Broken Beyond Belief

Chapter 2:MyHome, My Nightmares

Mira’s POV

Arriving home, every step I took felt like I was dragging my feet through more mud and stones. The soles of my feet were torn, each step a fresh wave of pain. The cold—so sharp it almost felt like a physical force—seeping through my skin, chilling me to the bone, and made it the miles I had just walked feel endless. Barefoot. Soaked. The skin of my feet blistered and raw. I didn’t even notice the sting of the cold anymore—it had become a part of me, like a permanent ache I would never be rid of.

The house was dark. Silent. empty. The way I liked it.

I closed the door behind me with a soft click, the only sound breaking the stillness. The clock on the wall read 1 a.m. The hour was heavy, thick with silence and the bitter weight of the night. There was no one awake. No one to greet me. No one to ask where I’d been, or if I was okay. There hadn't been now, for longer than I cared to remember.

I didn’t care about any of that anymore. I just needed to get away from the rest of the world.

My room—if you could call it that—felt like a tomb. It was empty in more ways than one. No photos on the walls. No posters. No warmth or light. Just a bed in the centre, an old mattress that had long ago lost the fight against time. The bed groaned as I collapsed onto it, as though the springs, like my bones, were exhausted from bearing my weight. The furniture around me was as neglected as I was—the wardrobe leaning to one side like it might collapse under its own weight. The bedside cabinet barely holding itself up.

I wasn’t sure if I had the energy to feel anything, but I did. My body was so bruised I couldn’t tell where the pain started and where I began. Everything hurt. Everything was raw. I pulled my clothes off with trembling hands, hissing as the waterlogged fabric dragged across cuts and bruises. The damp, torn clothes clung to my skin, adding to the sting. My legs, scraped and battered from the long walk, throbbed in time with my heartbeat, the purple bruises already spreading like ink across a wet sheet of paper.

But there was no time to linger on it.

I crawled under the bed and pulled out the first aid packet, the plastic crinkling in my grip. I knew the routine too well—clean, bandage, and repeat. My fingers shook as I peeled the remnants of my clothes off, revealing the damage. The antiseptic burned like fire on my skin, but it was nothing compared to the ache deep inside me. The kind that never really went away.

Resolute in my determination to alleviate even a modicum of my physical discomfort, I continued to focus on cleaning my wounds. My hands still trembling, but I kept moving, forcing myself to ignore the flare of pain with each motion. The antiseptic still burning like a flame on my raw skin, I flinched, but I didn’t allow myself to stop. I couldn’t. Slowly, I applied the ointment, trying to soothe the inflamed flesh, though it did little to ease the ache that had being burrowing deep inside me, the kind of ache that went far beyond skin-deep.

I patched up the worst of it, the soft thud of my heartbeat the only thing that kept me company. The pain of it all wasn’t new. It was familiar. It was mine. And somehow, I wasn’t sure which one hurt more—the wounds on my skin, or the ones inside me, the ones I couldn’t fix no matter how hard I tried.

I covered each wound with a plaster, each one a quiet defiance, as though this small act of care was a reminder that I still had some fight left in me. Even if it was only for my body. The thought felt almost laughable—this pathetic attempt at self-care—but it was all I had. All that kept me from crumbling completely.

I lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. My eyes burned with exhaustion; my mind fuzzy from the long day. But I couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not until the weight in my chest eased.

It would be different soon.

Just one more week.

I would turn 18. And I would find my mate.

He would save me. I clung to that thought, whispering it into the darkness, as if believing it would make it come true."

I allowed my body to sink deeper into the mattress, the springs creaking under the weight of my exhaustion. The room felt suffocating, the emptiness of it a reflection of everything inside me. Cold. Silent. Lifeless. It was a cage, and I was trapped inside.

The stillness pressed in around me, thick and heavy. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the darkness. Tomorrow, with its unknown possibilities, held the quiet promise of change. A different future, one I might never have the courage to hope for, except for this: one more week. One more week, and I would be 18. And when I met my mate, everything would finally change.

I clung to that hope like it was my lifeline, the only thing keeping me from drowning in this suffocating darkness.

As I surrendered to the depths of slumber, my dreams became a vivid tapestry woven with intricate emotions and haunting visions. The ongoing pack war between Black Moon and Bloodstone consumed my restless mind, pulling me into a realm where familiar faces danced amidst the chaos.

