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By the timeI make it back to my room that evening I’m barely able to stand. Gods forbid my father do anything to clean up after himself; while I was locked away for the past four days he left my chores to pile up. Four days’ worth of back-breaking work squeezed into one miserable session. It doesn’t help that my body is still recovering from the lack of food. I’ve learned the hard way I can’t make up for lost calories by just stuffing my face once I’m finally released from one of my father’s “experiments.” My stomach shrinks in size when it doesn’t get any food, and all I can tolerate for the following day or so are thin broths. I managed to get down some of the soup I made for lunch, but for now, all I can do is rest.
This was the first time he’s locked me away for four days. Normally he sticks to three—just enough to make my body desperate, as he likes to say. I shudder involuntarily at the mere thought of the explanations he gives for his experiments.
His lecturing started about three years ago, back when my brother was still at home. My father would sit us both down and start spouting off about the proper roles of each designation and how it was our duty to make the most of our station in life. At first I just thought it was annoying, and Em and I would entertain each other by seeing who could get in the biggest eye roll when our dad wasn’t looking. But then the tone of the lectures started changing and he began hosting meetings at our house for the BFOS.
Em was a senior in high school and took every excuse to stay out of the house. If he wasn’t at school or studying, he was with his friends. He was good about keeping me with him when he could, but when he started an after-school job, Dad began insisting on picking me up from school the moment it let out and bringing me home to do chores. I did my best to stay out of the way of the men in his BFOS group, but it always felt like there were creepy crawlies running up the back of my neck whenever they were in the house.
I quickly strip off my clothes, throwing them into the hamper in my closet before pulling on a pair of sweats and an old T-shirt of Em’s.
The nest in the corner of my room beckons me like a poisonous flower, calling out in all its soft, fluffy glory. Every few weeks my dad presents me with new types of pillows and blankets and then watches over me as I rearrange everything. Most omegas find comfort in constructing and burrowing deep inside these elaborate piles of bedding and cushions. It’s supposedly a biological urge that drives us to create a space where we feel protected. I’m no exception to the rule, but it’s been years since I slept in mine.
I give it a perfunctory glance, allowing the customary longing to wash over me for a moment before I turn away. Then, reaching into the bottom drawer of my dresser, I grab out Old Faithful—my nickname for the ugliest and itchiest blanket known to humankind.
The faded brown-and-yellow pattern looks like rotting leaves, and it smells like spoiled beer and BO. I found it in Em’s room after he left for college, a staple from when he used to sneak out at night and drink with his friends in the field behind the old Miller farm. It’s impossible to get comfortable on the ratty thing, which unfortunately is exactly what I need.
Ever since I turned seventeen my dad has been trying to trigger my heat. I am determined to make sure he fails—by any means possible.
2
Esperanza
I’m up early the following morning, crawling over to shut off my old-fashioned alarm clock before it can wake my father. He took my phone away two years ago, so I’ve had to settle for the janky old relic I found in a box in our basement, or I’ll risk oversleeping and having him discover my rebellious sleep routine. I don’t even want to imagine how he’d react to learning that every night I sleep on the floor in the middle of my room, wrapped in a scratchy old blanket.
I do a quick series of stretches before heading to my closet, making sure to pick out one of the outfits guaranteed to meet my father’s approval. My dark brown hair is mussed from sleep, so I take a moment to throw it into a quick bun before tiptoeing to the bathroom across the hall. It wouldn’t do to wake my father up this early. It is an omega’s place, after all, to rise early and see to the needs of her alpha. As much as I know my father is working to bring on my heat so he can sell me off, I suspect he enjoys playing alpha and having me at his beck and call. All under the guise of ensuring I’m properly “trained,” of course.
I shut the bathroom door and begin my routine, starting the shower and catching my wan reflection in the mirror above the sink as I wait for the water to heat up. The girl staring back at me makes me want to cringe. Her skin looks pinched and sallow. The bones in her face are too prominent and her eyes appear far too sunken in her head, with bags that look like bruises puffing out underneath them. Her lips are pale and chapped, her hair dull where it rests in its bun. Her hazel eyes, just like her mother’s, are haunted and lifeless as they take in her appearance.
I look away, brushing my teeth before grabbing the small jar of coconut oil I keep on the sink to dab over my lips.
I try to ignore my body as I strip out of my clothes, eager to crawl under the now steaming water. My body still hints at the hourglass figure many omegas have, but mine is a shrunken, battered version. My body’s still primed to hold onto fat to pad out my breasts and hips, but continuous rounds of my father’s food-deprivation experiments have steadily eaten away at those reserves. My ribs and hip bones look too pronounced and always feel slightly bruised when I wake up, no doubt in protest of my nights spent sleeping on the hardwood floor with Old Faithful. This is nothing compared to myrealbruises, of course.
The water feels divine, and I let out a small moan as I slip into the shower.
Time flies by far too quickly as I go through the motions of washing up, and before I know it, I’m out of the shower and pulling on my clean clothes.
It’s nearing 6:30 a.m. when I reach the kitchen, the sun just starting to filter in through the windows in the living room. I take time to carefully braid my hair as I wait for the kettle to boil, then I go about preparing my father’s breakfast. I’m required to have his food ready by seven, then after he eats we go over my “assignments” for the day.
Bastardo.I roll my eyes internally just thinking about his stupid rules.
I’m not allowed outside unsupervised, not even around our property. My father instigated that rule about a year ago when I ran to a neighbor’s house, desperate to get help after finally learning his full plans for me. It was just my luck that sweet Mrs. Wilcox’s eldest son was also a member of BFOS. I was back home twenty minutes later, my father practically apoplectic.
That’s a night I prefer not to dwell on.
I was on house arrest for a while, but then Dad begrudgingly started letting me out to tend to the garden and take care of other outdoor chores. Albeit on the condition I wear a leash. An actual freakingleash. Like, for a dog. He set up these medieval poles all over our property and chains me to different ones depending on which task he’s assigned me. I tried to yank one out of the ground a few months back, but he must have installed concrete bases too, because the damn thing didn’t budge. Or maybe I’m just that weak. Either way, it was useless.
I shake away my thoughts as I hear his footsteps on the stairs, not wanting him to pick up on the anger constantly simmering in my mind.
“Esperanza. Good morning.” My father runs his eyes over me critically before taking his usual seat at the table.
“Good morning, Father.” I’m dutiful in my reply as I move to serve his coffee, my face a perfect mask to hide the elaborate fantasy playing out in my head of what exactly I’d get up to if only I were as gifted as Bruce Banner.
He says nothing as I bring over a heaping plate of French toast and sausages, inspecting everything before beginning to eat. He has his phone out, looking over emails perhaps. Even with all the time he spends with his BFOS group, he still manages to hold down his job as a property insurance salesman. Or so I assume. He goes into work a few days a week, and the days he works from his home office I sometimes hear him on the phone discussing assessed value, policy limits, premiums, blah blah blah. I far prefer those calls to some of the other things I’ve overheard in there.
Ten minutes pass and he remains engrossed in the electronic device. I start to feel the familiar ball of nerves gathering in my stomach. I’m expected to stand at attention while he eats, and often he uses this time to give me new assignments or announce plans for his experiments.
Dad pulled me out of school the second semester of my junior year, right after I turned seventeen, getting permission from school administrators to homeschool me. At first I thought, perhaps hoped, he just wanted to get rid of me—that he’d make me take a bunch of online courses so I could graduate early and disappear off to college. I always planned on going. Instead he stripped me of my freedoms one by one.
