and I felt the weight of my hyperventilation.

I forced myself to take slow, deep breaths, trying to follow the guidance of the voice. It seemed absurd, following a figment of my own mind, but it was all I had. I was so alone in this vast world, and this voice provided me with a sliver of comfort. After what felt like an eternity, I finally regained control of my breathing.

With shaky hands, I approached the back entrance of the building. The doorknob felt cold and metallic under my touch. I entered the building, hoping to go unnoticed by my boss. Pushing my cleaning cart, I hurriedly returned to my duties, determined to stay on track. As a janitor, I was often looked down upon, considered nothing more than trash. But it allowed me to work in solitude, away from prying eyes - exactly how I preferred it.

I hurriedly finished my tasks and made my way to the next office, the sound of my footsteps echoing in the hallway. Pushing on the heavy door, I strained to open it, until I heard a faint moan that made me freeze in my tracks. Whispers followed, barely audible. Trying to appear nonchalant, I continued down the hall, but then I heard a high-pitched laugh that I instantly recognized as Samantha's. Samantha, the receptionist.

She called out to me, referring to me as the "mute little mouse." My chest tightened, as it always did when faced with confrontation. But I couldn't afford to lose this job, I needed it desperately. Reluctantly, I walked towards her. As I approached, Xander, one of the higher-ups, emerged from the office, adjusting his belt. Samantha clicked her tongue loudly, eyeing me disdainfully.

"Little mouse, you reek of filth," she chuckled, and then deliberately knocked down an expensive decorative vase, worth more than my entire paycheck. I tensed up, desperately trying to prevent another panic attack from taking hold. Samantha smirked at me and then turned to Xander.

"That vase held great value. It was gifted to our firm for closing a huge deal," Xander explained. "But I'll make you a deal, mouse. Keep silent about what you saw tonight, and I'll cover the expense, claiming that I spooked you while working late. I'll take all the blame and ensure you remain employed."

Samantha laughed again, mocking my inability to speak. "Silent, you know well. Little mouse does not speak," she sneered. "Nod if you agree, and then scurry away."

I nodded, my heart pounding, and quickly followed their instructions. I scurried away as fast as I could, clocked out, and left the building, stepping out into the dark and cold night. I stuck to the shadows, hugging the sides of the buildings until I reached my small studio apartment. Locking the door and deadbolt behind me, I leaned against it, trying to calm my racing thoughts. But I felt pathetic. Two panic attacks already today, and on the verge of a third. I fought hard not to be so weak, so afraid. I knew I hadn't always been this way, although my past was a blurry mess of fragmented memories. Most of it vanished when I was sixteen, the day my family was brutally murdered.

I was the sole survivor, and initially, I was the prime suspect. They claimed that I was drenched in blood, sitting next to my sister's lifeless body. We shared a room, I recall that much.

Both of my brothers, my mom, and dad, all gone as well, while I remained untouched, except for the stain of my sister's blood. I can't remember any of it, but it's as if I was invisible, overlooked. I lost my voice, no sound escapes me, and whenever I'm surrounded by others or confronted, panic sets in.

I'm terrified of everyone, unsure if they were the ones who committed the crime. Perhaps the person is still out there, searching for me. Why am I the one who survived?

Eventually, they cleared me, citing evidence of someone else's involvement. Then, for two long years, I resided in a state-run group home, specially designed for those who have endured severe trauma. When I turned eighteen, they essentially pushed me out to fend for myself.

They labeled me as disabled, and the state provides me with enough to afford this small studio apartment. I see a therapist three times a week, but she doesn't do much to help me. They also helped me secure a janitorial position, which I've held for two years now. I can't function in regular day jobs; there are too many people.

The only voice I can tolerate is the one inside my head, a constant reminder to breathe, assuring me that they will find me and assist me. Sometimes, it even asks me to respond, but I'm unable to do so. But does it truly matter? It's merely a creation of my own mind. I quickly washed up and brushed my hair, readying myself for bed.

I removed all mirrors from my unit, unable to bear the sight of myself. Each reflection only intensifies my pain, as my mind transforms it into the haunting image of my twin sister's lifeless body.

I retreat to my bed, a small mattress on the floor, the only piece of furniture in my barren space. Clutching the worn old blanket, I curl up into a ball, a nightly ritual. As I close my eyes, I make a desperate wish, hoping to never wake again, to escape this torment. And like clockwork, a low, velvety voice fills my mind, pleading me not to leave. It promises to find me, to never let me be alone again.

Tears well up as the voice assures me it's close, sensing me stronger than ever. It claims to have never stopped searching for me, vowing to never give up. I try to drift into sleep, longing for the voice to be true, but deep down, I know no one is coming for me. No one wants a broken soul, someone who doesn't even comprehend their own brokenness, someone who questions their purpose for being alive. I am nothing more than a mouse, a pathetic mute mouse, unworthy even of joining her family in death. Why were they taken from me? What have I done to deserve this suffering?

