When I wake up, it's dark outside. It takes everything in me to roll over so my side table comes into view. The striking red digital letters on my clock read 6:32.
6:32. I was rejected 4 hours ago.
Those 4 hours felt like an eternity. Although the initial pain from losing the mate bond in my chest has subsided almost entirely, I can still feel a painful ache festering under my skin. I hear familiar faint voices outside my bedroom. It must be dinner time, I realize. I roll over onto my stomach with a groan. I do not want to go to dinner today.
You see, my parents require family dinners every day. Every single day, I have to eat dinner with my parents and Blessing. I suppose pretending to be a happy family makes it easier for them to ignore the pressing concern that Blessing possibly could care less if I lived or died.
Usually, we simply just ignore each other. Or rather, Blessing ignores me to monopolize my parent's attention, and they're too obsessed with her to notice that I haven't said a word at dinner for months.
I could just hide out in my room. I mean, it's never worked before, but maybe, today? The day I got rejected? Maybe it would?
I take the opportunity to snuggle deeper into my blankets, in hopes that the pounding headache, or the pounding stomachache, or the pounding everything ache would go away. Just as I finally relax, a sharp succession of knocks on my bedroom doors jolt me awake.
"Squishy!" Blessing sings mockingly, "It's dinnertime! Time to come out!"
I faintly hear my Dad scold her to leave me alone, but Mom promptly shushes him because Blessing is just trying to be a good sister!
"Not today, Blessing. Please," I manage to croak out. Goddess, my throat is parched.
"Today is just like any other day! Come out!" Blessing demands. Today is not like any other day. She knows that, too. She simply just doesn't care.
"Please, Blessing," I almost beg. Maybe she'll hear how broken I am, how I'm falling apart at the seams. How every single bone in my body aches and hurts and burns, and I feel like I'm being roasted from the inside out.
"Come out!"
She definitely hears it. And it's definitely why she's more adamant about doing this to me.
The pounding in my head feels louder and harder now. I bury my face in my pillow and smack my hands on the back of my scalp as if that'll somehow force the beating drum that's living in my skull out.
"Hazel, honey?"
I didn't even hear my bedroom door open. Goddess, I didn't even feel Dad sit down on my bed. That's how out of it I am. The pain feels like it's taking control of all my senses.
Goddess, I don't want to feel it anymore. I don't want to feel it.
He runs a comforting hand through my hair, lightly scratching my scalp. I whimper. It hurts so much.
"Hazel, honey, drink this," he coaxes me to a sitting position with soft touches and words of encouragement.
He attempts to hand me a glass of water, but my body is trembling, my hands shaking with effort, so he guides it to my chapped lips instead. I almost fight it. The idea of drink or food entering my body makes me want to convulse. But after the first drop of liquid slides down my throat, I find myself eagerly slurping it down, water running down my neck as it escapes my mouth.
I've only been out for a couple of hours, but it feels like I haven't drank water in days. Finally, the searing pain in my being subsides a little more, the drum in my head adopting a softer, less painful beat as if the water put out the burning edges of my soul. It still hurts. Everything still hurts. But it's manageable.
I finally look up to meet Dad's soft blue eyes. He has strawberry blonde hair, blue eyes, a familiar chiseled jawline, and sunkissed skin.
Blessing looks so much like him. But at the same time, she doesn't.
Dad's softer. I can't imagine his lips pulling up into a sneer or his brows furrowing in distaste. Instead, the corners of his eyes crinkle with smiles, laughter, warmth, and kindness. Blessing looks like Dad, but she could never actually look like him.
So, Blessing takes after our Dad, while I take after Mom, whose darker tan skin, Persian features, and curly hair are etched everywhere into my looks. We're complete mirror images of our parents. But despite that, I've always been closer to my Dad. Mom's obsession and favoritism is strong, and over the past few years, she's done very little to hide it. That's not to say that she doesn't love me, but I'm just not Blessing.
Dad, on the other hand, keeps it fair and tries to make up for where Mom simply can't. But Dad also loves his mate and can't say no to her. Even though he tries with me, Mom comes first.
