The Pack and My Alpha

Scarlett

I pull out the envelope from the mailbox, and my heart thuds heavily against the confines of my chest. Bernville is written boldly on the front of the envelope, and I take deep breaths as I silently pray for the best outcome in this situation. My hands tremble as I try to catch my breath. My future depends on this one letter.

My life could change if this comes out positively. I look at the house's front door, and I know I can’t do this inside. I don’t want him to witness what could be the best day of my life.

An escape.

A way out of this hell.

Taking another deep breath, I walk away from the run-down house I have lived in all my life and walk over to the little playground I usually hide in. There are a couple of kids playing; they all look happy and excited, and I wonder when I will ever have their kind of smile on my face. I wonder when I will be able to have memories that will make this life feel worth it.

I sit on the park bench and clutch the letter tightly. My heart is still racing. I wish I had someone—anyone—to open this letter with. Someone who cared enough, but being in this small town in Maine, I have always been on my own. I guess being alone in my situation is better than actually having friends when you know they will eventually leave.

“Fuck, this has to work out, Scarlett,” I breathe out as I rip open the envelope.

I unfold the envelope with trembling hands, and time seems to stop as I try to steady my heartbeat. I don’t know if I will be able to come out of this if it doesn’t go the way I need it to.

“Congratulations! We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Bernville University for the upcoming academic year...”

The paper drops from my grip as relief washes over me.

I got in.

I got in.

I pick up the letter and read the rest of the contents. I applied to Bernville to get away from this town. To get away from my father and all the hurt that comes with him. I applied so far away from home because I needed an escape.

I needed to get out before this town ate me alive.

I look around the park almost instinctively, but it is clear to me that I am alone. I have always been alone, and even though that stings, I have a smile on my face. One that I haven’t carried for so long in my life. Slowly standing up, I put the letter in my bag, knowing I was finally free. I am eighteen; I don’t have to be in his clutches anymore. My full-ride scholarship has given me the chance to break away. It has given me the chance to finally breathe.

I walk back to the house, and the sound of the TV is all I hear. This is all he does: watch TV and drink. His life is pathetic. His life is the kind of life I don’t want. I need to get away from this because I don’t want to end up like him.

The sounds of the creaky front door alert him, and I see him shift his attention from the TV to me. My father is a bully. He has always been one, and I have had to endure his bullying for ten of the eighteen years of my life. Mom left us when I was eight; she packed a bag and never looked back. I remember sitting outside the night she left. They had one of their many fights, and this time, it was the final straw for her. I remember calling out to her and asking her where she was going.

I remember her smiling and telling me that she would always love me.

I remember begging her to take me with her, and I remember the sad expression she had on her face. The promise of returning to get me.

But she never came back.

Her abandonment was the beginning of all my misery. She left me to pick up the pieces of her departure. I got the short end of the stick. I endured the wrath of my father’s bitterness.

His eyes, bloodshot and red, narrow at me, and I see the hatred in them. A twisted grin spreads across his face, and I see the excitement in them. It almost looks like he looks forward to the torture he embraces me with.

“Come here,” he says, waving his hand in the air, and I stiffen at the sound of his voice. It is just ten in the morning on a Saturday. How is he already this drunk?

“Good morning, Dad,” I manage.

Nothing is going to ruin this day for me. I just have to handle him the way I can—he can’t hurt me today. I won’t say a word to him. I won’t let him know of my plans to leave. I have enough saved up. I leave tomorrow, and nothing is going to stop me.

Not even him.

“Are you hungry?” I manage a fake smile as I walk over to him, picking up a couple of empty beer bottles from the floor. “I can make your favourite, bacon and eggs,” I suggest as I toss the bottles in the garbage bag.

He raises a brow as I widen my smile. His eyes follow me as I walk over to the kitchen. I have lived in this house all my life. Once upon a time, the house had life in it, but now it is all cracked walls, mould, and beer bottles everywhere. There have been times when we didn’t have electricity or water. There were times when he would leave me all alone for weeks. Times when I had to do everything on my own.

The volume of the TV gets louder, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I opened the fridge, and it was empty, except for a couple of things I bought last week. Hurriedly, I make his breakfast for him, wanting to leave downstairs as soon as possible.

The sizzling from the pan and the loud blaring of the television are the only sounds I hear. The tension is gripping, and I take deep breaths as I try to control the fear in my heart. My hands tremble until I am finally done with his food. There are usually two ways in which this will go.

