2. Reality Seen In My Looking Glass
Reality Seen In My Looking Glass
~ASTRAEA~
“ I t’s such a blessing that you’re of age to start finding a pack, Sweetie! ” I’m waiting for her next words, knowing damn well I won’t like them. 3.. 2..1… “It’ll be grand to finally have some Alphas in your life so they can spoil me!”
It doesn’t matter how many times she repeats these words that can haunt me in my very sleep.
Despite their repetitiveness, they get under my skin every single time.
“Since I’ve raised and sacrificed so much for you, it’s only fair they spoil me with lavish gifts and immense gratitude. I mean, if I didn’t give birth to you, they wouldn’t have been privileged to have an Omega.”
“Mother.” I can’t even hide my displeasure. “You do realize that fate would have easily replaced me with some other Omega if that was the case.”
This entire conversation feels like a waste when I’m in no such predicament. I get more action in my wet dreams than in my stale real life.
Something about my resting bitch face and high standards for an Omega.
How can I not have high standards when connected to the Soleil Family?
Others would feel blessed to come from a wealthy family. It’s a shame that, in my case, my set of parents would rather wish I never existed than plague their unfortunate lives of mayhem and bankruptcy.
Delightful circumstances to flaunt in my parents’ eyes.
“But she didn’t,” my mother argues. “Or the Plan B would have worked!”
Ouch…
“I need to go, Mother.”
I’m done with this conversation.
“Hold on, Honey. It’s important we discuss things now that you’re of age!” From the slight uptick in her voice, I can tell she’s nervous. Not because of her previous statement, but the idea of not sharing what she wishes me to hear before I swiftly hang up. “There are three major Omega events coming up, and I know the government sent you an invite like every other Omega!”
Which isn’t any of her businesses, to be honest.
“Should I ask what that has to do with you, Mother?” Last time I checked, this was my uneventful life that she’s never been interested in unless it benefits her financially. That or makes her “look good” via social media and the news tabloids.
“I’m your mother!” She gasps in offense, reminding me of our blood connection as if I’ve dared forgotten. “What happens in your life is my business.”
“Until I’m an adult,” I remind her. “Which happened when I turned eighteen, and you proceeded to kick me out because I was no longer useful to you.”
“I did not kick you out!” she argues immediately.
I roll my eyes because I’m over her dramatics already. Then she wonders why I never pick up her calls.
Dramatic train of drama and underlying trauma.
“You didn’t want to live with me anymore.”
“Yes, because you continuously emphasize how much you hate living with me, despite my every effort to make you happy, financially stable, exceptionally comfortable, and…” I trail off to emphasize my next point. “I love my puppies more than you.”
“You do!” She snaps back. “You love those creatures more than your own mother. They’re not human! They don’t deserve our compassion compared to ME! The woman who BIRTHED you.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah…
“So, I assume when I have kids, you’d say the same?” I conclude.
“No! Those are my grandchildren.” She sighs as though she’s experiencing a dreamy illusion that’s too good to be true. “They’re human. Of course, I’m going to spoil them. You don’t spoil dogs! Those things can’t take care of you when you’re sick or if you get hurt. All they do is shit, pee, and leave a mess. Then they get sick, and you have to pay for it.” She sounds peeved by the topic. “Children are your legacy. You’ll have to name them after me.”
Here we go.
“Mother. I’m not naming my child after you. Besides, you know most Omega children are named after their father’s parents’ names, not the Omega’s mother.”
“Well, that’s going to change!” she screams, making me cringe at the phone after I’ve moved it from my ear. There’s no point in having the speaker so close to my ear drum when it sounds as if she’s on the ‘speaker’ function, despite it currently being off. “It would be an HONOR to be named after me. If that’s something you want to miss out on, that’s your loss. You think because your other brothers ditched me and went off to find an Omega of their own, they would have skipped the opportunity to name their babies after me?”
They ran for the hills because no Omega would stand a chance with my mom in the picture. The comparisons would never end. It would be an exhausting mental health battle, fighting with a grown woman who acts like a child.
“Well, if you’re done gaslighting me, I’m hanging up,” I conclude. I’ve wasted enough of my valuable time on being a ‘good’ daughter.
What does it do in return? All because I have morals and can’t disassociate myself from a woman I feel a sense of pity for. I should have been born an Alpha instead.
“No. We didn’t have a proper discussion!”
