Zelena. So much has happened in such a short time. And it really has been a short time, I first met Gunner just shy of five months ago. That is when my life completely flipped upside down. I went from being an abused, quiet and disconnected little girl, to a strong and powerful woman. So far, I have found out that I’m a Werewolf, the man I thought was my father isn’t my father, and I have a soulmate. I found a family and a home. I have made friends, and I have lost friends. I have discovered that I am capable of wielding unimaginable power, gifted to me by my descendant, the Moon Goddess. I went from being all alone, to having multiple strong and everlasting connections. I have fought for what I have come to love, and I have killed to keep it. Now I sit here, in front of the woman who claims to be my mother, destined to soon become a mother myself. With all that has changed already, I know there is still more to come. I can feel it in the air, ther

Zelena. After a moment, I had nothing left. I stopped screaming and took a deep breath. I kept my eyes closed and continued to take slow, deep and soothing breaths. “Do you feel better now?” a soft feminine voice said with a giggle. I sat up and shielded my eyes from the sun. As I looked up, I found one of the people I wanted to see least of all right now. I huffed and flopped back down on the grass. She chuckled and sat down next to me.

Zelena.After a while I had become very uncomfortable, and my body was screaming for food. The sobbing had stopped, but my fear of being without Gunner was still the main focal point of my mind. “Can I put you down now?” Gunner’s voice whispered softly, “Yes” I answered after a deep breath. Gunner placed my feet back on the ground but kept his arms around my shoulders. My stomach grumbled loudly, breaking the silence of our combined sadness.

Whiskey.I struggled to my feet and swallowed the whimper that nearly came out. No crying. Monsters don’t cry. One lashing for one tear. Growing up, I learned quickly not to cry. The scars on my back are a testament to my lesson. One tear, one lashing. My scars are years old now. No tears mean no lashings, so I let none fall. I limped to the small sink in the corner of my room and turned on the tap. As per usual, the water was freezing. I cupped my small hands under the stream to catch the water, then gently placed my face into the collected water. I ran my wet fingers over my beaten face, letting the moister wash away the blood. I cupped my hands again and washed more water over my face. I did this until the water that dripped from my face lost its red tinge.  

Whiskey. I hate this place. I hate this smell. The stench of wet dog and fear. It’s repugnant. When someone dies suddenly, they leave behind the stench of their last thoughts. I've come to find that most of the time those thoughts are ones of fear. I hate the smell of it. It's what comes after, that I like the most. The scent of death. Blood, mixed with pain and a hint of helplessness, all thrown together with the scent of decaying flesh. That is the smell I like. That is what I want to be able to smell all day. If I could, I would infuse the horrendous sent into a perfume and wear it daily. The bringer of death, carrying with her the scent of your doom. Sounds good doesn’t it.  This tedious task is st