1. He will appreciate the fact that I made him breakfast.

2. He will hurt me either way.

I don’t want his hurt today. I walk over to him, and he continues to watch me as I drop the plate on the table beside the couch. “Here you go, Dad.” I manage to carry the same fake smile. “Why are you so happy this morning?” he asks me with a raised brow.

I shake my head. “I am not.”

He sneers, grabbing the plate and tossing a piece of bacon into his mouth. I look at him, and he is dressed in the same dirty pair of jeans and a black shirt. He has no shoes on, and I can see the dirt under his nails and toenails. His hair is longer than he usually carries it, and it looks like it hasn’t been washed in months.

“Yeah, right, I think we both know that you are not going anywhere. Thank you for the breakfast and the money.”

I stiffen at his words.

His smile widens.

My hands tremble.

No way.

He is just messing with me.

I don’t wait for him to explain as I run up the stairs and to my room. I walk over to the far end of the room, and sure enough, the loose board on the floor is exposed, and the little box that I kept hidden all these years is empty.

No.

Please, God.

No.

Tears well up in my eyes as the realisation hits me. He took my money—all the fucking hard-earned money I have saved up for three years. I have lived in seclusion for so long, worked my ass off for this money, and he stole it from me.

The bastard took it.

I grab the box and run down the stairs, tripping on the way. At this point, I am full-on bawling. “You took my money,” I scream in pure terror.

His smile even widens more as he stands up from the couch; he is still drunk, and so he tilts as he tries to get his balance on his feet. “Your money? What about all the money I have used to take care of you?” he asks.

I shake my head, still in disbelief at this situation. How do I leave now when I don’t have any money? How could he do this to me?

“I needed that money; where is it?” I start to look around, desperate for a saving grace. I walk over to his wallet, but he is quick to grab my hand.

“How fucking dare you?” he seethes as the tears continue to pour out of my eyes.

He pushed me to the floor, and I hit my head on the centre table. I feel the pain, but now is not the time to worry about it. My immediate concern is the unpredictable rage that simmers within him. I scramble to my feet, my hands shaking as I try to reach for the wallet again.

“I needed that money, Dad. You can’t just take it,” I plead, my voice shaky.

He snarls, gripping my arm with a force that makes me wince. The desperation to escape this nightmare intensifies as he pulls me towards him.

“You ungrateful brat,” he hisses, the stench of alcohol on his breath overpowering. His free hand grabs my hair, yanking it back. The pain shoots through my scalp, but I can’t afford to let him see my weakness.

“I work hard for you, and this is how you repay me?” He continued, and the venom in his words made my heart race.

He has never done anything for me. He has never given me anything. I try to reach for his wallet again, but this time, he hits me square in the face. I feel the sting as I try to see things clearly, but my vision is blurry.

Shit.

“Please, Dad, please.”

I try to go for sympathy, even though I know it will never work with him. Blood trickles down my face as he gets on his knees again, this time pushing me so hard that I stagger backwards, crashing into the wall. The pain intensifies, but I fight to stay on my feet. The room spins, a nauseating combination of fear and dizziness engulfing me.

“You think you can manipulate me with your pathetic begging?” He sneers, the cruelty in his tone cutting through the air.

Blood drips from my nose, staining my trembling hands. The taste of iron lingers in my mouth as I desperately try to make sense of the chaos around me.

He looms over me, and his drunken rage continues. I watch him as he hurts me; I am helpless to him—even in his drunken state. My father is a huge man, tall and muscular; he has always been this way. After a couple of hits, to his satisfaction, he takes a step away from me.

“You are never leaving this house. You are never going to amount to anything.”

I cry as his words sting like venom. The weight of his condemnation presses down on me, and I feel the familiar shackles of despair tightening around my soul.

“I’ll make sure you regret ever thinking you could escape,” he spits, his eyes ablaze with hatred.

He stumbles towards the door, leaving me crumpled on the floor. My body aches, and the taste of blood lingers in my mouth. The remnants of my hope shatter with each painful breath.

As the door slams shut, I’m left alone in the dimly lit room, a broken reflection staring back at me. My dreams of escape lie shattered, my savings stolen, and my spirit crushed beneath the weight of his cruelty.

But even in the darkness, a spark of resilience flickers within me. The bruises may fade, and the wounds may heal, and the only way I can ever be truly happy is if I leave.

I have to.

I go up the stairs and pull out the suitcase I bought a month ago from under the bed. I pour all my clothes into it, not even attempting to fold them and walk out of the house.

I will leave.

I will not let him hurt me again.

I will be free.