The Genocide

When I had thought of my last moments in life I had imagined being surrounded by my children, their spouses, and grandchildren lovingly recalling past stories. What I had never imagined was to be locked up in a cell, suffering from dehydration, exhaustion and starving beyond belief. In the week I had been held as a prisoner, I swear I had lost over 10 pounds.

When you're from a secret community where your bills are paid and your pantry is stocked I never had to worry about being hungry.

I never imagined being beaten to the point I was on the verge of death. Sure, I'm my community there were certain instances where things had happened but it was never like this. My assailant was a woman, maybe a few years older than me, her hair was dark and silky, eyes squinted and a permanent grimace on her face. For three straight days she came to my cell and tortured me, trying to get information from me.

By the third night my left eye lid was swollen shut, my lip busted, and my entire body was sore and bruised. I never said a word to her, silently praying to my Goddess for her to stop.

Why though?

Because, I'm a "suspected rogue." All because some of my friends happen to be rogues. All because I had lunch with my "brother." This is what it got me. Possible rib fractures and pain.

This is the exact reason why I like rogues better than regular Werewolves. At least Rogues accept you for being different while Werewolves give you the cold shoulder.

Okay, let's clear up some of my past. You may be wondering why exactly I associate with Werewolves in the first place. Well, I'm about to enlighten you.

Here's my story, try not to get too bored.

So, I used to be in this pack, Red Moon. We were surreptitious. Stealthy, secretive, the best fighters in the US. No one ever batted an eyelash at us without consequence and we were someone you always wanted on your side.

All teenagers from Red Moon go to an academy that's known for its perfection in molding the perfect fighter. But there was one problem... The pure blood Werewolves didn't respect the half Werewolves and half humans, or the Halves. There was discrimination between the two and they could never get along. This caused the segregation of the Wolves.

The Halves minded their own business and didn't raise a finger when they weren't allowed to enroll in the academy. They didn't complain when they had to go to a human school.

But the pure bloods didn't stop there; it was lawed that if your mate was a half blood, you must reject them on the spot. And if in some extreme case where the Alpha accepts you to be with you half-blood mate, the half didn't have any rights and they weren't allowed to have children.

The halves were a mockery of the Werewolf community. After some other packs heard, they adapted to the Red Moons harsh ways. They just wanted power. Just like Red Moon.

Then... the genocide of the halves happened. They were murdered on the spot. Every half in my pack was murdered... except me. It was only because my father was the Third in command and the Alpha owed him. That was the only reason they allowed him to escort me out of the pack boundaries.

I still remember it perfectly...

It was fall. The leaves were in that in-between stage where they were turning different colors of yellow, orange, and red leaves with hints of green in them. I had just put my little car in gear when I watched Ben, another Half pull up into his driveway. Ben was your all American boy; he had blonde hair, blue eyes, and freckles on his light tan face. And he was muscular. Ben was a great guy when you needed someone to vent to... he was one of my best friends.