BLACK

(33) Drop

EDITED

I slept in for a very long time the next morning, and I wouldn't be surprised if it were past mid day. My body was lightly sore from yesterday's movements, the little exercise being more than I'd done in weeks. I rose from the bed in a yawn, finding the nightstand table empty of food. Which was unusual, due to Black's insistence I eat, but as I peaked down the hallway I find the trailer empty of his presence.

As expected, he was outside performing half of a work out, fully clothed with shorts and a sweatshirt. I think I knew why he didn't walk around as shirtless as much as the other shifters. While most shifters took pride in their battle wounds and survival scars that showed their strength and power, Oren didn't. He acted ashamed of them, hid them, because they let others see his death. He died from those wounds, and unlike where other shifters survived to show off their scars, these had been the ultimate defeat of Oren.

I have only seen Oren shirtless when shifting, coming back from Black who bears scars from his own life. Yet Black has been the one in the majority of control, always dressing himself how I could only understand Oren doing so.

I get up to go to the bathroom, finally feeling enough energy to do something and comb through my feet of hair. My thoughts thickened as I replayed over and over what I had learned last night. His details had been so visual, so real. Because he had lived it, he had made it real. He didn't want my pity, but I don't think he realized I didn't want his either. We have both suffered, to no ends our pasts have dragged us across hot asphalt,  but I saw one thing in him I couldn't see in myself.

Strength.

I saw strength in him because through all the change his pack had given him for his death, the harsh reality of growing to be an Alpha's son, and learning to live with a soul that wasn't meant for yours, he had stayed. He hadn't abandoned his pack during the change, he hadn't decided to overthrow his family and get lost in his strength, and he especially hadn't given up on life just because he'd died once before. He's a fighter. Through and through.

I changed in the bedroom with the door shut, even though Black wasn't inside I feared he would be soon. So I changed into the lightest clothes of the trailer, items that seemed to be of all sizes and styles like it was just taken from a lost and found. My feet felt the thud of the doors closing as my brain was clouded, and I sort of placed the thought behind the rest to continue sorting through the clothes. When I had reopened the bedroom door, I took note of Black being in the shower right after me and made my way down the hall.

The trailer felt suffocating, the heat rising and trapping me. Black had brought both of the chairs back in, setting them neatly under the table. I grabbed the old & torn book from the chipped coffee table, heading outside to sit and read beneath a tree. The cooler air outdoors helps clear the stuffiness from my head, and I skim the books pages with confusion when larger chunks are missing. It seemed to be the only thing to do around here, and even it couldn't quite be done.

On page twenty two, with a tear up the middle of page twenty one, the trailer floor thunders until the screen door opens with a bang. Intrigued by the very slow introduction of a new character, I pay no mind to Black's angry stance as he storms towards me. In my peripheral, his arms cross and he glares down at me. Finishing the page, I lift my head up to recognize his glowing amber orbs.

"Good morning," I said lightly.

"You can't do that," He darkens the mood instantly. My eyebrows began to furrow, but before I could ask he spoke again. "You can't leave like that and not tell me where you're going."

"I'm just outside," I offered in a soft voice.

His anger grows to a peak I can feel it in our bond. Was he actually mad at me? "What if you weren't? What if you were taken, or leaving me?"