The Child You Never Believed
My mother never believed me. To her, I was always just a lying pup.
In my pack, every cub wore a Moon Oath Collar.
Red meant you lied. White meant you told the truth.
My sister’s collar always glowed a soft white.
Even when she pretended to be sick to get out of an exam, her collar only gave off that gentle white light.
Mine was different.
Even when I was truly sick, my collar would burst into a violent red, and the punishment current would follow immediately.
On my sister’s birthday, Mother prepared a bonfire feast for the whole pack. Just before they left, a splitting pain tore through my head, and I collapsed on the floor, begging her to help me.
For one second, she almost picked me up.
Bab Populer