Stubborn and the Mutt

forty one | her father

Lose his mind, he does. His eyes go wide, lips part and body goes rigid for a hot moment. The shock in him quickly turns to rage. My breath instantly hitches.

"Boyfriend? A boyfriend, Gertrude? You insist on disrespecting me by bringing a boy here and saying it's your boyfriend? Have you no shame? What would your mother say? Hmm? Your mother, if she was to see you like this, what would she say?"

I'm not feeling shame, but the guilt washes over me like a bucket of ice cold water. I can only press the top against my collarbone gently to avoid causing more pain at the sharp stings that shoot periodically, with eyes lowered to the ground. Even still, he doesn't like my meekness, he doesn't like that I don't have a response.

"I'm talking to you, Gertrude!" He bangs his hand on the kitchen counter, and I immediately take a step back as fear begins to spark in the depth of me. "What would she say? Your sister Lerato. What would she say? Would she be proud of you? Instead of being like her, hard working and focused on your school books, you're focused on friends and white people. White boys! A white boy is inside my house right now because of you. Busy! Sleeping around, coming late and being a disrespectful young girl. You are proud of that? Hmm?"

Yeah, that's definitely guilt. My limbs start shaking, and I gulp a blob of saliva when I feel my eyes sting up. Perhaps, just maybe, both my mum and Lerato would think I've been nothing but chaotic, troublesome and inconsiderate. I was never one to make my parents that proud in comparison to my sister, but I tried my best. My mum knew that. I really did. And of course when things changed, I changed.

I had that 'life is short' mentality and let it rule over me. Heartbroken by Banele, not doing the best in school and now look, imprinted by a wolf without my consent. It overwhelms me.

"I... I'm sorry, Papa."

"Sorry is not enough. Sorry is never enough. You are always sorry, Gertrude. You don't stop to think maybe it should have been you and not them—"

"You don't stop to think that this is your daughter you're speaking down to?"

Of course, Micah couldn't just listen to me and stay in the living room. He stands by the entrance of the kitchen, passionately glaring at my father with intensity. I think this is the most grey I've seen his eyes. Thick layers of anger comes off of him, and I'd be lying if I said he wasn't giving off some sort of... possessiveness.

"You! Don't even try and tell me how to speak to my daughter, you hear me, white boy? My daughter, not yours. Instead, look what you did to her." My father aggressively points at me. "Look at her. Blood everywhere because of you, and you know what? I am seconds from calling the police so they can lock you up. You and your kind think you can do as you please because of your race? You tried to kill her!"

"Kill her?"

I foresee something bad happening here.

Micah scoffs at my father, taking us both by surprise, and finds every temerity to confidently walk up to me. Before I can take a step back and create distance, just for the sake of my father obviously watching, Micah takes hold of my jaw and turns my face outwards, then removes my hand from my collarbone.

"Mi—"

"I'll call the pack doctor, she'll know how to heal you." He places my hand back on my collarbone, applying more pressure than I did despite me trying to move away to relief myself.