Kaya
"You know, we have a cute little pet na for you here," the beta sneered, twirling the knife in front of my face, its sharp edge glinting under the morning light. With a smirk, he mimicked a slicing motion, the blade passing just inches from my eyes.
I squeezed them shut, my heartbeat hamring in my ears. I didn’t need to hear what he had to say—I already knew. I had heard it before.
A silver whore. A moon whore. Whatever whore.
"I still can’t believe the carpet actually matches the drapes," the oga between my legs scoffed, reaching out as if to touch . I jerked violently, my body twisting away from his grasp. It stopped him—for now—but my eyes burned with unshed tears.
Why couldn’t they just leave alone? What had I done to deserve this? What cri had I committed except existing?
"You idiot," the beta snapped, rolling the knife over his palm in a lazy, practiced motion. "But now I’m wondering... is it really so kind of magical shit? Was she cursed or sothing?"
"You know," the second oga tightened his grip on my wrists, forcing my arms behind my back. He leaned in close, his breath hot and foul against my cheek. "There’s this old children’s tale about a siren who stole the Moon Goddess’s tears because she craved her power."
The beta scoffed. "Are you seriously telling us a bedti story right now?"
"Just shut up and listen," the oga hissed impatiently. "In the story, she bathed in the Goddess’s tears until her hair and skin turned silver. But then, the villagers caught her, cut off her hair, and sold it to pay off their debts."
"Ah," the beta murmured, leaning in so close that I could feel the heat of his breath against my skin. A wicked glint flashed in his eyes, sending an icy tremor down my spine. "Are you a siren, little whore? I wonder... can we trade your hair for silver coin?"
The three of them erupted into laughter, their cruel amusent echoing through the trees. My body trembled as hot tears spilled down my cheeks, the weight of my helplessness sinking deep into my bones.
The sickening realization of what they intended made my knees buckle. My muffled cries scraped against the oga’s filthy palm as he pressed his hand harder over my lips, silencing with ease.
"I don’t know about the coin," the oga between my legs mused, standing up and licking his lips as his gaze roved over my naked body. "But it’d be fun to see her with a shaved head."
My breath hitched. My eyes widened in sheer horror, and I jerked so violently that, for a fleeting second, breaking my own bones in the struggle didn’t seem impossible.
A sharp, brutal kick to my shins sent crashing to my knees. Pain exploded through my legs, but I barely registered it over the sheer panic clawing at my throat. My body convulsed in desperation as I thrashed against the boy pinning my arms, his grip tightening like a vice.
"She’s fucking strong for a wolfless oga!" he spat, twisting my arms so rcilessly that a sharp cry tore from my throat, montarily drowning out the horror of what was about to co.
"Hold her," the beta ordered, stepping forward and yanking my head back by the hair. I gasped as the dull side of his blade pressed against my cheek, the tal ice-cold against my flushed skin. I flinched at the touch, but when the tip of the knife crept closer to my eye, I went completely still. Frozen.
Trapped.
"Stay still, you stupid bitch, or I’ll take your eye out," the beta snarled, his voice a low, nacing growl. The predatory gleam in his eyes made my blood run ice-cold. He ant it. He could kill right here, and no one would care. No one would stop him.
So I did as he commanded—I stayed still. Motionless. Subdued. It wasn’t the first ti, anyway.
"See? You can behave," he sneered, dragging the blade slowly across my cheek as if this were so twisted ga. "Now, let’s see if you really are that siren from the old children’s tale."
With that, he grabbed a fistful of my silver hair and began hacking at it. Each sawing motion of the blade sent sharp, stinging jolts through my scalp.
He kept cutting—tugging and yanking, snapping strands rcilessly as if my hair were nothing more than wool to be sheared. He laughed like a goddamn lunatic, his glee sharp and unhinged, while I could do nothing but sob. Silent, suffocating sobs. I wanted to scream, but the oga behind smothered every sound before it could escape, his palm pressed tightly over my mouth.
And then, finally, it was over. The last strand fell to the dirt, silver locks scattered at their feet like discarded silk. The beta stepped back, admiring his handiwork, while the boy restraining shoved forward with a hard push.
I collapsed with a quiet thud. My body was so drained, so utterly lifeless, it was a wonder it made any sound at all. I lay there, barely breathing, my mind blank with exhaustion. I didn’t even have the strength to beg the Moon Goddess for rcy. To let die.
"I must admit," the other oga mused, a wide grin splitting his face as he stared down at . "Even with her head shaved, she still looks pretty."
"All whores usually do," the beta sneered, grinding his heel into the silver strands scattered on the ground, mixing them with dirt and mud. "Sha, though. You’d have to be a real sick fuck to want soone with a head like that."
Their laughter erupted again—sharp, cruel, and filled with amusent at my suffering. But I couldn’t even bring myself to feel humiliated anymore. I was too empty. Too numb.
"Well, see you around," one of the ogas jeered, crouching to snatch up my belongings. He lifted my canvas bag with a smirk, shaking it as if weighing his prize. "Oh, and we’re taking this with us. Souvenirs!"
More laughter. More mockery. And then—just like that—they were gone, their voices fading into the distance.
***
I jolt upright, gasping for air, my chest heaving as the remnants of the nightmare cling to like a suffocating shroud. My hands fly to my hair, trembling as my fingers weave through the familiar length. A shaky breath escapes —relief flooding in like a wave, weak but steady. It was just a dream. Just a mory.
Still, the panic lingers, coiled tightly around my ribs. I stumble to my feet and rush to the bathroom, twisting the faucet open with unsteady hands. Cold water splashes against my burning face, sending a sharp jolt through my system. My breaths slow, but the anxiety refuses to fully release its grip.
I need air. I need movent. I need to do sothing—anything—to shake off the ghostly weight pressing down on .
Without hesitation, I tie my hair into a loose bun, rip off the damp, sweat-soaked t-shirt clinging to my skin, and pull on a fresh one. Then, without a second thought, I push open the door and stride out, my steps fueled by restless urgency as I head straight for the exit.
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