Our Broken Howls

Sera POV

The hospital smells like bleach and something worse. I sat on this stupid plastic chair for hours, watching Dad fighting for every breath as if that's the last he has got left. Perhaps it does. His chest goes up and down, again, jerky and irregularly. Every time I look at him, I am afraid that it will be the last.

He held my hands and muttered, "You don't need to stay."

Yes, okay. His fingers are pressing on me now, so he can hold himself together, as if he was drowning and I am a rope. "Hush," I say, cruelly. "I'm not leaving."

We both know that this is a lie. The pile of bills on the table otherwise says. They are just sitting there, this ugly pile of paper, numbers that I can't see without feeling ill. I spent three years in Portland, killing myself with dual shifts, saving every penny and trying to buy myself freedom. And now? Back here in Revenwood, with a bank account that is bleeding out, and nothing to show for it.

Mom comes in with coffee that smells as if it was scraped from under a boot. Her eyes are red, but she sticks to that weak small smile. "The Elders want to see you tomorrow."

"Why?"

"Lottery registration. When you were in Portland you missed the deadline."

I almost laugh but it comes out like a choke. "No, I'm not in the lottery."

Her voice becomes soft and somehow dangerous. "Sera…"

"I said no. I came back to take care of my father. Not to be auctioned like a cow.”

Father made sound, part cough with broken smile. "Your mother's right. You have to register."

I turn around him. "Says who?"

"The insurance, Sera…" Mom spoke with low tone. “The Subsidy is of Sixty percent for the treatment, surgery and med. These are all tied in a small bow which is called community participation.”

I felt my stomach twisted. "So if I don't sign up ..."

"We lose everything." Mom answered without even looking at my face.

My Dad let go of my hand. His eyes stare back to the terrace as if the answers are written all over it. But there is no Moongoddess in Revenwood. Just the elders, and they write the rules.

A day later I stand in front of the Elder Hall, like a fool that is carrying up a crunchy paper form. My feet crunch on the gravel floor, and for half a moment I wonder if I should have just stayed back or go away. If I go away who will take care of Dad? I cannot pay for my father's medical care without participation. I open the door and went inside.

The place is all wood and shadows. The place is so quiet, the kind of silence that makes you feel small. On the walls are carved head of wolfs in a portrait that stare at me as if to say I don't beling here.

Morrison sat behind a large desk that could probably fit my entire apartment in Portland. White hair bends backwards, his hands clean, and eyes that say are already bored.

“I’m here for an exemption,” I say, and shove the paper across the desk. My hands won’t stop shaking. “My dad needs care and I can’t join the Lottery.”

He didn’t even touch the form. He just opens a file, slow and smooth, like he was waiting for this exact moment.

“Miss Rowe,” he says, and turns the paper around. “Well, you can't opt out of the lottery, you already signed.”

I stared at the fike for a minute. My name, my signature, sitting there in black ink. Except I wasn't the one who signed it.

My throat went dry. I swallowed the lump in my throat. “That’s fake. I didn't signed this…”

He raised his head andlooks at me like I’m the dumb one. “But it looks like yours.”

“It’s not.” I barely manage to get the words out of my mouth. “Tell me, who submitted this?” I asked, my tone revibrating in the hall.

“It’s confidential.” His smile cuts colder. “And the registration period is closed. Once a name is entered, it cannot be withdrawn.”

Heat crawls up my neck. My heart’s thudding like a drum in my ears. “My signature was forged.”

“This is tradition,” he says, calm as if we are talking about the weather. “The same tradition that ensures your father continues to receive treatment.”

I want to flip the desk. I feel like shouting in his face. Instead, I simply stand there and took everything in, like a poison, because he is right. The elders have the upper hand now, and I am the paying for it because Dad needs the treatment.

By the time I walk out, my heart feels wrong, and too tight. The whole damn town is already dressed up for the Lottery. Banners hanging from lampposts. Shops full of “mate gifts.” Everyone is smiling like it’s Christmas instead of a sale on human lives.

I went back to the rehab clinic, the older nurses won’t shut up. “Are you excited?” “Do you hope he’s handsome?” “It’s fate, honey, it’s romantic.”

All sort of side talk flying around. I could not take. This is not fate. This is not romantic. It’s a loaded gun pointed at my family.

And by evening, I’m in the Hall wearing a dress that feels like I borrowed someone's else. The whole town came around in the hall, the drumbeat began slowly, like something terrible is about to happen. My hands are sweating, my stomach turning.

On the stage, Morrison stood with his bowl of names, like this is some big holy act.

“Seraphina Rowe,” he reads out my name like it was trash.

Everyone in the room turn sideways, staring at me. My name echoes in the big hall but to me, it felt like a whisper because my heart was beating too loud. I felt nervous.

The second name was mentioned and I wish I never attended this lottery mate matching.

“Kaelen Ardyn.”

My blood went cold. The crowd gasp, there were whispers racing through the hall, louder, faster. Kaelen Ardyn. The golden boy. The one who ruined me six years ago and never looked back.

I looked around, my eyes scanning everywhere untill I found him in the crowd. His shoulders stiff, his face unreadable. But his eyes, his eyes lock on mine like I’m a ghost crawling out of the grave.

The drums cut off and the silence that followed was worse.

Morrison smiles, calm like a butcher about to slice the head of his enemy. “Let the bonding ceremony begin.”