Chapter Reading Below
**TITLE: You Want My Life and Bleed My Wounds**
**Athena’s Perspective**
“I once believed my existence was a tragedy, but now I’ve come to see it as a comedy,” echoes the infamous line from the Joker in my mind, a relentless mantra as I stand here, drenched in a grotesque mixture of slimy red and yellow goo. In my reality, however, the comedic aspect eludes me entirely. I smell like an omelet that has long since passed its expiration date—no, scratch that—like an omelet that has been rotting for months. The cafeteria is alive with laughter, the kind that stings and cuts deep, as students snicker and guffaw, reveling in my humiliation. Why wouldn’t they? It’s their handiwork that has turned me into a walking mess of rotten eggs and some other unidentifiable substances. Welcome to my life, I suppose.
I’ve grown somewhat accustomed to the relentless bullying over the years. It’s a bitter lesson I learned early on: fighting back only escalates the torment. It’s just me against the world—or more accurately, against my own pack. The teachers? They’ve long since given up trying to intervene. I remember one brave soul attempting to stand up for me two years ago, only to be unceremoniously fired on the spot, courtesy of the two identical Alpha jerks who delight in making my life a waking nightmare. Thankfully, they will finally graduate this summer, and I can’t help but feel a flicker of hope that perhaps the goddess has shown me a shred of mercy.
And let’s be clear—these two aren’t exactly intellectual giants. They’re merely a year older than I am, and honestly, I find it baffling that they even managed to graduate. To say they’re not the brightest crayons in the box would be an understatement; they seem to lack any functioning brain cells entirely. As you can probably tell, my disdain for them is fierce and unwavering. They’ve turned my life into a living hell since I was six, and sometimes I find myself questioning why I haven’t thrown in the towel yet. Maybe it’s just my stubbornness that keeps me going. Who knows? I cling to the hope that a turning point is on the horizon.
I often ponder what I might have done to deserve this level of torment, but the moon goddess must have her reasons. Every day, I pray that when my mate finally appears—if that ever happens—he’ll be from the Red Runner pack. I say “if” for a reason, but I’ll elaborate on that later. Every summer, I visit the Red Runner pack, a tradition I’ve maintained since childhood. There, I’ve managed to forge a couple of friendships, even with Maxim, the Alpha heir, and Millie, the Beta’s daughter.
“You’ve made two friends. Two. Not friends, as in plural,” Ares, my spirit animal, chortles in my mind, prompting a scoff from me. “That was just rude and completely uncalled for,” I retort, my tone dripping with sarcasm. Perhaps I’m not the social butterfly I wish I could be. In reality, if I didn’t hold back so much, people might label me a sarcastic little brat instead.
Let me give you a glimpse into my wonderfully tragic life (yes, that’s sarcasm at its finest). My name is Athena Brooks. Yes, you read that right—Athena, named after the Greek goddess of warfare, heroism, and courage, thanks to my father’s desire for a fierce name for his little girl. Or at least, that’s the official story. However, I’ll delve into that later too. Being named after such a powerful figure has provided endless ammunition for my bullies over the years, along with my so-called “whale-sized body.”
I hail from the Blood Moon pack, where the scum of the werewolf community seems to congregate. At 17 years old, I’m on the brink of turning 18 next summer—just a few months away from finally being of legal age to make my own choices. Well, sort of. What I’ll do after my 18th birthday remains a mystery, but staying here is not an option, especially with those two nuisances poised to take over the Alpha position after their father. The current Alpha, their father, is no better—a complete jerk who, at least, doesn’t actively target me like his precious sons do.
The thought of leaving my mom behind tugs at my heartstrings, but I don’t see a way out of this pit of despair otherwise. “Melodramatic much? Geez,” Ares pipes up again, reminding me of my penchant for exaggeration. Ah, yes, I almost forgot—I have my spirit animal, Ares. I call him my spirit animal for a reason, and I promise I’ll explain that later too. He has a fierce name, which is ironic given our generally docile nature.
“Not by choice, though,” Ares grumbles, and he’s right. We’ve been threatened with my parents’ wellbeing more times than I can count. They know precisely where to hit to keep me in line. In our world, we usually receive our wolf at the age of 18, sharing our bodies and souls with them from that point forward. But Ares joined me when I was just six. We’ve never actually shifted into our wolf forms, though, because my mom made us swear on her life that we wouldn’t. It’s a strange situation, and while we regret not being able to shift, my mom won’t budge on the issue. Every time I bring it up, her eyes fill with panic, and she insists it’s not the right time yet. I sometimes wonder if there will ever be a right time in her eyes. What’s the point of being a shifter if you aren’t allowed to shift?
I suspect my mom is terrified that I might turn out to be something less than a wolf—perhaps a squirrel or a mouse. This brings me to another revelation about my life: apparently, my mom isn’t my biological mother, nor is my “father.” While I’m not too bothered by the latter, given my lack of relationship with him, my mom’s story stings. She carries the weight of her past, one that I would never dare to share with her, for fear of making her feel guilty. She’s my angel, and although I’m uncertain how to feel about my biological mother, my mom is everything to me. I would lay down my life for her without a second thought. It’s precisely this bond that the Alpha jerks and their entourage exploit to keep me under their thumb. Pricks.
