The grieve.

Karina

I walked cautiously amongst the other pack members, avoiding their eyes and stares. Amongst them, I was an alien.

But wasn't that the truth?

I was never treated as their own.

My palms stung from the places where thorns had once pricked into my skin. I didn't care for it. In the face of my new routine, it was now a new constant in my life. One I embraced wholeheartedly.

Roses were my father’s favourite flowers after all. If putting flowers on his grave meant being stung every single day, it was worth it.

The news of his death had come the past week, with them explaining it as a rogue attack. Numbness filled me as I heard the news, only gaining enough of my senses to hold my mother as she broke down.

He was buried five days ago, given a burial worthy of his position as the Gamma of the pack. He has protected me ever since I was born. With his presence, even though the rest of the pack loathed me, they never openly said so otherwise, only passing disgusted glares my way.

He had barely rested in his grave, and they had already lost all their inhibitions.

I ignored all the insulting glares I got and all the murmurs I could hear. In the end, they still said the same things time and again.

Bastard

Rogue mutt.

Shutting my eyes, I did my best to block all of their words away. I had heard those words all my life and I was used to it. It shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did, and yet…

I curled my hands into fists.

I had been raised in this pack my whole life, born from members of this pack and yet they called me cursed. An anomaly. Even whilst I was in grief, why couldn’t they spare any mercy?

If not for my sake, then for the sake of my father, who had served as the Gamma of the pack? Why not for my mother, who had suffered for something that was out of her control?

So lost in my thoughts, I didn’t pay any mind until suddenly, a sharp hot pain filled my senses. When I opened my eyes, seeing the stone that rolled past me stained with blood, I instantly understood what had happened.

Their snickering came from behind, as though injuring people was something worth laughing about. Nobody tried to help, believing that I deserved it.

Burning rage flickered through me, I could easily recall how my father patted me on my head, laughing heartily.

“Dear child, you may have your Mother's features, but anger? You certainly took that from me.”

The reminder of my father was enough to douse my anger back into the bottomless grief. I blinked back the burning tears that fought to leak out, shutting my eyes tightly.

In spite of the abuse and stigma I had faced within the pack, he had loved me unconditionally. They both had.

For their sake, I would walk away.

So ignoring the snickers and mocking, I moved forward, toward my home.

I made sure to cover the bloody stain by weaving my hair at the nearest reflection. It would have been difficult considering the light nature of my blonde hair, but I was satisfied once I didn’t see any bloodied strands.

I entered the house to find my mother in the living room, staring into space as she often did now. My heart hurt at the sight. When she turned to me, her face eased a little as she came forward to lightly hold me.

I had gained all her features, from her golden blonde hair to her green eyes. I recalled the teasing from my father that I was a carbon copy of her.

The grief hit me once more with a pang.

She was the same in most ways, but no longer shone as she used to. Her hair was limp and greasy, face holding more and more lines which made her look older than she actually was. Most of all, her eyes, once bright with life, were now hollow.

The weight of her grief hammered down on her. We both suffered the same pain. I had lost my father and anchor and she had lost her mate.

“Are you alright, my darling?” She asked, looking at me. It hurt that in spite of her pain, she still held so much concern for me.

The back of my head throbbed, but I forced a smile on my face.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I spoke in a false bright tone, hoping she wouldn't notice.

I looked toward the dining room, only for the slight hope in my chest to crumble. A mix of sadness and disappointment struck me once my gaze met the table. The food I had made for her earlier lay uneaten.

“You should eat, mom,” I chastised her, pushing her blonde strands away.

She nodded absentmindedly. Inside, I knew she wouldn't take my advice. Still, I forced my lips into a smile.

“Thanks, mom,” I said.

Suddenly, the air shifted as she looked at me in silence. Confusion filled me and I was about to speak when she smiled. All my thoughts froze to a halt.

Rarely had I seen a smile on her face. Although it had only been a week since his death, it felt like eons had passed.

“Look at you, so young yet so grown up." She said.

I flushed at her teasing. I was only a few days to eighteen, but she made it seem like I was older.

I waited for her to say anything else, but she remained quiet, eyes full of contemplation.

“Mom?” I asked.

She smiled once more, and my heart fell at the sad look in her eyes.

“You're my treasure. Your… your father's treasure.” My heart ached as her voice broke at the last part.

But she wasn't done just yet.

“It doesn’t matter what anyone says. You are a blessed child. I love you so much.”

My throat grew heavy from those words. I would have held her then and there, if not for the fear of breaking the moment I did. Instead, I reached down for her hands, holding her tight.

“Thank you, mom,” I whispered to her.

Her shaky smile made my heart hurt.

She didn’t stay long, retiring to bed with the excuse of exhaustion. I pretended like it was okay, smiling supportively as she slipped into her room.

I looked through the window. The clouds were darkening. It was nearing evening and by now, the people outside would be very little.

This was my chance. Our food storage was near finished. Even in this time of grief, I couldn't let us starve.

Taking a basket, I cautiously slipped out of the house.

I weaved through my path into the forest, away from the prying eyes of other people.

From the little plants and fruits to vegetables, I collected all I could find, inwardly mapping out all the dishes I could cook. I would have laughed in irony at the thought. Usually, it was my mother who did most of these things. I only serve as an assistant most times, helping her through her work with the occasional complaints just to make her laugh. I could imagine it clearly. Her cooking in the glowing kitchen whilst my father would be laughing on the couch, teasing my mother and I.

But it was all in the past, an illusion which could never become a reality anymore. My father was gone, and my mother was a hollow shell of the person she used to be, lost in her grief.

I had to be strong for the both of us.

The basket was overfull, bouncing against me as I made my way out of the forest, back to my home.

My blood ran cold in alarm the moment a voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Well, well, look who it is.”