Alpha's Human Mate

The Mute

Stay low. Go fast.

Kill first. Die last.

One shot. One kill.

Not luck. All skill.

I just can't. There is something in my head that is stopping me from pulling the trigger. I can feel the added weight in my hand, the smooth texture of the stainless steel; yet, it's not an uplifting feeling. The gun, it isn't bringing me peace; it isn't stopping the raging whirlpool of turmoil that occupies my head. Before, oh, before how much I dreamed of this moment; but now, I know I can't go through with my original intentions. It'd be so easy to raise the weapon and forget about this hell I'm living. One simple motion, one small gesture, one miniscule flick of my finger and my misery is ended. That's all it would take, and yet deep down inside of me I know I can't leave just yet. I know I have to hope things will get better. I know I must. If not for me, then certainly for Momma. She fought him for so long so I could live in the allusion of happiness. So I could think my life, my childhood, was normal and filled with love and joy. She fought for me until she could fight no more. If I pull the trigger, he will win. All of her hard work down the drain; she would be dead for nothing. For Momma, I can't let him have that satisfaction. I need to live.

I hear his car pull into the garage. A sinking feeling erupts in the pit of my stomach and I quickly move to put the gun back into the safe. Rearranging the area to how it was before I entered his room, I begin to mentally prepare myself for what I know is coming next. He can't know that I was here, he must believe I don't know the code to the safe. It'd only make matters worse.

Hurrying out of his room to avoid conflict, I feel what little emotion Momma brings me beginning to descend back into the locked box of pleasantness that mocks me in my mind. I take a deep breath as I reach the hallway, nothing is worse than the stench of his room. Relishing in the comfort of the shell of the person I have become I surround myself in the aromas that I have become accustom to living in. The dirty combination of alcohol, cigar smoke, body odor, and the strongest scent is metallic. Blood; my blood.

Flinching as he slams the front door shut, I just know the devil is angry. He the predator and I the prey and I just know that whatever has left him unsettled I will pay for. Knowing better than to move, I harden my outer layer and crush any emotions that have been left bubbling in the box. I know that in order to survive they must be forgotten. I know my fate, and he is a spinning ball of rage and fury that I will face in less than five minutes

I am being pulled from what little safety I can conjure in my mind when I feel a spitting pain erupt in the roots of my skull. He has found me. Yanking my hair hard, I crash to the floor at the sudden impact. The man in my nightmares bends down to look at me in the face. He sneers in disgust at the sight of me, showing his decaying teeth. "Be ready bitch, we leave in an hour." With that final thought he kicks me in the ribs and leaves me laying there, on the floor of the hallway.

I can't lift myself up, all I can do is sit there staring at the wall replaying Father's words. "We leave in an hour." He means our home. The building where she first brought me home to, and raised me for my early years. Back then, this house was filled with laughter and love because she, a fiery angel with the heart of gold occupied it. This home, the one physical thing I have left of Momma. It will be gone in less than an hour. That sharpie on the wall, measuring the height of my younger self, it isn't coming with me. And, those drawings, up there in attic, that were put there by me and the only friends I've ever had. They as well will be gone. This house has been home to dark, sinister, evil things that has left me feeling trapped, and small, and dead. But, to the little girl, who is locked up inside that box. This home is what she thrives on. She lives, because of those moments in her past where she was happy, and loved, and living. Tate, and Heath, Momma, when this house gets left behind, so will they.

I don't how long I sit there. Thinking, and mourning about all I must leave behind. This house has been my prison just as much as it's been my life source. I don't even consider moving until I hear the rumble of Father's Silver Ford. He would wait for me, but not long. If I don't come, he won't have his punching bag, the one who is always there when he must release what is pent up inside him. That's all I am to him, one who he can control, hit around, kill from the outside in and all I will ever be.

I slowly get up from the floor. It is hard, but I've had worse. I know this house like the back of my hand. That's the only reason why I make it to the car. My vision is fuzzy from the impact that my head had to suffer. I will live though, I always do.

We drive for a long time. I don't know how long. I was never allowed to have a proper education. I only went to school when my mother was alive. I remember those first few years of my life. It was true bliss. It didn't last long, seven years. That's when she died, and the monster became more prominent. But I lived, through ten years of that agonizing terror. I am a survivor, at least, that's what Momma would have told me. She would have caressed my face, and said to me, "My sweet Ella, never let anyone bring you down. You are loved, even if you don't realize it, you are strong my Ella, my survivor." I feel a tear fall from my eye, memories of my mother always trigger the tears. What hurts the most, is when I think about all the things she missed out on as a mother. Not that there was much, I wasn't allowed to do anything. But, I like to think things would be different if my momma was still here.

I awake again in the driveway of a new house. It is small and run down, but it's not like we have the money for anything else. I walk in the house quietly to make sure I don't wake the devil. To my complete and utter dismay, he is already there sitting on the couch waiting for me. "Daniella," his voice is rough and low, almost scratchy. I flinch at the name, only he calls me that, by my full name. It brings back bad memories of him. Him saying my name, is associated with some of my darkest moments. Usually I can't hear it without feeling the familiar build of panic starting to overtake my mind and body, but today I remain calm. "You are nothing but an ungrateful pig. For years all you've done is waste my money while I earn it! As of tomorrow you have a job." Father growls out his words; there is no denying they come from deep hatred that resides in him. I almost laugh at the irony. He times the amount I am allowed to eat, it's enough to starve me, but not enough to raise suspicion unless closely examined. But I don't argue, it would only get worse.

I walk up the stairs behind father. He needs to show me which room is his to ensure that I stay out of it. I almost cry out in relief when I see the safe. He transferred it to the new house, the thought makes me smile. Something I haven't done since the day when he was taken from me. "What are you smiling at bitch?" Father raises his hand as if to hit me, but stops. "I need you looking good for your job interviews tomorrow. Get." He doesn't need to tell me twice. I scramble my way out of his room. I want to pick the room that is farthest away from his. Just my luck there is only one other room. The one at the end of the hallway. I walk in the room and mentally awe. It is homey. The walls are a plain white that brings out innocent memories of a young girl called Ella. I have a window, with a seat. I walk over and sit down. Staring out the window gives me hope. Momma loved watching the sunsets. That's something that was passed on to me. I open my mouth to speak. The moment just feels right. It feels like I'm speaking to Momma. But no sound comes out; and I remember, I will never speak again. He made sure of that. 

Hi this is my first book on wattpad so please don't judge. Also I do this thing each chapter called question of the day, I will ask you a question and you will post your answer in the comments.

Question of the day: Who do you like better, real or fictional people?

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