Make Me Truly Yours

Chapter 1 - Harper

   Beep, Beep, Beep. The alarm clock resting on the edge of the dark oak table sang, making me slowly want to smother myself in my pillow. I grunted, slowly sitting up from my nest of pillows. I slammed my hand on the annoying contraption. The house soon fell silent. From where my room was located, the sun didn't seem to seep through the slightly parted curtains.

I shifted slightly; not wanting to leave the comfort of my bed. More silence was emitted. Suddenly, the birch door started to open, my mother starting to walk in. I pretended to be asleep: Maybe if I pretend to be asleep, she won't make me go back to that hellhole.

The lights flickered on, causing me to move. I looked towards my mother. Her Hands were rested on her hips. A deep scowl was on her face, her body standing in an uncomfortable way.

"Harper-Jean, get up. You have early training today," my mother spoke harshly, walking out of the room almost instantly. I sighed, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. I got up quickly, walking towards my dresser inconveniently placed on the other side of the room. The air was chilling and very: still. I pulled my shirt off, starting to get changed for the weather.

I finished getting dressed, stepping out of my room to see the beige walls with wood lining. The faint smell of pancakes and peppered bacon intoxicated the air; my mouth started to water instantly. You could hear the faint chatter and low classical music playing.

It was like a movie scene.

I walked down the stairs, the persistence of running back to my bed staying in the back of my mind. Hopping off the last carpeted stair, I made my way to the kitchen. The room was like normal: Father sitting in the end chair to the left of the big table, reading his daily newspaper; Mother serving the hot breakfast up, plating and all that what-not. It would seem that everything was perfect. A perfect little Tuesday morning with the family. But it was not.

In the room where I very stood, were two cold-blooded murderers. Both of them, mother and father, 5th generation supernatural hunters. After my eldest brother left, the weight has been on me to carry the family tradition. Even if it's not exactly my choice.

Little Adrian, my four-year-old brother, came toting into the room; a bright smile planted on his face. He stopped in front of me, waving his arms in the air, squealing,"Up, Up." I smiled, gladly picking him up and bringing him to the table. I don't know why he's up so early: it's six o'clock. Mother placed his mushy oatmeal and cold milk in front of him, giving him a spoon so he could eat.

She smiled at him, then walked off to grab another plate. My father already started to eat; pounding hot liquid coffee down his throat. He was always to busy to take his time and spend some minutes with his family. Even though my own parents could barely look at me anymore.

My plate soon came. It was filled with pancakes, bacon, and browned buttered toast. Orange juice was placed beside the hot breakfast. I sighed. My mother trying not to look at me, keeping that same deep scowl on her face. I tucked a piece of my dark brown hair behind my ears, trying not let these subtle moments get to me. I had a duty to fulfill.

Even if I thought it was wrong.

Mother and father started conversing: the conversation falling between the lines of supernaturals, and more unreasonable deals to be made. This was normal. Ever since I was little, my parents have never been careful about killing in the house. Even if it was in front of their kids. I've seen my fair share but Mason had it worst.

Mason was the oldest out of us three, which meant the responsibility first fell on him. Sometimes, when the trauma was too much, he would lock himself in his room for days. I don't blame him. This whole killing business really fucks with your brain.

Soon, my father was setting down his newspaper, sipping on the last few drops of coffee left in the plain white mug. I could feel his piercing blue eyes staring at me as I slowly cut into my second pancake. It took him about two minutes to speak.

"So, uh, your eighteenth birthday is coming up," my father's raspy voice spoke. I stared at the floor; how could I forget. In just eleven days, I would turn eighteen and pray to god I never have a mate. The way it works is; if a human and supernatural are born on the same day, at the exact same time, they were mates for life. Now all people had a pair of numbers on their wrist from the day they were born, til their eighteenth birthday. The pressure was on, especially with my pedigree.

"Yes Father," I replied, not really wanting to continue the conversation. We already had our different outlooks.

"You need to start thinking about your future," he spat, clearly not giving a damn."And with your senior year coming to an end, you should really take over the business. I can not stand to lose another child to go off and live their dream."

Anger was boiling throughout my body. How dare he? How dare he not even consider the thoughts of his children. It's not Mason's fault he wanted to leave Michigan.

I calmed down; trying not to lose my temper at the dining table. Mother was already helping Adrian get cleaned up; a bright smile displayed on his face the entire time. I loved him so much, I couldn't leave him just so he could feel the pressure of having to carry the family tradition. He just can't.

I stood up walking away from the table. I stopped in the doorframe, hearing the ongoing whispers of my parents, waiting for an answer. I turned slightly, wanting to leave as soon as possible.

"Yes, father. I'll try my best." And with that, I left.

---
"Thank you mister Nettle," I spoke, waving my hand to say goodbye. Mr. Nettle waved his hand, going on to read about new fighting positions.

"No problem dear, say hello to Mason for me," he spoke hoarsely back. Mr. Nettle was my trainer. He trained me since I was just a five-year-old girl. He was definitely more of a father figure to me.

I swiftly closed the door, running to the nearest bus stop. I only had ten minutes before the last bus for the school came. Pushing my lungs to the limit, made it in no time; the bus barely pulling in as soon as I got there. The bus stopped opening the doors for me to step through.

I walked in greeting the old man driving the bus, then walking down the narrow aisle. I took my seat in the back, pulling out my book. Every once in a while, I'll look down to see the black numbers etched on my wrist. Eleven. Only eleven more days, Harper-Jean.

Eleven.