"Hazel," Mom's warm voice cuts through my thoughts as I wipe away the water that had trickled down my neck. "Come eat. It'll make you feel better."
She's standing at my doorframe, looking at me with concerned eyes. It's a little jarring to see her entire focus solely on me for once. But it makes me want to get up, to at least try to eat. Because she's asking me so lovingly, so warmly. My posture straightens, and I feel myself move to leave my bed. But of course, it can't last with Blessing around.
"Mom! Dad! " She whines. "I'm starving. I've been so busy. I haven't eaten anything all day!"
"Oh, my poor baby!" Mom immediately turns to her, fussing with her hair. "I know you work so hard. I'll get the food ready!" She turns to Dad and I now, "Ollie. Hazel. Chop chop!"
And just like that, I'm forgotten.
The sigh that leaves my body is heavy. Usually, I'd try to cover it up or at least wait until I'm alone so Dad doesn't have to see. But I have no strength in me to do that for him today. I can feel my posture slumping, my mouth drooping in sadness as all the warmth leaves my body. My bones feel tired.
Dad sees it. I know he does. I can see him frown in the corner of his eye as he looks toward the space Mom and Blessing occupied just minutes ago.
"Hazel..." his voice trails off as he struggles to find the words.
I know he sees the favoritism. I know he sees how fucking ridiculous it is that Mom left me after I went through the worst thing a wolf can go through because Blessing said one damn thing. I know he sees how cruel Blessing is being. How fucking mean she is. And how Mom refuses to see it. I know he knows. I know he wants to say something.
I also know he won't.
Dad loves his mate. He'll always choose to keep my mother happy. Even if it's at the expense of me.
"I'm fine," I grunt. It rolls off my tongue easily. Years of practice made it a habit.
Besides, there's no point in waiting for words that will never come. I shrug his hand off and force my body to move.
It aches. It fucking hurts. But I need to get this over with. Because as long as Blessing wants it, I will be going to dinner. She'll never let me skip. I simply don't have the strength to fight her on it. I feel Dad's eyes linger as I try to grab a scrunchy.
My hands won't stop trembling.
I finally grasp it. I don't bother to look in the mirror as I attempt to throw my curls into a ponytail. The only thing in the world that could make me cry again right now is looking at myself. I have no interest in seeing the terrible mess I am up close.
My fingers are sluggish when gripping my hair. My fingers and arms feel alien to me as I struggle to control the trembling. The scrunchy drops from my grip.
A ponytail. I can't do one ponytail.
My bones hurt. My skin hurts. My fingers hurt. Everything hurts. My arms won't stop shaking. My hair is a mess. I got rejected by my mate. And I can't do one fucking ponytail.
I let out a deep breath. And another.
Try again, Hazel.
I bend down to pick up the scrunchy and attempt to make my hands stop trembling with a focused glare. They continue to tremble anyway.
"If you need help, just ask," my Dad offers.
"I'm fine," I spit out much more sharply than intended. I know he's just trying to help. But I'm angry at him. At his weakness. At his inability to call out his mate. At his inability to stand up for me. At his inability to see that of course, I need help. He can see that. So why do I have to ask?
I look at the scrunchy in my trembling hands. I can do this. I've always been able to do it. I will continue to do it.
I finally will my hands to still and tie a poor excuse of a bun into my hair. But at least I did it.
Then, without looking at my father, I force my legs to walk out of my room. I hear him follow me, but I don't turn around to check.
We live in a two-story house, with three bedrooms upstairs and one on the main floor, along with the kitchen and living spaces.
Living on the first floor while the rest of my family was upstairs used to bother me when I was younger. I had the bedroom next to my parents until age four, with the other as the guest room. Blessing was born when I was three and slept in my parent's room for the first year of her life. When they felt she was old enough for her own nursery, they decided to move my bedroom to the ground floor and keep the guest room where it was because, apparently, it's rude for guests to stay on the ground floor.
But obviously, it's definitely not terrifying for a four-year-old to sleep on the ground floor alone. But by that age, I'd learned not to disturb my parents at night. Nighttime cuddles and comforts were reserved for the baby and only the baby. At four years old, I was old enough to care for myself.
