Sold by Blood, Claimed by Fate

CHAPTER 2 — Hunger Is Not Always About Food

Neglect did not arrive suddenly.

It crept in slowly, like winter.

At first, it was small things.

Her allowance didn’t come one week.

Then another.

When she asked, her mother waved her off.

“You don’t need money. You don’t go anywhere anyway.”

Meals followed the same pattern.

Dinner would be served, laughter filling the dining table, and Ariella would sit in her room—waiting to be called.

Sometimes, she was never called.

“Oh,” her mother would say later, as if remembering something unimportant.

“There are leftovers in the kitchen.”

Leftovers meant half-eaten plates.

Cold food.

Things Seraphine had decided she no longer wanted.

Some nights, there was nothing left at all.

On those nights, Ariella drank water and lay in bed with her stomach aching, telling herself hunger was not a big thing. That strong wolves endured worse.

School became unbearable.

Her mind was always tired. Always distracted. Hunger and fear followed her everywhere. Her grades dropped, slowly at first, then badly.

Instead of concern, she received disgust.

“Useless,” her father said one night, slamming her report card on the table.

“She can’t even study properly.”

No one asked why.

No one cared.

Her sister smiled quietly.

Children at school sensed her weakness. Friends drifted away. Whispers followed her. She ate lunch alone, sat alone, walked home alone.

At home, things only worsened.

Verbal abuse turned sharper.

Looks turned colder.

Ariella stopped asking for food.

Stopped asking for money.

Stopped asking for anything at all.

She learned how to make herself small—how to exist without being noticed.

At night, she whispered apologies into the darkness.

I’m sorry I’m not better.

I’m sorry I exist.

Her wolf stirred inside her sometimes, restless and sad, but even that part of her felt weak—starved of confidence, starved of care.

By the time Ariella turned fifteen, she no longer expected love.

She only hoped for survival.

That night, the words she never dared to speak gathered in her chest, forming a rhythm of guilt and apology she had carried since childhood.

Apology for Being

I’m sorry for the space I take,

The air I breathe, the crumbs I make,

For footsteps soft upon your floor,

For wanting warmth—and asking more.

I’m sorry that I learned to stay,

When you had hoped I’d fade away,

Sorry my heart still dares to beat,

Still dreams of love it’s not meant to meet.

I’m sorry for my quiet voice,

For never being your first choice,

For tears I hide, for smiles I fake,

For every breath I didn’t take.

I’m sorry that I feel at all,

For standing up, for every fall,

For not being the girl you see,

For not becoming her, not me.

I’m sorry that my hands still shake,

That I still hope, that I still ache,

Sorry I wake with eyes so wide,

When part of me has always died.

I’m sorry for the love I crave,

For not knowing how to behave,

For wanting more than I was given,

For asking why, for still believing.

I’m sorry I was born this way,

A burden dressed in light of day,

If I could vanish without trace,

I’d leave you peace, I’d free your space.

But if I stay—please don’t be mad,

I’ll try to be the girl you had,

The one who’s small, and still, and tame,

I’m sorry…

I’m sorry for my name.