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Esperanza
I lunge for the plate, catching it just before it can finish its slide down the precarious mountain of dishware drying beside the sink. “Gracias a Dios,” I whisper to myself. I’d been carefully assembling said mountain for the past hour, slowly turning the disgusting mess of a kitchen back into a workspace suitable for human food preparation.
Grabbing a clean towel out from under the counter, I quickly dry the rescued plate and move a few other dishes cautiously over before they too make an ill-advised leap to freedom. They’d end up leaving the house in pieces, in the garbage, cuddled up to the unmentionably moldy food I just threw away. But at least they’d make it out. These days it’s hard not to wonder about the priceI’dwillingly pay to finally get myself out of this house.
With a sigh I turn back to the sink, still full of soapy bubbles, and resume washing the dishes. I try to stay focused on my task instead of letting my gaze drift out the window to the backyard. It won’t do any good to tease myself with the sight of the outdoors right now, and if my dad catches me slacking there will be hell to pay. Again. Glancing at the clock instead, I see it’s nearing eleven o’clock and I’ll be expected to have lunch on the table soon. Something light will have to do today. This morning was the first time my dad let me out of my room in four days, and I’ve had no chance to put in a grocery order like I normally would.
Bedroom, cage, prison, torture chamber ... These words are all synonyms in my world.
I shiver slightly thinking back on his latest round of experiments. The hot water encasing my arms does nothing to chase away the chills that crawl down my back. I finish the last dishes quickly, making sure to drain the sink and rub it down until the white porcelain is shiny enough that I can see my face in it. My father constantly tries to instill in me the lesson that a woman’s kitchen is a reflection of her virtue—and by extension, her value—as a mate. It’s probably the only reason he lets me out of my room at all, so I can practice serving my future husband.
In a weird way, that’s one of the things I’ve come to despise him for the most. I actually love cooking, cleaning, and organizing. Those activities have always soothed me—even before my omega nature formally made itself known. But over the past couple of years he’s twisted it, turning my biology into shackles and forcing me to hate a part of myself I’ve always loved.
I move to the fridge, pulling out a few sad-looking vegetables from the crisper drawer. Looks like it’s a soup day, and if I’m lucky I’ll be able to thaw out a few of the chicken meatballs I made a month ago to round out the meal. I allow myself to hum softly under my breath as I go through the motions of washing, chopping, and simmering, everything on autopilot.
My mother always used to sing to my brother and me when we were younger, and it’s one of the only remaining ways I have to feel close to her. Sometimes I wonder how my life would be different if she hadn’t died, wonder if maybe my father wouldn’t have snapped and taken on such extremist views. We were happy once upon a time, but the pain of losing my mother to a freak medical accident is something none of us seem able to move on from. I was only ten when she went to the hospital for a simple surgery to fix a herniated disc in her back, a leftover injury from a horse-riding accident in her youth. She reacted poorly to the anesthesia, and before the doctors could do a thing, she was gone. A rare allergy, they told us. My memories from that time are numbed by shock and grief, but I do clearly remember how I made my first rudimentary nest and lay with my brother in there for days while we just held each other and cried.
Designations don’t typically reveal themselves until puberty, but my family always suspected I’d be an omega. It’s relatively rare for a family of betas, but not unheard of. There was supposedly an omega on my mom’s side of the family a generation or two ago and my dad has a second cousin who is an alpha. It was something about my eyes, my mom used to say. She liked to talk about how when I was a baby I would just sit and stare at her and she’d feel like I was seeing into every nook and cranny of her soul. I never really understood what she meant by that, or why she thought that made me an omega. Mom never got to see my awakening, but I like to think she knows and is somewhere out there smug and satisfied by her impeccable predictive skills.
The soup is almost done, the meatballs sizzling in a skillet, when I hear the door to my father’s study creak open.
I can feel my heart pounding in time with his footsteps as I rush to grab a bowl and spoon, pausing to pull a beer out of the fridge. By the time he’s made it to the kitchen I’m serenely ladling the soup into his dish and adding a few meatballs on top. I keep my eyes lowered as I approach him at the bar counter, making sure not to touch him as I cautiously arrange the steaming bowl and cold beer.
“And what’s this then?” he asks, taking a long pull from his bottle while eyeing my offering. “Soup?”
“I was remiss in making sure we had the right groceries. Please forgive me, sir. It won’t happen again,” I murmur, still keeping my eyes trained on the ground.
Everything is my fault, I’ve learned. The best way to avoid angering him is to remain submissive and meek—the perfect picture of a proper omega daughter. Or so he insists. We didn’t have many dedicated alpha/omega studies in school, seeing as how most people in my rural school district are betas, but I had always understood that equality for all designations was the default in society. I grew up being taught that everyone has value, regardless of designation, and although different designations naturally have to contend with distinct biological dictations, anyone can be or do anything they want.
It hasn’t always been this way, of course. Back in my grandparents’ generation, omegas were expected to keep house while betas were often kept out of positions of power and treated more as blue-collar laborers. Alphas sat comfortably in a position of unquestioned power. But times have changed.
For most of society, that is.
“Soup isn’t a filling meal for an alpha. How will you feed your mate if all you offer them is water and vegetables?” my father scolds, frowning at me as he tastes the soup.
“Let me get you more meatballs,” I reply, moving quickly back to the stove to avoid him seeing the way my teeth are biting sharply into my cheek.
“You will read the latest issue ofOmega at Homeand write me an essay on the best foods to prepare for your alpha. This afternoon. After your chores,” he states, separating each sentence with a perfunctory sip of soup. “And you will write out a meal plan covering one month of meals to provide for your future mate.”
“Yes, sir,” I murmur obediently.
He likes to make up written assignments for me to supplement my “hands-on” training. We now have a small library of books touting the virtues of a good omega and how to please an alpha mate or mates. Typically, omegas end up with packs of alphas. Though every alpha my father has brought by have been flying solo. I started checking publication dates out of boredom, and so far, he hasn’t given me one book published within the past three decades. Some of the magazines he makes me read seem to come straight out of a different era, and I suspect he gets them from members of his BFOS group.Betas for Order and Submission.The insidious group that at first seemed harmless, if bizarre, and that is now holding me hostage to this terrible fate.
My brother and I were happy at first to see that our dad was getting out of the house and finding ways to occupy his time after losing Mom. I was too busy with school and friends to really pay much attention to what he was doing or who he was hanging out with. The acronym meant nothing to me, though it did make me nervous when people noticed his affiliation in public, catching sight of our bumper sticker or his branded T-shirt or hat. Some would give us a hostile look and move away, while others would grin and give a small, knowing nod. Both reactions made me squirm.
“Make sure dinner is better.”
I jump slightly at the sound of his voice, having gotten lost in my own mental trap of despair. “Yes, sir.”
“And have that essay to me before the game tonight.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And for Gods’ sake, you look like a mess. You need to do better, Esperanza. You disappoint me.”
I remain frozen as he walks out with that parting shot. “Yes, sir,” I finally whisper, glad he’s far enough away not to hear the bitter edge to my voice.
