“Will you fucking pick up your sword?”. My father groaned, knocking my sword out of my hand for the third time, injuring me in the process.
I glared at my father, rubbing my sore hand. “Father, Why are you being so hard on me today?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
“Maybe if you have been training hard instead of following the triplet around like a little slut you are. You won’t call this being hard. And it’s beta to you, I am not your father”. He snapped.
I felt a stinging sensation from his words, like a slap across the face. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I knew my father was trying to provoke me, to get a reaction out of me, but I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“You’re right, Father,” I said, my voice cold and detached. “I’m sorry I’m not meeting your expectations. But maybe if you spent more time teaching me instead of insulting me, I might actually improve.”
My father’s face turned red with anger, and for a moment, I thought he might strike me.
“Pick up your sword”. He roared.
I slowly bent down and picked up my sword, trying to ignore the pain in my hand. Before I could position myself he striked, knocking the sword off again, his sword sliding my arm in the process.
I cried out in pain, clutching my arm as blood began to seep through my sleeve. My father’s face was still red with anger, his eyes blazing with a fierce intensity.
“You’re pathetic,” he spat, his voice venomous. “You’re not even worth training, you’re nothing but a disappointment.”
“What have I ever done to you?”. I screamed.
My father’s expression twisted in a snarl. “You were born,” he sneered.
“Then why did you not fucking pick up a sword and kill me the day I was born. I never asked to be born. Why do you hate me so much?! What have I ever done to deserve this?! I’m your daughter, your own flesh and blood! Why do you treat me like I’m nothing?!”
“Because your face reminds me why I don’t have a mate anymore”. He snapped back without any remorse or guilt.
My father’s expression didn’t change, his eyes still cold and hard. “You’re the reason she’s gone,” he spat. “If it weren’t for you, she’d still be here.” His eyes filled with hatred for me.
How can a man hate his own daughter so much? I looked at my father, and for the first time, I saw a stranger. A man who was supposed to love and protect me, but instead, blamed me for his own pain and tearing me apart with his words and actions.
“How can a father hate his own daughter so much?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
My father’s expression didn’t change, his eyes still cold and hard. He didn’t flinch, didn’t show any remorse or guilt. He just stood there, his hatred for me palpable, like a living thing.
“Wasn’t I supposed to be a product of love between you and your mate?”. I whispered, trying to make him feel something for me. Anything… even if it’s sympathy at least he should feel something for me.
“You were the reason she’s gone,” he snarled, his voice venomous. “She died giving birth to you, and I was left with a constant reminder of my loss. You’re the reason I’ll never hold her in my arms again, the reason I’ll never see her smile again. You’re the reason my life was ruined and you want me to love you?.” He asked, staring at me like I mean nothing.
His words felt like a punch to the gut, leaving me breathless and reeling, Tears streamed down my face.
“Father..”. I whispered, choking on my tears.
It has been nineteen years since my mother died, nineteen years of being hated by my own father. Didn’t he know that I was his own flesh and blood? Didn’t he know that I was hurting, that I was desperate for his love and acceptance? And every decision I ever made was to please him.
“Will you ever love me?”. I asked.
He turned his face away and scoffed.
“If I die, will you feel sorry for me then? Will you stop hating me?”.
Instead of responding he just turned around and left.