Chapter 2: The Pack’s sacrifice
By the time I finally made it inside, the rain had stopped pouring and the pack house was quiet. The morning had barely begun, and most of them were still asleep, warm in their beds, safe in their world.
I was not part of that world.
I forced my aching body up the stairs, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through me. My ribs felt cracked, maybe broken. My skin was raw from the rain, my bruises dark and angry against my pale flesh
Step by step, I climbed to the attic. My prison.
The room was as empty and cold as ever, just four walls and a thin, tattered blanket on the wooden floor. No bed. No warmth. Just space to exist in. Barely.
I peeled off my torn, bloodied clothes, wincing as the fabric pulled at dried wounds.
I stood naked in the middle of the room looking at my own body.
It was a mess of bruises, gashes, and swollen flesh.
Slowly, I made my way to the small metal basin in the corner, filling it with water from the rusted pipe. It was ice cold, but I didn’t flinch. The cold was noothing compared to the pain beneath my skin.
I washed in silence, my hands moving mechanically. Dirt and blood swirled into the water, staining it red.
By the time I was done, my fingers were numb. I dried off with an old cloth and slipped into a fresh set of rags, if they could even be called that. The same torn, shapeless thing I always wore.
And then, I stopped.