"Why" bash "the fuck" kick "can't you" slap "get anything right?" My father raged as he stood over me as he beat me to a pulp. Each word pronounced perfectly, even if he was drunk, and he was sure to hit me between each word. Like that would somehow get his message across even more. All because his dinner was cold when he got home. It's not like he told me when he was going to be coming home, so how the hell was I supposed to know when to have his dinner ready?

He did just wake me up in the middle of the night and dragged me down a flight of stairs by my hair and into our kitchen because he just got home and there was no dinner for him. Little did he know it was in the microwave. I did make it, but he never came home.

When he finished beating me, he grabbed another bottle of beer out of the fridge and he went to the living room and he put on the TV while I laid on the kitchen floor unable to move. I laid there looking up at the ceiling, wondering when this torture was going to end.

"Only a few more months." I told myself. "A couple of months until I turn 18 and then I will be out of here and there is nothing that he can do about it." I mumbled to myself.

I tried taking a deep breath in but realized immediately that it was a bad idea. I could feel that I definitely had a couple of broken ribs and I was having trouble breathing in and out.

When I heard dad's breath start to even out on the couch I knew that he had passed out and I slowly grabbed a hold of a fallen chair and I used it as leverage to help me up and I slowly got my bearings.

I managed to slowly walk back up the stairs of our wing of the packhouse that was reserved for me and my dad because he was the Beta of the pack and I walked down the hallway to my room.

I walked inside my bedroom and I climbed back on my bed and I looked at the time. It was 5am and I didn't really see the point in going back to sleep.

I laid there for a little while longer because Dad made my room the perfect room for a princess so everyone can see what a loving father he was. Even if he didn't treat me like one. He treated me like trash. Worse than how you would treat a dog. But the bed was big and comfortable and I just wanted to melt into it for a little while longer.

When I finally did get up I made my way to my en-suite bathroom and I took my clothes off and put them in the clothes hamper and then I slowly turned to look at myself in the mirror. I was afraid to look at myself but it had to happen sometime.

I was covered in black and blue bruises and fresh cuts from that beating. But also bruises under the new bruises that were yet to heal. I was malnourished and didn't heal as fast as werewolves. But I was used to it.

Ever since my mother died when I was 6 my father has been getting progressively worse until it finally got to this kind of abuse. Which was the worst kind. Where I could barely walk or even look at myself in the mirror.

I had a quick shower because the water stung my skin too much and I washed my ass length snow blonde hair and I came out of the bathroom and walked into my wardrobe.

I got dressed into a pair of black tights, a loose fitting shirt and a hoodie over the top. It was pretty much my signature look.

When I was putting my books in my bag my bedroom door slammed open and I jumped almost to the ceiling because it scared me so badly.

Dad was standing there and I was surprised that he was actually able to stand.

"Hurry up. The pack breakfast is starting." He demanded still slurring his words.

How was he going to explain that to the pack elders? This was going to be interesting. But I really didn't care.