Blind Instincts

Chapter One

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The excitement is audible as people come and go through the street, their only worry being the later events of the week to come. Despite my window being positioned in a third-story attic, I catch the passerbyers brief conversations. It is the pastime I enjoy the most, in fact, it is one of the only pastimes I am capable of.

This time around, a festival of the Moon takes place in my pack. It is our packs main attraction, as well as our way of praising the moon and everything it brings for us—for them; the moon has done nothing in my favour.

This year's festival will be special, according to the woman chatting on the street bench far beneath my window.
"I can't believe an Alpha will be visiting on official business," she exclaims, more joyful than she should be. The scents of the females under my window are familiar. One is a natural, attractive fragrance that smells etiquette for our packs climates. The second woman has on an evident mask, her natural aroma invisible to the nose. Scenty perfume of a vanilla flower, a quite common scent. In some packs, it is illegal to use scent maskers. These women pass through here often, their scents leaving a trace in my mind, along with everyone else's.

I tune out the conversation, honing in on the vibrations that exist around me. Silent Hmm's from bees in a nearby tree, possibly thousands of them. To be a worker bee, living with a purpose, to have a motive behind every action. Being so passionate about a cause that you devote your entire life to the task, even something like merely collecting pollen just to have to do it again. I am envious of the worker bees.

The door creeks open, forcing a jolted bodily reaction. I recognize who it is before they step through the threshold of the door, their scent potent in my nostrils, along with many others. He grabs my hand, helping me upright, off of the ground. Not a word is said as he leads the way with the hem of my sleeve, being entirely oblivious to my knowledge of the layout of the room. I am led further away from my safe space and closer to the door. The wind around me swooshes in a motion I am familiar with, the way it interlopes itself in swirls and zigzags, the dances it does along the ceiling, a dance it can only do for me. Nobody else can hear the swish sways of its movements like I can.

My bones dampen as we near the door, though I'm not about to object. It's not uncommon that they take me downstairs, but still enough to make me start shaking. The bipolar feelings that consume my mother are so unpredictable, It frightens me to be in her presence.

The hardened sole of my bare foot touches the first step of fourteen; it creeks very slightly, as I knew it would. The next three will make a similar sound, the rest are silent, until you reach the final one. The bottom of the stairs feels like a foreign territory, land I have never stepped foot on. I have, though, and everything is exactly how it is. Neat, organized, and completely devoid of any life or personality.

"Hello, Monet dear", my mother calls from another room. I don't know my way around, so I just stand. My father is gone and I don't know where. Nobody makes a move, not one that I can hear.

"How do you feel about the festival this year?", I'm not sure what she is asking. The festival is something I have always imagined but never considered. I've been nullified from human contact for three weeks now, let alone having the ability to fathom attending a bustling festival. When I don't answer, she continued to speak for me.

"Well, we are going next week. We are going to be a family for once.", She demands, claiming as if it were my fault that we are not a family. All these years, I've only heard good stories from when my parents were newly mated. Then I was born, ugly, blind and useless- according to them. My brother tells me my hair is white like my skin, unusually white. Albino, they call it. It is the reason I am blind, the reason my parents, and everybody else in the pack, hates me.

The pack is only as strong as its weakest link, and I, indefinitely, am the weakest link.

And with that, she dismisses me. I turn at the bottom of the stairs and carefully make my way up. After years I have memorized the pattern of the creeks, which stairs will make a sound, where to step to keep quiet. Years of being locked away, hidden from the rest of the pack. I am an embarrassment to my family and our community.

I opt back to the floor by my window, sitting against the edge. I wonder if people can see me up here, lurking behind the class. Listening to their conversations, memorizing their words. This is how I absorb information. This is how I learn.

Word Count: 856