The Omega Reclamation

Melody POV Scratch, scratch, drip, drip. I try to block out the noises of the mice and the leaking ceiling as I move around on the blanket, trying to make myself comfortable. I can still feel some of the blood from my nose dripping down my face, but at least I can open both of my eyes now. The shackle on my ankle prevents me from getting comfortable, and it’s so loud when I adjust myself that I have to be careful how much I move. Scratch, scratch, drip, drip. The noises won’t stop. I slide onto my side to avoid moving the shackle and try to cover more of my legs with the blanket, even though that leaves me with the cold concrete floor. Sam, I miss you so much. I wish you were here. Every night I dream of my older brother, of my mother, and of happier times when we would run as a pack. I wince; I have not been one with my wolf in a long time. It feels so long ago that I was happy. In fact, the last time I was happy was a decade ago. I still have faded memories of my mother and my brother. I remember her twinkling laugh and the way she would lean down and hug me with everything she had. She would call me her little wolf and tell me she was so proud of me. Her hair was always in a short bob hanging right above her shoulders. She would say that way she didn’t have to take time to mess with it. Sam Sam was my best friend, from his beautiful green eyes to his Melody-brown hair like Mom’s. He was the best older brother anyone could ever have. Being wolves, my father would let us run with the pack once a month. We would gather in the woods and my father would kick off the run, all of us shifting at once. We did this until the accident, and then my father moved us. When I try to think much harder about them, my head begins to hurt. Scratch, scratch, drip, drip… Damn it! I smack my hand on the concrete as I debate whether I want to risk waking up my father upstairs just so the noise will stop. No, Melody, don’t do that. If he comes down here, we don’t know what type of mood he will be in. My father used to be a nice man, always laughing and smiling. He would read Sam and me stories and then kiss us goodnight. Whenever he would find me curled in bed with Sam because I had a nightmare, he would let me stay there until morning. The crash changed my father. He blamed me. My mother and Sam were picking me up from a dance class that I had begged for. A bunch of other wolves from the pack were taking the class, and I wanted it so bad I begged Mom until she finally relented and signed me up against my father’s wishes. On the way home, something hit our car, and we spun out and hit a tree. The tree collapsed on top of the car, and part of the driver’s side impaled Mom, while Sam had gone through the window. Mom always told him he should have his seatbelt on, and he never listened to her. When we had the funerals, Mom’s was a closed casket, but we never found Sam. When he went through the window, the officers said he may have rolled down the hill into the river. They searched for him for months before finally calling it a lost cause. Scratch, scratch, drip, drip. The next thing I remember is a cop pulling me from the car and my dad rushing over to me. He wanted to make sure I was okay. For a year we were fine until he started drinking. Dad would start yelling and blaming me for my family’s death, saying that it was my fault they were on the road. Then his fists became the way he would talk to me. By the time I turned eleven, I was good at avoiding him. I would leave food on the table for him and go hide in my room. Until one night he came to see me in my room. He stood there hovering while I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to even out my breathing. He was always looming over me like a dark shadow. “It’s been so long; you look just like your mama.” I felt the covers shift as they were pulled back, baring my legs, and then I was horrified as he traced his hand along my leg. He stopped when he reached my hips, his finger dipped beneath the top of my underwear, and just sat there. Scratch, scratch, drip, drip, scratch. Melody, stop thinking about this. It’s never good. I snort out loud. I relive the past every night, and every day I add more memories to what I call my spank bank of horrors. The second time he molested me, he had waited until it was late, and I was walking back to my room. I thought he had gone to bed, but like the monster he was, he was waiting by the stairs in the dark. He grabbed the back of my head, pulling my hair until I cried out. “Get on your knees, Melody,” he pushed me down to kneel in front of him. “Now, show daddy what your mouth can do.” He unbuttoned his pants and unzipped himself and pulled… STOP!!!!! Melody, stop…. Think of Mom’s smile, think of when Sam would tell you stories about the stars. I could feel the tears leaking from my eyes. I should be grateful that man has never r***d me. I am still a virgin. That night was the night I felt my wolf curl in on herself and sleep. I couldn’t blame her. I would too, if I had a choice. “Melody, wake up!” he shouts from upstairs. I squint into the morning; I must have passed out. I look down at myself: at the old gray t-shirt that I wear for bed. It is so stained with blood that it is no longer sanitary some from last night, some from previous nights. I hear the door opening from upstairs. The sounds of his boots coming down have me scrambling to try to adjust myself into a somewhat defensive position. I curl into myself as I wrap my arms around my legs, pulling them as close to my body as I can, but the shackle does not allow for much movement.