After Debra left from tending my wounds and feeding me to gain strength, she soon left to continue her duties in the house. I was in the house my parents were given when my dad became Alpha and my mom Luna. It was passed down from his father and the one before him and so on and so forth. Generations of our family had lived in this house and here I was, up in the attic, only experiencing one portion of it.

I was left to my thoughts for the rest of the day, until the evening when one of my brothers would come up. It was the same every night, or- if lucky- every other night. They'd usually skip two days out of the week I suppose to to yell at me and then turn into an eventual beating.

I never truly listened anymore because it was all the same. I just wish it could be that way when it came to the abuse. Though I experienced the same pain everyday, my body had yet to grow accustom to it. But I handled it like I didn't feel anything. Because if I cried it would only get worse. But at times, when I wasn't showing any emotion, they didn't like it and continued until they got a rise out of me. On rare occasions though.

And once they were gone, I was left alone- either unconscious or wallowing in my own pain. I would cry myself to sleep if I was still awake, wondering why I had to be put in this predicament. And then I grow subject to feeling guilty at the fact that it was my fault my parents died and that I deserved everything that happened to me.

But of course I wish it could have a different outcome.

At this point, I was praying for my death- wondering why it hadn't come. And for hours on in, laying in my room, I continued to wonder. It had been nine years total of this abuse. My wounds never properly healed and I was becoming weaker and weaker by the days. And yet I was still alive. I grew angry at that aspect. I grew frustrated.

It was clear I was going to die in here, why not speed up the process? Why make me suffer? Nine years was enough and I had had it.

As everyday, I prayed this would be my last.

The day grew dark and I knew it was a matter of time before one of my brothers made a presence. I had stayed in bed, not like I had much a choice considering my body, and stared at the ceiling.

Being in here for so long could drive a person mad. For a long period of time I believed I was, and maybe I am. But at this point I didn't know nor did I care.

I heard keys enter multiple locks on the door and eventually it was opening. I tried to maintain a steady heartbeat, to not show fear in this state. But once the door closed and was locked, I couldn't help but feel the nervousness begin to set in. I had turned my eyes to who it was that had entered, I never really knew who it was. Though I asked Debra for the names each time, I never truly knew which one was which. Just by how hard they decided to beat me that night.

At this point I couldn't really even tie them to who they used to be, it being the vague.

"You know," he said, pulling up a chair and sitting on it. "It's amazing you're still alive." This is how all nights began. A conversation that lasted maybe fifteen minutes before they got angry and began to verbally attack me. Which would then lead to the physical. "It's been what- eight years of this?"

"Nine," I croak, correcting him.

"I'm sorry?" he questions, as if he didn't hear me.

"It's been nine years," I repeat.

He whistles. "You are one nut to crack." It sounded like a compliment but I knew it wasn't. "Just look at you. You're pathetic and yet you still have the nerve to be alive- after nine fucking years. How?" I don't answer, not sure if he wanted me to. "Huh?!" he yells. "How?!"

"I don't know," I croak again.

He laughs. "You don't know?" he questions. "You let mom and dad die for you and yet you have the nerve to still be in my presence, telling me that you don't know why you're alive. I don't believe you." I remained quiet. "It should've been you. They should've never went out there to fight for you, to protect you, it should've been you." Again I remained quite. Which resulted in him grabbing my ankle harshly and pulling me down the rough twin bed I was in. I wince loudly as my back went over the springs, my body protesting to the sudden movement. "What do you have to say for yourself?" I say nothing. And that resulted to a slap in the face. "Huh?!" he yelled. "What do you have to say for yourself?!"

I'll admit. This time was much quicker getting into the physical abuse. He slapped me so hard that my vision wasn't blurred. Blurred so bad that I couldn't make out his face. My cheek was throbbing and I felt the swelling beginning to come, on top of the bruise that was already formed.

I soon felt his hand on my neck, squeezing it, restricting my airways. My eyes grew wide as I weakly placed my hand on his wrist, trying to stop him. I didn't know why I was trying, because every fiber in my body wanted me to die.

"That requires a fucking answer," he said bitterly.

"I'm... I'm..."

"You're what?!" he yells, punching me in the gut. I gasp for the little breath of air as he was still holding my neck tightly. He soon flung me against the wall opposite of my bed and I hit hard, falling to the ground harder. I was coughing, trying to gain oxygen, but I couldn't even move for my body was that weak. He didn't stop, he came over to me and grabbed my hair, pulling it back roughly, making my scalp strain. I let out an inaudible scream. "You're what Emerald?"

"I'm..." I gasp in. "Sorry."

I felt his eyes on me, possibly not knowing what to do. I had never apologized before, never to my knowledge. I usually let them continue talking even though they tried to force a word out of me. I didn't allow it. But this time, for some reason, I apologized.

"You're sorry?" he questions. I nod my head as best as I could with his death grip on my hair. He chuckles darkly, letting go of my hair and punching me square in the face, on my other cheek that he hadn't yet hit. "You're sorry?!" he repeats. He kicked my torso. "Sorry isn't going to cut it Emerald!" Another kick. "They died for you and all you have to say is 'I'm sorry'!" He kicked me in my face. "You useless piece of shit."

And from there it continued. Kicking my stomach, my chest, my face. Getting on his knees and attacking me with his fists. He wasn't fast to grow tired. But what I came to realize is with the more he punched, kicked, banged my head, I was growing weaker. And not in the sense of just growing unconscious but feeling like I was leaving my body.

It was a shame.

I was growing excited for dying.