The Burden of Survival

Sylvie's POV

I stare into my father's bloodshot eyes. The pungent stench of stale alcohol and sour sweat rolls off him in heavy, suffocating waves. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a struggle. My arms remain limp at my sides. Fighting back only fuels his twisted rage. His thick, calloused hands wrap around my throat, digging into my soft flesh and cutting off my air supply. He is a monster. Any semblance of the man who used to hold me, who used to be a father, vanished years ago, replaced by this cruel, bitter drunk.

Black spots dance across my vision. My chest burns with a desperate need for oxygen, but I hold my gaze steady. I will not cry. I will not beg.

"Stupid bitch," he snarls. His voice drips with pure venom.

He releases his iron grip, shoving me backward. I collapse onto the cold, dirty hardwood floor of our living room. I roll onto my side, gasping for breath, trying to drag precious air back into my screaming lungs. Before my vision can clear, a shadow looms over me. His heavy work boot connects with my ribs. A sharp, white-hot agony shoots through my side, followed by a sickening, audible crack. Another broken bone to add to the familiar canvas of torment covering my battered body. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. I know better than to cry out. A scream will only earn me a second kick.

I brace my shaking hands against the floorboards and force myself up. Pain radiates through my torso with every tiny shift in movement. I make my voice work, spluttering past the raw ache in my bruised throat. "I can go and get you your drink now."

My reward for this submission is a brutal, stinging backhand across the face. The force of the blow snaps my head to the side. A sharp ringing fills my left ear. The metallic copper taste of blood pools on my tongue from a split lip.

"Do it, you stupid cow," he mutters. He turns his back on me and slumps his heavy, bloated frame onto our threadbare, stained couch. The worn springs groan under his weight. He props his dirty boots on the coffee table and reaches for the television remote, dismissing my existence.

I press a hand to my throbbing cheek and limp toward the kitchen. Every step sends a jarring spike of pain through my cracked rib, but I pick up my pace. Any delay will bring a worse beating. I open the rusted refrigerator door, the dim yellow light casting long shadows across the empty shelves. I grab a cold beer, the condensation freezing against my bruised knuckles.

My father blames me for my mother's death. It is the root of this endless nightmare. Years ago, when I was a small child, a vicious rogue wolf breached our borders. My mother threw herself in front of me, shielding my young body with her own. She died tearing the rogue's throat out, sacrificing her life so I could keep mine. My father believes I should have been the one to bleed out in the dirt that day. My older brother, Declan, shares this deep-seated hatred. Together, they have stripped away my humanity, turning my daily existence into a living, breathing hell. I stopped trying to convince them of my innocence a long time ago. Sometimes, in the dead of night when the pain keeps me awake, I even wonder if they are right. Maybe she would still be here if I had never been born.

I carry the cold bottle back out to the living room. I hand it to him in silence. He snatches it from my grasp without sparing me a glance. I step back, waiting. I know the routine.

"Listen, you ugly useless girl," my father snaps. He drains the last dregs of his previous bottle and waves the empty glass in the air, his bloodshot eyes narrowing at me. Without warning, he hurls the heavy glass bottle at my head.

I drop to the floor. I duck just in time. The glass sails mere inches over my skull and shatters against the drywall behind me. Shards rain down, scattering across the scuffed floorboards like jagged teeth. Another mess for me to clean. He doesn't care. I am nothing more than a punching bag and a maid to him.

"Go and cook me some dinner already, and get me another beer!" he shouts over the blaring television.

I push myself off the floor, keeping my head down, and retreat to the kitchen. I rummage through our meager pantry. Whatever food we have left is only here because I bought it before my father drank away his weekly paycheck. I pull out a package of chicken breasts and some limp greens to make a salad. I work in silence, ignoring the throbbing pain in my side as I chop and sear, trying to make a hearty meal out of scraps. The sizzle of the chicken hitting the hot pan masks the ragged sound of my own breathing. I stare at the flames on the stove, mesmerized by the heat, imagining what it would feel like to let the fire spread. To just walk out the front door and let this house burn to the ground. But I extinguish the thought just as fast. They would track me down.

When it comes time to plate the food, I heap the chicken and salad onto his dish. For myself, I take only a tiny, paper-thin sliver of meat and a few leaves of lettuce. If I dare to take a normal portion, my father will snatch my plate, throw my food onto the floor, and call me a fat, greedy pig. If he misses the chance, Declan will do it instead. Declan mimics our father's cruelty at every turn, desperate to win the old man's approval. But Declan's treatment of me is far more calculated. He doesn't just lash out in a drunken haze. He and his popular friends treat me like a disposable toy. They torture me in the school hallways, mocking my clothes and my silence, turning my public life into the same nightmare as my home life.

I carry the heavy dinner plate out to the living room and set it on the coffee table beside his fresh beer. He gives a low, dismissive grunt. That is the only thanks I will ever get.

I retreat to the kitchen and drop to my knees on the cold, sticky linoleum. The shattered pieces of the glass bottle are spread out everywhere. I gather the large chunks first. As I reach for a cluster of jagged shards, a sharp sliver slices deep into the palm of my hand. A bright ribbon of crimson blood wells up, dripping onto the floor. I barely wince. Physical pain is just a constant background noise now.

I wrap a dirty rag around my bleeding hand and continue sweeping up the glass. The house is relatively quiet save for the muffled sounds of the television. Declan isn't home yet. The thought brings a fleeting rush of relief, though the constant dread of his imminent return sits like a lead weight in my chest. I check the kitchen clock. Every passing minute brings him closer to the front door.

People always wonder why victims don't just leave. Why don't I seek help from the Alpha or the Luna? The answer is brutal. The Alpha is an old drinking buddy of my father's. They run in the same circles, and the leadership turns a blind eye to what happens behind our closed doors. We live isolated on the extreme edge of the pack territory, backed up against the deep woods where the trees swallow every sound. No one can hear my screams. No one patrols this far out. I am never taken to a hospital when bones break, so there are no medical records of the abuse. There are no escape routes. I have no friends to turn to, no hidden stash of money, nowhere to run.

My name is Sylvie. I am seventeen years old, and my life is defined by this pain. I used to value family. I used to think the bond of blood meant something sacred. But now, as I scrub my own blood off the kitchen floor in the dark, I harbor a dark, festering secret. I secretly wish my father and Declan were dead. I am consumed by a hidden, burning hatred. It simmers beneath my skin, keeping me alive when the despair threatens to drown me. I pray to the Moon Goddess every night, not for them to change, but for a way to finally be free. Even if that freedom means stepping over their graves.