The Four Protectors

Thirty Seven

1st Person POV

One month later and the prison cell still hadn't quite grown on me. I heard the groans of other inmates as they stirred from sleep. I'd already been awake.

I was always awake.

I tried to tell myself that it was because I didn't trust anyone in this prison to not hurt me in my sleep. I needed to be awake to protect myself. But the truth was that I was afraid.

I was afraid that I'd wake up surrounded by bodies.

I'd lost trust in other people because I'd lost trust in myself. My soul was stained, filthy, and I couldn't fix it. And so I breathed, I ate and I moved like was really alive.

I was just glad Cassius, Azriel and Desmond weren't around to witness the pathetic state I'd reduced myself to.

Once the battle had ended, prominent members of the supernatural community had gathered for a meeting to discuss the aftermath. For the werewolves, it had been pack leaders in the area. Cassius had testified against his father and with supporting testimonies, his whole family had landed in prison until further notice.

For the vampires, different clans sent forth their leaders. Desmond was part of the Uris Clan but he wasn't important enough to attend the meeting despite all he'd done. The warlocks didn't have clans or packs so those directly connected with the issue were allowed to attend the meeting. Over fifty warlocks had shown up, including Azriel and Rafia.

Shapeshifters worked the same way as the warlocks did and I would have been at that meeting, if I were still shapeshifter.

It hurt so much that it became hard to breathe when I remembered the wind rustling my wings as an eagle, the solid ground beneath my paws as I raced through the woods in my favorite form and the beautiful magic I'd wielded at my fingertips as one of the most powerful shapeshifters of my age. One batch of chemicals had turned me from a protector to someone that had to be protected.

But I could have handled that pain, mended with time until shifting became a distant memory if it weren't for all I'd done.

I'd killed forty-two innocent people. I'd drawn out their deaths, tortured them in the worst possible ways and savored it all. I remembered each one and beneath closed lids, they were all I saw.

Some of them had been as young as sixteen.

I couldn't live with that. I didn't deserve to live with that just as much as they hadn't deserved to die. On those dark nights, when those faces became too haunting, when their cries had me shaking and crying in the corner of the cell apologizing to nothing but air, I hated this dark, dingy cell the most.

I needed light, I needed air and I needed to breath.

Yesterday night had been one of those nights when the real world had faded and phantom ghosts had broken me over and over again. In the faint light of day, I was numb. A cell guard came forward and pushed a plate of rice and beans through the slats in the cell.

I ate it because I had to but I'd forgotten what it felt like to want to do things anymore.

My thoughts were particularly depressing today, considering it had been a month. It was an anniversary of sorts. My mind flashed back to that dreadful meeting that had sealed my fate.

According to Azriel, the vampire clans and the warlocks had been the most rational and fair. They'd wanted anyone found dealing the drug to be punished with jail time and argued for a more brutal punishment of anyone that had been found manufacturing it. The werewolves had been more abrasive; calling for more than just jail time for those that dealt the drug. The shapeshifters wanted jail-time for anyone associated with the drug because they were afraid those that had been infected would relapse.