Chapter 46
Today brought back old sadness. It was the same heavy, choking feeling I used to get from my adoptive mother.
I was sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling the sudden, cold grip of something I hadn’t thought about in years. It was the feeling of being small and useless. Today, dealing with Alice’s sharp words and constant disrespect, it had cracked open a door I kept locked tight.
Flashback: Eight Years Old
The kitchen floor was cold under my knees, even through my thin pajamas. I was eight years old, skinny and tired, scrubbing the old linoleum with a worn brush. The smell of Pine–Sol was sharp and burned my nose, but I liked it because it meant I was cleaning, doing my job.
I watched the dirty water swirl down the drain. I had been working for two hours. My arms ached, and sweat was beading on my forehead, but I concentrated hard on the corner near the big wooden table, where the grime always seemed to stick.
I finished, stood back, and looked at my work. It wasn’t perfect, but it shone under the weak yellow kitchen light. For an eight–year–old, it was magnificent. I was about to call for my mother, ready for approval and when the back
door slammed open.
“What is this mess?”
My mother’s voice was never soft. It was always a knife, sharp and ready to
cut.
I turned quickly, my heart thumping against my ribs. “Momma, I just finished. I scrubbed every spot-”
She didn’t even look at the floor. She looked only at me. Her eyes were dark
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and full of a cold anger I couldn’t understand. She was holding the bucket I had just emptied. There was still a sludge of grey, muddy water and some sticky dirt at the bottom.
Before I could move, she tilted the bucket.
The cold, filthy liquid splashed over the newly cleaned floor, soaking my bare feet and splashing up onto my pajamas. A thick splash hit my face, dripping down my cheek and into my eye. The smell was awful–old grease, spoiled
milk, and dirt.
I froze, shocked by the sudden cold shock.
“You call this clean?” she hissed, dropping the bucket with a loud clatter that made me jump. “Look at this, Faith! Look at the dirt. You didn’t even try.”
I looked at the mess she had made, then back at her. My carefully cleaned floor was ruined. My effort was gone.
“I–I worked really hard, Momma,” my voice wobbled, sounding small and
pitiful.
“Hard?” she laughed, a dry, ugly sound. “You are useless. You are a waste of space. You couldn’t clean a simple floor right. You can never be good at anything, Faith. You will never be good enough.”
The words struck me harder than the cold dirt had. They hammered against the fragile hope that lived inside my small chest.
“Nobody loves a child who can’t even do simple chores,” she continued, stepping closer. “Nobody loves a child who is useless.”
That was the breaking point. The knowledge that my own mother thought I was unlovable, that I was a complete failure, tore through my innocent heart. I didn’t just cry; I felt a frantic, desperate surge of pain rise up my throat. I threw my arms over my face and started to sob hysterically. Big, broken sounds tore out of me, the sound of an eight–year–old realizing she was truly
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alone.
But the noise lasted only a second.
A sharp, burning pain exploded across my cheek. The sound of the slap echoed in the small kitchen, stopping my breath.
My head snapped back, and my tears stopped instantly, replaced only by a terrified whimper. My vision blurred.
“There will be no crying in my house,” she whispered, her face inches from mine, her breath smelling stale and sour “Get up. Clean it again. And if I hear one more tear, you’ll stay on that floor all night.”
Present
The slap still burned.
I gasped, snapping back to the present. was dizzy, clutching my knees to my chest. The sheets under my hands felt rough, and the room was spinning. I wasn’t eight; I was a grown woman, but the fear was still the same, raw and overwhelming. Hot tears were running down my face, not the loud, childish sobs, but the quiet, shaking kind that betray true trauma.
I hated that Alice’s small slight earlier–another reminder that I wasn’t good enough in this pack. My chest felt tight, locked up. I tried to swallow, but I
couldn’t.
Just then, the door opened swiftly.
Astor walked in, stopping dead when he saw me. His face, usually carved into strong, decisive lines, softened slightly, then hardened again with
confusion.
“Faith? What’s going on?” he asked, moving toward me quickly. His presence gave me the warmth I was seeking and I decided to tell him about my childhood and what happened today.
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“Alice,” I managed to choke out, just the hame.
His jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed. He didn’t wait for me to finish the
sentence.
“Look, Faith, I need you to stay away from her,” Astor stated, his voice flat and stern. “And I need you to stay away from my mother.”
I’m honestly glad that I don’t have to explain anything because he must have known what happened and the fact that he’s here for me means a lot.
“Your mother?.” I understand why he wants me to stay away from Alice because she’s toxic but his mother.
“Don’t play dumb. I’m talking about the things you said to my mother,” he accused, the low growl returning to his voice. His gaze was cold, completely devoid of the sympathy I needed. “I know exactly what happened, and I know what you told her to her face.”
My heart plummeted.
“I… I didn’t say anything to your mother,” stammered, shaking my head vehemently. “I wouldn’t disrespect her. I would never-‘
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