Chapter 7: Endurance

Raven POV

I barely have the door closed behind me before Marissa attacks, her punches vicious and her face contorted in fury.

“You just had to embarrass me like that in front of everyone,” she hissed as I fell to the ground, my hands up in an attempt to block her never-ending blows.

She's strong but she also has a wolf, and not just any wolf, a white wolf. 

“You embarrassed yourself,” I snapped back heatedly, “if you hadn’t hit that poor girl, none of this would have happened.”

I was growing tired of being blamed for everything. Tired of being treated like a puppet. 

She screamed with rage and continued to pummel me until she was breathless. She stood there panting, her fury finally abating. I could feel bruises forming over my skin. She had deliberately avoided my face, knowing that would only cause suspicion if that was seen. That would only cause too many questions and expose her true nature. She couldn't afford that. She needed to continue presenting the sweet, innocent exterior she was so good at playacting.

“I’m the one marrying Hades,” she breathed, her hands by her side slowly clenching into fists, her nails digging into her flesh so hard her knuckles were turning white, “not you. You’re ugly and hideous,” she spat, “and no man in his right mind would ever take a second glance at you let alone consider making you his mate. You’re like a bug getting squished beneath me. You will never be happy, not for as long as I live. I’ll make sure your life stays miserable,” she whispered sickeningly, “and I'll make sure you never get a chance to escape me."

I slowly get back up, fighting back the bile rising inside my throat. Marissa hadn’t held back. My body was battered to the point it was a struggle to stand. Any move to retaliate would only cause my tattoo to flare up and shock me. Mother had ensured that Marissa was part of the spell, preventing me from being able to hurt her back or retaliate in any way. I bit the inside of my lip, tasting blood as I silently studied my twin sister, unable to believe that anybody could be capable of such cruelty. Even with years of abuse, part of me had always hoped that one day Marissa might look at me differently and want to establish a sisterly bond. That hope was dead now. I felt nothing as I looked at her. For all these years I had tolerated her, reminding myself over and over that we were blood-related, that we were sisters and therefore family. My love for our mother had died, but I had always kept a little part of me bound to my sister.

“What did I ever do to you?” My voice is quiet, measured.

I look at her as though she's some kind of monster. 

She glowers at me. “You should never have been born. All your talk about family and blood relations is nothing but a joke. You have no idea…” she suddenly trailed off, a stricken expression on her face.

“I have no idea what?” I pressed, “spit it out, Marissa, what is it I don’t know?”

What was it that made me so unlovable so unworthy of their affection? What made me so different from her that I was denied the most basic of all things, a mother’s unconditional love. Why did they hurt me so badly? Why did they humiliate, degrade, and bully me? Could it just be my looks or my personality? Why did I feel like they were keeping something from me? Why did I feel like Marissa knew exactly the reason my mother was so violent towards me? 

“I misspoke,” Marissa said irritably, “don’t get any ideas.” She's instantly dismissive.

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. “You won’t tell me, will you?” My voice is bleak.

So many secrets. So many things are hidden away and kept in the deepest depths of their minds. I swallowed hard, my body slightly doubled over as pain coursed through my entire body.

“You’re imagining things,” Marissa is blithe, stepping back and looking at me coldly. “If I wanted you to be dead, you would be by now.”

It wasn’t exactly comforting. She exhaled, her hands attempting to tidy up her dishevelled hair. I, on the other hand, began to stumble towards the bathroom.

“Clean yourself up,” Marissa’s voice is casual, as though she hadn’t just beaten me to an inch of my life, “you look disgraceful.”

I carefully ease the door shut and strip off my clothes, examining myself in the mirror. A girl stares back at me, her eyes haunted. There are purple bruises all over her body, her arms, her torso, her legs. Old bruises mixed in with the new. I crane my head, looking at my back. Whip marks were clearly visible. They had scarred my skin and marred it. I fight back a sob. I was hideous. Disgusting. No inch of my body was unblemished besides my face. Every movement is painful. I feel nauseated, and force myself to move, climbing painfully into the tub and starting the water.

There is silence in the bedroom. Now that Marissa has had her little fit, she’s probably put herself to bed. To her, this was just like any other day. I hung my head and hugged my knees, filling the tub almost to the brim before turning off the water.

The water slowly turns the colour of blood. My hand moves back and forth in the water listlessly. Eventually I come to my senses and begin to wash myself, erasing all the blood and evidence of the beating I had endured.

It would take some time for the bruises to fade. A shifter would heal relatively quickly, but I wasn’t as lucky. I healed in human time. This meant that I would be forced to wear long sleeves and trousers until my skin turned back to normal. I wiped my eyes, reminding myself that every morning I woke up was a blessing. A reminder that I was still alive and surviving. As long as I didn't allow myself to give up, there was still hope. 

My body slowly unfurls. I step out of the tub and pull out the plug, watching with detachment as the water and blood slowly go down the plug hole. I wrap a towel around me and pad back into the bedroom, silently retrieving my pyjamas and putting them on, wincing the entire time. My room is attached to Marissa’s, a small closet of a room with a single bed in it. I climb in, rolling over into a small ball and close my eyes, breathing shallowly in a vain effort to minimize the pain coming from my ribs. 

All I needed was a break, an intervention. A sign that somebody out there cared about me, I thought inwardly, my hands clenching slowly into fists, and an opportunity to show everybody that I was no pushover. I needed a miracle. But would I ever be granted one?