It was difficult when I was little. But now, I think it's fortunate that I'm near the kitchen and front door. Who knows what Blessing would do if I disturbed her beauty sleep with my early mornings for the Archives?
I keep my eyes glued to the floor as I shuffle into the kitchen, refusing to meet Blessing's smug gaze that I can feel burning into me.
Dinner tonight is cart-style chicken over rice. My favorite. Because of mom's ethnic roots, she cooks a lot of arab and South Asian-inspired dishes. I love them. Blessing, on the other hand, thinks they have too many carbs. So, we only eat them occasionally.
"Thanks, Mom," I mumble once I sit in my chair.
Dad takes his seat next to me and Mom. I don't hear her reply because Blessing starts talking about her day. Mom's attention immediately turns to her as she responds attentively. Blessing goes through the same spiel she always does. How she works so hard. How she helped so many people. How she's so tired and exhausted from a long day of work and class.
Blessing is training to be a nurse. That is, she should be.
Instead of spending time in class or at the clinic, Blessing misses her deadlines and skips her shifts to hang out with her friends doing Goddess-knows-what. How my parents haven't realized that she hasn't had a paycheck in months and still uses Dad's credit card is beyond me.
But then again, they definitely have realized and simply don't care.
"How was your day, Squishy?" Blessing's smug gaze turns to me. She's mastered the innocent girl act down to a tee. She uses it to her advantage.
I feel my throat close up. I try to respond, but nothing comes out. Her features slowly turn into a pout.
"You know it's rude not to reply when someone's talking to you," she even whimpers at the end of her sentence for effect.
"Hazel! Respond to your sister!" Mom scolds me with the same sharp tone she always uses. I'm trying. I can't. I try to force myself to breathe.
"Squishy! You're being so mean!"
"Hazel! Your sister is only trying to help. Why are you being so rude?" The more they say, the more my throat closes up.
"Mira, Blessing, enough!" Dad finally cuts in. My eyes, which were previously glued to my plate, snap to him in surprise. "Leave her alone. She's had a rough day as it is. If she doesn't want to talk, she doesn't have to."
I see Blessing's face contort into an ugly shock. He's never spoken to Mom or her this way. Her mouth sets into a mean sneer, and I know she'll let it out now. She can't take Dad scolding her. Especially not for me.
"No wonder. Who would want someone who can't even speak properly as a mate?"
Silence.
Now it's Mom and Dad's turn to be surprised. Sure, Blessing's been mean before, but she's never said something so cruel to me in their presence. When she's not around them, that's a different story. She says whatever she wants. Nonetheless, I knew it was coming. But that doesn't make it hurt any less.
I give it a couple of seconds.
Silence.
Blessing smirks and takes it as a cue to keep going.
"You can't possibly have thought that your mate would accept you? That Maxton Briar would accept you? You must be more pathetic than I thought."
Almost a minute passes.
Silence.
Mom and Dad say nothing.
I guess that's it, then.
I take my plate, still full of chicken and rice, with a hefty serving of white sauce, and chuck it at Blessing's face.
"I hate you."
My voice is dead, void of emotion.
There's nothing left to feel. No expectations left to have.
I knew Blessing didn't like me. I knew she was mean. I knew Mom and Dad preferred her over me. I knew they would always give her a pass and blame me instead.
I knew. I always knew. But I thought, today, today would be the one day they wouldn't torture me like this. But it's not. Now, I know that day will never come.
So fuck it.
"I hate you so much."
Blessing doesn't hear me because she's too busy screaming, crying, and whining.
"Hazel! How could you! Go to your room right now!" Mom practically screams at me as she and Dad fuss over Blessing's stained white sweater.
"Now you decide to speak up? Now?" I question, a hint of anger permeating my dead tone.
Mom doesn't hear me because she's too busy shushing Blessing, who's putting on a show. But Dad does. He looks at me with the same concerned, apologetic eyes. I just shake my head. Turn on my heels. And walk away. All the way down the hallway. Past my room. To the front door. I turn the knob. Into the cold night.
Word Count: 2622 words