BLACK

(17) Bloodlines

EDITED

-Oren-

Outside the window, a taunting blue warms the sky. Yet across the fields of grass and streets of gravel, not a foot dares to be in my line of sight. The village is silent, avoiding me.

Hot water slashes up my wrists as I sponge the dishes with soapy water. I concentrate merely on the simplest task, reigning control from within. Occasionally I sneak a glance up and out the window, pupils darting to the movements behind the trees.

On edge.

Even within the mansion galore, not a single soul passed any room I stood in. An aching circle engulfed me. The beast became angry from his surroundings, yet the surroundings were caused by his temper.

My temper.

In the past years the slightly uncomfortableness of my presence had blossomed into a plague. Now the symptoms became more vile, more direct and irresponsible. My battle skins, my huntsmen, and now even my own betas, were afraid of me. For my own betas to fear me, I knew the boundary line of reason had been crossed. It was never my intention for my pack to be scared of me. I never wanted this to happen, this exact thing was one of the worst to tear a pack from their alpha. I was meant to lead with loyalty and respect. Though all the shifter could see were shaking shoulders and eye sockets empty of trust.

The dish slips back into the water from my hostile grip, and I realize I am too choleric to distract myself with such a simple chore. My head floats above itself, brain shaking to cause flurries of unintelligence in my mind. With another sharp glance to the teetering trees, I unplug the water filled sink with a dawning reality that I'll have to abandon my leadership again for who knows how long to calm the shifter down.

Calm me down.

The uneven trees hurts my vision, colors too bright and sun heating my exposed arms through the pane of glass. I shut my eyes, feeling the unsettling desire to shift right here, right now. My drying hands move to the ledges of the sink, knuckles curling unfathomably. Why bother fighting the beast at all, if he just comes back stronger and more acrimonious than the last?

You'll die, I promise him through my thoughts. My sanity hangs by a single thread on my grip over the counted edges. The vision blurs again, lids meeting over my eyeballs.

The tension of the joints in my hands lose faith, becoming clumsy over their bitter, building heat. Even inside of my dark eyelids, shapes are not shapes. Forms are not forms. My train of thought slows, eating away the human so the animal can descend. Again, my skull spins in circles until I'm floating and I rely on my grip over the sink to keep rooted. Even then, the nerves in my fingertips are dying.

"Oren?" The voice sounds distant. I can hear, despite the loss of my motor functions. Or maybe I can't, that is, if these are even still my ears. "Can we talk?"

Something surges forward in me, straightening my back. My throat is thick, eyes open. And then I realize as the grip under my knuckles releases, I am no longer in control. Shoved back, I can only observe with rage. This has never happened before. This is a walking, living, breathing, nightmare. If I thought it was bad not to know, it must be even worse to really know what happens when the shifter takes over. I already knew he figured out the cells in my brain to take over this body, but to have him taunt me with letting me watch sent a feeling of dread over me. This couldn't be my whole life, being forced to sit back and watch my pack be destroyed through his eyes.

My eyes.

"Oren?" My body turns slowly, steps in my feet yet not. Absurdly, I feel like a possessed rag doll. "Oren?" She stutters this time, softly.