The Pack Thief

4

Willow's POV

Who was I?

Who was I, Willow Williams, beneath the harshness of my physical appearance? Beneath what I so openly and deeply detested, not because of a feeling of self insecurity, but because I was the offspring of them.

Should the historians write about me, what would they write? How would I be described? Would they describe the masked torment beneath the castleton green eyes that were too large for my face? Would they mistake my pain for mischief?

Would I be noted for my austerity and slyness, or would I be branded cold and cruel like the world that had casted me out.

I wasn't cruel, not in the very least.

I was cold-hearted, but I was a spitting product of the society that failed to raise me.

I couldn't be blamed for that, or maybe I could. Maybe they would blame me for how I turned out, after all I was the captain of my ship. It was my job to navigate the perilous waves or fall victim to them. But they had no right to judge me, not for the walls I built to protect myself, not for the direction I positioned my ship that was somehow always facing the wind. My entire existence was a battle.

For, how could they limit me to a paddle boat in the midst of a war, and not expect me to turn it into a battleship?

They had no right to judge.

But maybe they would. And they could.

Maybe beneath the thick and deep bed of dark auburn hair, they would pick apart the components of my brain and find that so much of who I was had been thinned out and left to die. They'd dissect me like students in a biology class. I would become their frog. They'd say I was damaged the moment my parents abandoned me, but I'd argue that I was damaged centuries before that. For, some people are put on this Earth to suffer—To remind others of how good they had it.

They would slander me all before trying to understand me.

That was the way of the world, and I could understand them for it.

I slandered my own 'parents' without even knowing them.

I hated them and I didn't even know who they were. I loathed them for giving me their face and their DNA before leaving me to die. Resentment clung to my appearance. I resented the idea that someone somewhere could be carrying my face.

Would I share my looks with my mom or my dad?

Would the sharp yet feminine features be courtesy of my dead-beat dad or my sorry excuse of a mom?

So many questions, so little answers.

I caught my own eyes in a mirror, sickened to see the fright inside of them. Large, terrified doe eyes reflected back at me. I glared at myself as if I was looking at the make up of my parents.

I was.

My light olive skin was luminous to the eye, but ripped apart beneath and left for the vultures to feast upon.

I was a plagued person—My skin was a liar. Nothing on the surface, but beneath there was a deeply scarred woman. 

It was because of them. All because of them.

How could they leave me? Why was it so easy for them to discard the product of their so-called love. Perhaps all I was was the result of a lack of protection.

Idiots.

I needed therapy.

I pulled away from the mirror and pulled my damp hair over my shoulders, allowing it to cascade freely down my spine. I wasn't interested in the reflection, not anymore, not when staring at it only brought me closer to a victim mentality.