“And we haven’t had a proper mother-daughter discussion since your Alphas left,” I snap without thinking. I just need her to shut up. It may sound cruel coming from her child, but I can’t be spun in her web of lies to appease her desperate need for money.
It does the trick because she struggles to argue with me.
“Instead of owning up for your mistakes in the past and using my ‘coming of age’ circumstance to try to mend what’s been broken for many years, here you are. Reminding me, once again, why I’m proud of myself for having the confidence to walk into this cruel world without my Omega mother’s nurturing guidance,” I huff in dismay.
This is what I take from my father. My blunt need to say my piece. She knows it, even if she’ll never admit how similar I am to him or the other two, for that matter.
“What? Is something in the house broken? Do I need to cover rent for another year to accommodate your wanting to go away on ‘another vacation’ funded by you guilt-tripping me? Did you spend all the money left by your Alphas to ensure you’re well-off without them, or have the brothers you’ve never once cursed or spoken ill about suddenly stopped sending you monthly allowances? So, now you must find some sort of way to deprive me of a peaceful morning to rant and belittle me for not bowing to your whims like a forced child.”
“Y-You can’t?—”
“Talk to you like that? Ah, yes, because you’re the ‘mom’ and I’m the ‘child.’ The same ‘child’ who’s been supplying you financial aid when your duty as a parent is to set your legacy up with the chance at a better future!” It’s taking me everything not to snap at her and give her a taste of the fury brewing inside me. “Instead, here we are. I’m the walking, talking ATM who must continue to enjoy the abuse you deliver with your words, narcissistic comments, and constant need to belittle me with your guilt-tripping tactics. I’m sure your multiple personalities’, matched with your various behaviors, purpose is to push me in every direction of my moral compass until I cave and submit to spoiling you as a form of apology. To give you what you NEED, then when you get it, I’m suddenly the best daughter you can ask for. If I don’t fall to your demands, what do you do? Ah, yes! Curse me!”
“The Bible says?—”
“The Bible certainly doesn’t preach about cursing your own child, and why don’t we stop acting as if you’re religious when that was Dad’s thing and not yours?”
That shuts her up once more.
“I will no longer tolerate this,” I conclude and can hear the tiny squeak of a gasp that comes from her.
“W-Wait. S-Sweetie. Don’t abandon me.” The way this woman can go from an anger management case to a crying mother desperate to piece together the broken pieces of her last blood-line connection is an act I would deem Oscar-worthy.
“If you can no longer put your ego on a shelf and respect me as an adult, we can no longer communicate,” I emphasize.
“Y-You’re threatening me?” There’s the angered side of hers. “How dare you? I’ll curse you!”
“And you can let whomever you worship judge you,” I conclude, knowing well not to play to her desperate tune. “I need to start preparing for my future. To figure out this world of Alphas and Omegas and the society that enjoys tossing us up like prizes ready to be picked by the claw of fate. If you don’t want to help me have a fighting chance in this cruel world, stop relying on me to save you from it.”
How audible her gulp is.
“You had every tool to help you have a better ending than this, Mother,” I whisper as I move the phone from my ear once more and stare at the screen that displays what we used to be just a few years ago.
A whole family.
Not shattered pieces spread across the globe and only have one shared hobby: therapy.
“If you want to act like a victim until your last breath, so be it,” I conclude. “But I won’t be a part of that final chapter when my prologue is about to be written.”
My own words haunt me, even as I hang up the phone. I can only embrace the silence that dances around me in the currently empty gym, leaving me wishing that life wasn’t so heartbreaking.
“If only she could see through the looking glass of my reality,” I whisper to myself and laugh because of how entertaining that would be.
My mother would find a way to bring it back to herself. To wrap the situation around how she struggled in life and despite it, she’s a strong Omega who’s on another level of popularity and grace compared to all these ‘low-class bitches.’
I can see why her life is all but a sad conclusion of what happens when you isolate yourself from the world for the sake of your Alphas but self-destruct by ruining everything around you.
Until you have absolutely nothing.
No friends. No family. No place to call home.
I pity her, and that’s why I’ve stayed this long.
The truth is, I’ve run out of fucks to give. After so many years, there’s only so much you can take before every petal of hope withers and leaves you with an empty steam of hopelessness.
“No more family shit,” I whisper to myself as I throw the phone to the padded ground and proceed to slide on my pink boxing gloves.
Staring at my target, all I can do is look at the hanging leather while I open that cage of brewing rage.
“No matter my reality, I won’t become the photocopy of my own demise.”
I seal my words with a slam of my fist into the punching bag.