In this ethereal battleground, I witnessed Caleb’s wolf, his powerful form poised with an unwavering determination, leading the charge against the encroaching enemy. His lithe frame moved with a grace that belied the strength beneath his sleek fur. With each thunderous snarl and fierce swipe of his formidable claws, he defended our pack with unyielding ferocity, a beacon of resilience amidst the turmoil.

But it wasn’t just Caleb I saw. As the battle raged on, Caleb’s father, Michael Owens, the Alpha of Black Moon, emerged—his presence commanding, a pillar of strength in the storm. His broad shoulders were squared, and his piercing gaze cut through the chaos as he led our warriors with the unwavering authority that had defined him. His every movement was calculated, each step a testament to his power and control. He was the heart of the pack, unbreakable, unyielding.

The clash between the rival packs escalated, the air thick with the scent of blood, of sweat, and the iron tang of fear. The ground beneath trembled with the fury of the battle. Growls rumbled in the distance, sharp and guttural, as claws scraped across bone and teeth sank into flesh. The cacophony of howls and snarls filled my ears, a grim symphony, each note a warning.

As the battle raged, I saw the toll it took—familiar faces twisted in agony, blood-soaked fur staining the earth, warriors falling in defence of their pack. The ground became a canvas, painted in shades of crimson.

And then, amidst the madness, something shifted... A blow—swift, merciless—struck Michael Owens. His body froze mid-motion, the breath ripped from his chest in a silent gasp. For a heartbeat, time seemed to stop, the world around him falling into a deafening silence.

I felt it before I saw it—the raw, searing pain of the loss. His body crumpled, as though the very weight of the world had collapsed upon him. His once-commanding frame lay still, a testament to the fragility of even the strongest. The moment felt like a physical blow to my own chest. My breath caught in my throat, my body instinctively recoiling, as if his death had just shattered something deep within me.

Michael Owens, the Alpha, the unwavering pillar of Black Moon, was gone. The soundless impact of his fall reverberated in my bones. For a second, the battle seemed to pause, a collective gasp of disbelief hanging in the air, before the chaos resumed. But everything was different now. His absence was a hole, a void, something unfillable.

The vision of his death didn’t fade; it lingered, burned into my mind, imprinting on my soul. It was more than just a memory—it was a part of me now. The weight of it threatened to crush me. The loss was too immense, too final. The war wasn’t over. But a piece of our pack—of everything we stood for—had been torn away forever.

Startled and gasping for breath, I emerged from the depths of sleep, my heart pounding in my chest. The vividness of the dream clung to me like a weight, its images lingering in the corners of my mind, refusing to fade. The harsh reality of Michael’s death still echoed through my thoughts, a hollow emptiness that settled heavily upon my chest. It was as if the war had not only invaded my sleep but had rooted itself deep within me, a constant reminder of how fragile life was, how fragile we were—each of us caught in a struggle for survival we could never fully control.

The dream’s impact clung to me like a shadow, its tendrils winding into the waking world, casting a dark veil over everything I saw. Each step I took seemed burdened by the weight of the loss, each breath a reminder of the fragility of the pack, of the legacy we were fighting for. Michael’s fall was not just a loss—it felt like a crack in the foundation of everything. And there was nothing I could do but watch.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that the war was closing in on us, inch by inch. The battle had never been more real, more dangerous. It was a warning, a sign of the chaos yet to come.

Unable to escape the relentless grip of the nightmare, I slid from the bed, my legs unsteady beneath me. My mind was frantic, desperate to make sense of the vision, to purge it from my thoughts. I couldn’t sleep—not now, not with that image still burned into my mind. So, I did what I always did when the nightmares became too much.

I pulled open the drawer of my bedside table with trembling fingers, my hand brushing against the worn fabric of the nightgown that lay hidden beneath. It was the one place I could still keep something for myself, something that no one else would ever find. The pages of the small, battered diary were familiar beneath my touch, the ink-stained pages a record of everything I couldn’t bear to say aloud. Sometimes writing it all down was the only way I could push the visions out of my mind, to release the pressure building in my chest. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.

I scribbled frantically, the pen moving faster than my thoughts. The dream, the battle, Michael’s fall—I had to get it down before it consumed me completely. The weight of it all pressed against my skull, a crushing pressure, and I couldn’t breathe until it was out, until the words were scattered across the page. The visions had started coming more frequently now, each one more intense, more vivid than the last. They weren’t just dreams—they felt like a warning, something I couldn’t ignore. I knew it was just my mind playing tricks, that it was just dreams, but they felt too real, too visceral. And with each passing night, I couldn't shake the sense that the war was only getting started. That something far worse was yet to come.