They tried to crush my spirit.
For a while, I almost let them. That first year, the despair loop was virtually unbearable.
“Give up,” they whispered. “Just lie down and take it.”
But I didn’t. I fought back.
When the counselor handed me a notebook, I nearly laughed.
“Write your feelings,” she said, like that would magically make everything better.
Initially, I doodled stick figures, often of myself, hanging by a noose.
Then, words flowed out, messy and furious, a torrent of everything I couldn’t voice. I needed an outlet for my ragebecause questioning the institute’s methods or the way they molded us into perfect, obedient mates isn’t allowed, especially if you’re a bottom-feeder.
It turns out that the famous and wealthy have rules of their own.
So I wrote.
I vented.
I made sure never to forget.
I noted which females would claw your eyes out if you got too close to their preferred male during the scenting ceremony. Or why making direct eye contact with certain males could land you cornered in a dark hallway.
Now, I see this notebook as proof of how far I’ve come and how much stronger I am than that scared little girl from all those years ago.
My spirit is unbreakable.
When they shove, I shove back. When they glare, I smile.
The girl they tried to break is gone for good.
I see them for who they truly are: pitiful, pathetic little girls who need to tear others down to feel powerful.
This notebook has become more than just notes; it’s my manifesto. It’s my reminder of who I am when the world tries to tear me apart.
Thank goodness this ceremony is my last—a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. It’s the final time I’ll be paraded like a piece of meat and tossed aside as if my worth is only skin deep.
I can’t wait to escape this place, find a job, and tackle my debt.
How hard can it be? Human women are managing just fine; surely, I can too.
“Maybe this time it’ll be different,” I tell the girl in the mirror, her eyes far too wise to buy into such fairy tales.
She knows the drill; she lives it. Hope is a luxury, and mine has been spent long ago on dreams of acceptance and whisperedpromises of a scent match that would defy the odds. Someone who’d see the strength in my scars, not just the damage. Someone whose scent would mingle with mine and say, “You’re home.”
“Sure, and maybe they’ll throw in a unicorn that farts rainbows for good measure.” I snort.
“Let’s get this over with, Luna,” I say, tugging at my sleeves. “Smile, twirl, and try not to insult too many arrogant asses. One last time.”
I practice a smile in the mirror, but it feels more like a grimace. I wipe it away and replace it with a smirk.
Who am I kidding? No Prince Charming is waiting out there.
I used to dream of strong arms to hold me and fierce eyes to see the real me.
Now… I dream of escape.