Sleep evades me as usual, leaving me trapped in my own mind. Fragmented images of my haunting past slowly seep in, causing tears to stream down my face onto my lumpy pillow. I even cry in silence, as if my voice has been stolen from me, leaving a deep ache in my chest.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes, jolting me from my thoughts. Late-night messages or calls are rare, so I reach out from under my blanket, bringing my phone with me. With a click, the screen illuminates, revealing a message from my boss. "I heard about the vase. As repayment, you are to report here at 8 am sharp tomorrow. We are hosting an important client, and you are to serve beverages and clean up. A uniform will be provided. If you fail to show, consider yourself fired," the message reads.

Fear grips me as I lie in bed. I desperately need this job, but the thought of being in a room with others terrifies me. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself that I have to do this. I set my alarm, close my eyes, and finally drift off to sleep.

~☆~☆~☆

The blaring sound of my alarm abruptly wakes me from my slumber. I quickly dress and make my way to the office building. Unlike the deserted streets at night, the city is now filled with activity. I do my best to blend in, keeping my head down as I enter the building. Behind the reception desk stands Samantha, a mocking smile on her face.

"Looks like little mouse gets to be a servant today," she laughs, holding up a black dress. Panic surges through me as I realize I'm expected to wear it.

"Boss said put it on or you're fired," she sneers. Without making eye contact, I extend my hand and take the dress, rushing to the bathroom to change.

The tightness of the dress makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable. I avoid looking at myself in the mirror and quickly leave the bathroom. Samantha hands me a bag containing flats. "The meeting is down the hall in the first large meeting room. The beverage cart is already prepared in the staff kitchen. Your task is to simply refill coffee or teas and stand off to the side. Once the meeting is concluded, you are to clean the room. Understood?" she asked. I nod nervously and scurry off to grab the cart.

As I make my way to the room, the sound of hushed conversations fills the air. The table is occupied by several men, deep in discussion. I enter the room, fighting the panic rising within me. My boss, seated at the head of the table, introduces me. "This is Erin. She will provide beverages. Simply tell her what you want," he says, providing a small sense of relief in this daunting situation.

A man sitting at the other end of the long oak table looked up at me, his piercing gaze meeting mine. His dark hair was slightly messy, and a small scar marked his right eyebrow. He had a clean-shaven face, and his muscular frame was accentuated by a black leather jacket, an unusual choice for this formal meeting. As I made my way around the table, my hand trembled slightly, my nerves getting the better of me.

"Any juices?" one of the attendees asked, and I glanced at the drinks cart, pointing out two options.

"She's mute, best to tell her," my boss explained. The man requested orange juice, and I poured it carefully before continuing my rounds. When I reached the man in the leather jacket, he spoke in a low, velvety voice. It was hauntingly familiar. With shaky hands, I reached for his cup, but he surprised me by stopping me and pouring his own coffee.

Amidst the tension, my boss apologized for my behavior and then turned his gaze towards me. "Erin, leave at once," he snapped.

I scurried out of the meeting room, my chest tightening, a sense of panic looming over me. As I rushed through the hall, Samantha intercepted me. Her voice dripped with disdain as she taunted, "Such a pathetic mouse, can't even pour coffee." I tried to push past her, but she grabbed hold of the dress I was wearing, reminding me that it was company property.

In a rush of embarrassment, I made my way to the bathroom, desperately undressing in a stall. When I emerged, Samantha was waiting for me, her presence suffocating. "Give me the dress," she demanded, snatching it from my outstretched hand.

I attempted to leave, but she blocked my path, asserting her authority. "I'm not done with you, little mouse. If you want to keep your job, you'll have to beg me for it. Remember, my family owns this place," she sneered. My chest tightened even further, the weight of humiliation and fear pressing down on me.

"Speak up, little mouse. Your silence won't fool me. Let's hear that pathetic voice of yours," she jeered, as I struggled to push past her. Deep down, I knew I was already fired. In a final act of dominance, she grabbed hold of my hair, asserting her control over me.

I opened my mouth, but no sound escaped, leaving me feeling helpless. The pain intensified as she yanked on my hair, causing tears to well up in my eyes. Panic took over, causing my breath to quicken and dark spots to cloud my vision. "How pathetic," Samantha sneered.

Suddenly, a deep, commanding voice boomed, "Release her!" Samantha forcefully pushed me away, leaving me trembling.

Strong arms enveloped me. "LEAVE," the voice snapped at Samantha, its authority resonating in the air. As the man's grip tightened, I struggled to calm myself. "Take deep breaths. You're safe now," he whispered soothingly. Those were the last words I heard before darkness consumed me.