Stick Season (18+)

Chapter 2 - Jericho

(The picture above is how I picture Jericho. This is the actor Bill Skarsgård, and it's his younger self specifically that I imagine.)

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If I'm being honest, I've never looked forward to turning 21. I doubt that's a common feeling for humans or werewolves, but I've never been described as common.

If you had seen what I've seen, you'd understand. Sure, the idea of finding a true-mate sounds really important, but to me it just seems like a promise for devastation. Our father made sure I internalized that with every bottle he emptied. Sometimes they'd even end up smashed at my feet.

What's strange is he somehow found a way to blame us for his unhappiness. I remember Mom enough to know it's true we all look like her. Myself, my younger twin sisters, and our baby brother all have her eyes and smile. Before she died, I remember my dad constantly talking about her eyes and her smile. I get why it's hard for him, but it's hard for us too.

I mean, Little John doesn't even really remember her much. He was around five when it started and was just shy of six when she actually passed. Yet every night for the past nine years, it's been me that has to tuck him in because our father can't stand to look at all the pictures on his walls. Some of them are handrawn by John of her. Some are pictures of when he was born. But most of them are her paintings.

I always wondered why he hated art after she died. I mean, most people seem to want to do the things their late loved ones enjoyed because it makes them feel closer to them. But our father hates it to this day. Any time we brought home a school project, he either ripped it up in anger or threw it out with a mocking laugh. I used to be proud that I seemed to inherit her skills, but I haven't touched a paintbrush in nearly seven years because of him.

I specifically remember my birthday right after we moved to this town. It had been almost four years since Mom passed, and our father decided it was time to get a fresh start with a new pack. I secretly think he hoped he could find a fresh mate in a new place. Regardless, he left a memorable first impression on my peers. A few of my friends, and my ex, have all brought up what he said that day. Basically, he shut down any dream I had of pursuing art even just in school.

Our father has drained me for nearly nine years. To escape him, and the thoughts of loss he won't let me forget, I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of. Today I turn 21, and yet all I can think about is the pain I've caused.

I can shift today for the first time in my life, so why am I dreading it? I'm told it'll solidify my connection with my inner wolf, but I have this nagging suspicion that he has something to tell me that I don't think I'm ready to hear. The boys have all decided we're going to go on a run today. I have no intention of sharing my reservations with them.

Most people don't know the real me. I know how absolutely lame that sounds, but with the lack of emotion other than anger in my household, I learned to dampen most parts of myself. Only one person has ever really seen bits and pieces, and I broke her trust time and time again.

My point is, I rarely say what I truly think. Everything is jokes. When I was freshly 16, my ex turned me on to the word "banter" and I decided that was my official personality. I've never talked about the full story of what happened to my mom. I'm not sure I've ever said "I love you" out loud to anyone since she died. I feel so much, but I don't know how to share it. Emotions feel like traps if I'm being honest. My friends don't need to fall into mine.