Left behind
Elara
I was glad when I woke up on the morning of the fourth day, but my hopes were dashed. While I was thinking I would simply go back to where I came from, the Alpha’s residence, no one had come to pick me up.
Perhaps I looked like a child waiting for Mommy and Daddy to come pick her up from her uncle’s house where they didn’t care, but I stood outside the door, my arms planted on my hips, waiting, searching the skies, wondering when I would leave this torturous environment.
Somehow, Alejandro had thought it was a wonderful idea if I also did night exercises. Why? I did not know. Did I care to find out? No. But it was torture, it was painful, and I hated him, so I didn’t want to ask him anything.
“Come inside, you’ll catch a cold in that wind since you’re so fragile.” The voice was drenched in sarcasm and made very little attempt to be authentic.
I turned to Alejandro. His eyes said it all,the teases, the jokes. I wanted nothing more than to gouge his eyes out, but, alas, he was too fast. Like, literally too fast. I found out too far later on, when I did try to gouge out his eyeballs one time, that he was truthfully a warrior and a spy. He was known in the Red Street.
If that didn’t remind me of the time when The Flash came out and that strange W show, then I don’t know what else would. In truth, whether it was Red Street or not, that was odd. He would more likely be wearing black, not red clothes, wouldn’t he?
Nonetheless, his sister was quite glad to tell me that he was quite accomplished in his trade and dangerous craft. She, too, was not far behind, and I call it forth, for she was not just a librarian as I thought she was. She was one of those who trained the younglings in the academy.
Younglings,well, that was the word they actually used; I didn’t make it up. I thought they would call them pups, and they did, but it was mostly derogatory. So “younglings” it was, for the young.
I was learning to just go with the flow at this point. Any new thing they told me, I would let it pass through one ear and come out the other, for I was long since done with trying to learn new things,especially given the fact that they made me study up on their characters every night, and in the morning after, I was made to write my name in their language perfectly.
I closed the door behind me and stuck out my tongue. He, in turn, did it right back at me,the most human thing I had seen him do,and somehow it gave me relief. I rolled my eyes and closed the door behind me before stepping forward for air. The designs across his chest caused his bulging biceps to bold even more. I wanted to say I regretted it, that I didn’t want to do it anymore, that I was tired,but he had this look on his face that made me think he understood.
“I hate fighting,” he said, stopping close and pulling me on by the shoulder.
He led me to the kitchen, a large space,bigger than anywhere I had ever stayed in my past life. I sat by the island while he went over to the ice box, as they called it,not a fridge, but an ice box powered by what they called ice magic.
He soon began a short task of making us a snack,at least I hoped he was making us one,given the fact that he pulled out a large bowl.
“Why?” I asked.
“You're good at it, though,” he mumbled.
“I know,” he said, not looking up from his task. “But that doesn't mean I like it.”
It seemed like a taboo for me,who was so good at hitting people and smacking them unconsciously,to absolutely hate fighting. And Father was a disappointment because I didn't like violence.
“If you want me to become a warrior like he was,” He smiled. Oh damn, he was handsome. “I would rather punch it in.”
But I didn't want to become a warrior. I would rather spend my days sewing and doing the things I did. He thought I was not serious, and so he put his hopes on his daughter instead. I thought he’d dumped my sister to her terrible fate living alone, but she didn't want it. “And I ran away,” she said, eyes locked on his task still.
I noticed when he cleansed his face; when he released it, a vague scent of iron filled the air. He had cleansed his face so hard it bled. And it was when his biceps flexed even further that he was trying to keep himself from doing something,say, smashing the countertop. But I watched and said nothing.
When he got tired, he stopped talking. Granted, it was an interesting story, but I didn't feel any sympathy for him in any way, shape, or form. After all, he was my tormentor, and I didn't see the need to have sympathy for one of them. My sister was bred to be an emotionless killer; she still is,fatherhood of her had made him his perfect image and she became a warrior.
“You looked up. Then I came back,” he said. “I came back when I watched my own friend get torn apart in front of me. I came back when I watched the Cursed take something from me and I couldn't take it back because I was weak. I didn't want to fight, I told them. And so they killed a friend of mine.”
He then leaned forward on the counter. “You might not want to fight yet, but I think the fact that your life has been in danger before should be enough to encourage you to sharpen your claws. What the weather forecast your humans have for defense?” He smashed his hand down,he didn't break anything, it only made a cracking sound that made my ears ring. I wasn't worried or anything, even though I jumped up in fear and squealed slightly.
“That's right,” he said. “You have nothing. We have claws, we have fangs, and we have healing that will never stop. So you need to fight dirty.”
She buried her face and said, “You want to try to gouge eyes?” and that was cute,he had a small smile on his face. “But I think you can go live in that.” He smiled; suddenly it was clear an idea was brewing behind his eyes,one that he would love and one that I would hate. He stopped this time.
“Oh, come on,” I said. “I'm hungry.” I said it in anguish.
He shook his head as he looked toward the counter. “Oh no,that's for me, not you. Come with me,” he said. “Let's work on it.”