Green pack, West Virginia

present day

Klepto POV

I steal

It's not that I like stealing, even though I always have, it's just that it's a compulsion I've never been able to control.

From day one the need to take what doesn't belong to me pushes me to do some pretty crazy things.

I still remember the first incident.

At the time, I was a mere five years old. My mom had brought me to a sleepover with a few other girls my age, who I had previously never met.

Spoiler alert, the whole thing was a disaster.

I ended up sneaking three Polly pockets and a half pack of bubble gum into my backpack. The bratty, previous owner of these invaluable objects wasn't happy to say the least.

It's not my fault pigtails hadn't kept her eyes on her belongings.

After a couple more reoccurrences, my dear parents were called to the Alpha's office. They left me in the hallway outside to twiddle my little thumbs while they chatted with good old Alpha Green. More on him later.

My father tried to hide it from me, but I knew without a doubt that they were discussing my misbehavior. I mean, it was rare for me to be alone with my parents at all seeing as how I have nine siblings. I've always been kind of overlooked.

A few days after, I got the lovely Daryl Fitzer, the pack psychologist who was assigned to help me "work past my issues".

Dr.Fitzer insisted that it was a permanent condition. He demanded that no matter what, I would be living with Kleptomania for the rest of my life.

Our Alpha, Alpha Green, stubbornly held his decision and made me go through rigorous counseling.

Needless to say, the stealing has never stopped.

One session a week turned into two, two became three. Before I knew it I was spending hours in Fitzer's office. We talked and talked, discussing every topic under the sun, but I never really opened up to him.

To be honest, he's a nice werewolf, but it all felt too invasive, too private.

My stealing habits only grew worse as time drew on, and the pack learned to absolutely despise me. Kids my age were evil, and middle school and high school became my own living hell. I had in turn gained myself the lucky nickname, Klepto.

My real name, to this day, is rarely in use. Even my cruel parents and siblings rain the reminder on me, as if it will somehow make my disorder disappear. It never does.

By the age of sixteen, Alpha Green fired Fitzer because the treatment wasn't working, he was kicked out of the pack.

I couldn't help but feeling like it was all my fault. Probably because it was.

My emotions were very jumbled when he left. I didn't miss him at all. In fact, I was kind of relieved that he was gone. I had a love hate relationship with him, and even the image of Dr.Fitzer brought back bad memories I wish to forget. If only they could be erased.

The memories were mostly of me making my way out of the pack office building after a session, seeing groups of pups my age snickering and whispering.

It's not something I want to relive. Ever again.

My new therapist is named Dr.Paullini. I know, it's a weird name. He's foreign. He's always enthusiastic and positive, and sometimes it rubs off on me.

Sometimes.

Today is like any other day. I wake up on my bunk bed with a head throbbing with insane anxiety. My house is always chalk full of loud sounds, fighting, laughing, and headaches.

The fabulous room I occupy is shared with my four sisters. Yes. Four sisters.

Breakfast is the usual, my mother cooks a ridiculous amount of scrambled eggs and a tray holding rows and rows of bacon.

When she sets it on the table, my monstrous siblings dig in ravenously. I was glad to get a single strip of meat with all the commotion that goes on. It's a wonder that I somehow survive.

Boys and girls alike were shouting and eating and giggling and being completely annoying. All us range from ages 3-24. Me being the 4th in age at a whopping 21.

Fortunately the oldest of our bunch, Marcus, left last year to join his mate in another pack in Pennsylvania.

In some packs, pups leave when they shift, some are lucky to leave when they turn 18.

Lucky me, I was born into a pack where you have to live at home until you find your mate. Sounds great, right? I'm trapped in this place with eight siblings and two awful parents until my mate waddles into my life.

The only bright side is that it's easier to blend in when there's always so much going on. Sports, music, homework, parent teacher conferences. It all distracts my family from me, which I'm definitely glad for.

Being under their radar is a blessing from above. Thank you, Moon Goddess!

Sometimes I get the feeling that my parents want to forget I even exist. It's all I can think about today as I stroll to my counseling session.

I kicked a rock on the dirt path, making a cloud of dust that sticks to one of my pant legs. Sighing, I peer around at all the hustle and bustle of my pack. There are wolves everywhere.

I hate it here.

It feels like I can't breathe when I'm surrounded by a lot of people, especially knowing their eyes follow me everywhere I go, just waiting for me to mess up somehow.

There goes that girl. The girl who is a hopeless thief? The one the pack leaders refuse to lock up? Yeah, that one. That's all I am to them.

A nuisance, a bug, vermin.

I walk right into Paullini's office. There he sits in his usual position, scribbling away in that little black notebook. His large eyes flicker up to me behind his half circle glasses. A slow smile spreads across his lips.

"Take a seat, Klepto." He says. I make my way to the adjourning room without a word of greeting. I just want to get this over with.

I've always loved this room despite the trauma that goes on in here. It's teeny tiny, with maroon walls with a warm, coppery lamp in the corner. There are two roomy loveseats in the corner, and they're ridiculously comfortable. These precious gems don't belong in this torture chamber.

When I sit down, I take a deep breath and trail my eyes on Paullini while he strides into the room on his long legs. He's wearing burnt orange corduroy slacks. They are definitely interesting, and eye catching.

"Alrighty," He starts, slithering into the other seat, clicking his pen a few times as he settles in, "how have you been since the last time we've chatted?"

Chatted? Hilarious.

"You mean have I stolen anything?" I deadpan, and his gaze shoots from his little leather book to my face in shock.

"Well, that's one way of putting it I suppose... or we can talk about anything else that's been happening in your life? How you're feeling, any incidents of significance." I roll my eyes and sigh dramatically, sinking deeper into the plush chair wishing to be anywhere but here with anyone but him.

"I mean, yesterday I came pretty close to snatching a pretty little whisk out of the pack kitchen. It had a cool handle on it." I muse, and it's true.

When I saw the utensil my breathing froze, which is typical of me when I feel the urge to steal. My heart rate picks up, I focus and plan, and all my thoughts revolve around that one thing until I lose all control.

"A whisk, huh?" And then the male is scribbling furiously again in his tracker thingy. Sometimes I wonder what he wrote about me. Was it nice? Mocking? I don't think Paullini's the malicious type, but you can never really know a person.

"What drove you to take something so.... insignificant?" He always asks this question when I admit to wanting to steal something of a lesser value.

I always have the same reply for him; a silent shrug of the shoulders.

"Oh come on, Klepto. You must have some sort of reasoning. That whisk couldn't be more than a few dollars. It doesn't hold much worth. Why were you tempted to take it?"

The honest truth is, I don't know.

I mean, I steal things because they call to me, and in that moment I have to have it. The feeling is amazing and glorious and having my hands on stolen goods gives me a rush of pure euphoria. As soon as I get away with it, the guilt begins to set in.

There is never anything particularly special about any object I want. I just need to steal it, plain and simple.

How could I possibly explain it to him? Nobody ever understood. When I was younger I was foolish enough to try to tell my mother all about it, and she gave me a look I'll never forget.

The look of disappointment, horror, and absolute embarrassment all rolled out on one face.

"Please. If you don't open up, we'll never be able to fix you."

Fix me.

Fix.

Me.

That's all anybody wants to do. Because there must be something wrong with me, right?

I'm a fluke.

A mistake.

Nobody wanted me to be me because I'm not normal and I never will be.

Why can't anyone just like me for who I am?

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If you're reading this, I love you:)