The Omega

1 pt.2

Their voices are harsh.

Their words cruel.

They are nothing not said before. I am treated the way I am because I deserve to be.

My entire body is stiff. My fingers and toes crack as I shift then gingerly and my back refuses to bend with rest of my body, making it nearly impossible to get out of bed.

They will hurt me if I cannot fulfill my duties, so I must get up anyway.

It was their shouting that woke me. It is their threats and their violence that keep me going each and every day. It is the knowledge that I am worlthless that keeps me from running, and the thought that no one will care if I die that stays my hand from suicide.

Luna tells us that omegas kill themselves because no one loves them. They kill themselves because they crave attention and believe that someone will finally notice them if they are gone.

But no one will ever love them, Luna says.

No one will even bat an eye at you if they find your cooling corpse hanging inside a closet. No one will ever care.

Because we are omegas.

Because we are slaves.

Other girls and boys line up along the rows of beds down the attic hall, all of them as worn and bedraggled as me. All as hopeless and decrepit of spirit. As we were taught to be. No hope. No love. No light.

Light brings hope. Hope brings spirit. Spirit brings rebellion. Rebellion brings anarchy.

I force my worn body to move faster as I hear the approaching footsteps of the omega slave overseers. They are the men and women that distribute daily tasks and dule out punishments with an iron fist.

I can count on one hand the number of days they've gone in my lifetime without disciplining an omega. Right at this moment I can conjure up at least six faces from from this room that will be due for a lashing or two.

An extra silver link will be added to their bands in addition to whatever punishment they receive. Every omega slave has a thin silver circlet tightened around each wrist that identifies them as an omega. Each time an omega is subjected to punishment of any kind, another circlet is added. The amount of rings an omega has signifies their level of obedience and unruliness.

I only have six on each wrist, the more rebellious of the omegas have twenty or so on each hand. I've heard stories of an omega that got all the way up to fourty eight before she was killed. I'm told the only reason she was kept alive so long was because she was the alpha's mistress.

Some even say she was impregnated and her child was exiled.

We have many stories among the omega. Tales of love, fortune, cruelty, pain, joy, and most importantly, freedom.

It is the stories of what life was like before the enslavement of omegas that keeps us going. The knowledge that there is more then just the abuse and pain that consumes our lives.

My shoulders ache as I pull the colorless shift over my thin black chemise and let it fall shapelessly around my feet. Wrapping a length of cording around my waist, I knot it and slip my feet into the pair of worn grey shoes everyone wears.

The uniform I wear is mandatory among the omegas and hasn't progressed in style for the last several decades. While ordinary pack members are free to wear whatever they choose, omegas are only permitted to wear the plain grey uniform provided.

I've seen people try in add small touches to their uniforms to make them unique. To make themselves different. But no one is allowed to be different.

No one is allowed to be their own person.

We all wear the same clothes. All eat the same food. All sleep in the same room. Have the same hairstyles. Speak in unison.

We are all the same.

The only differences people can find are in our physical appearance. Our eyes, the color of our skin, and the shapes and sizes of our bodies.

I am thick through the thighs and stomach, straight in the hips, and big big breasted where as the girl next to me is skin and bones. We look nothing alike but are expected to be the same.

But we are not the same and we never will be. Although we are raised to be perfect slaves, it is still in our nature to rebel and to fight back.

I know for a fact the omega four beds down from mine will be punished today for tripping the Gamma's teenage daughter. 

I stand at attention in front of my bed and stare into open space without a single movement as a thin woman begins to shout out names for roll call.

I make no movement and stand unfazed as people step out if line and bow. I never move. You get good at that, going still and disappearing into the back of your mind and hiding there.

I have learned to be small and make myself invisible, they will either ignore you or cause pain. If they taunt you, you stand there and take their words or their fists, because there is no better alternative.

Fighting back only results in more pain, or worse.

"Number 17, Nehemiah!" Snapped or of my thoughts, I step forward quickly and bow low to the floor.

Don't make eye contact.

Don't speak.

I stay bent over in the uncomfortable for several long seconds before the next name is called.

Only then do I dare to straighten up and resume my empty stare.

The thickly muscled man announcing names pauses at one and repeats it several times before continuing.

Someone is missing.

Someone is not here for roll call.

This has never happened before. Never in my life has anyone ever not been there. I had seen him when we went to bed. Alik, the boy in question was one of the most rebellious omegas I'd ever seen survive the first training period.

As I gaze over to his bed, all I see are bloodied sheets and the Greek Omega symbol spray painted in black over it.