IN A WAR TO HAVE HER.

While in my room picking up some of my belongings, I sat on my bed, restless. Tears dropped from my cheeks and I could see myself getting involved with what I know nothing about. My dad had an opportunity to get such giant money, but he wasted it. Assuming he invested it in a good investment company, it would have been better. He hasn't cared about my welfare since my mother died, and now I am to save him from a state of financial dilemma. Looking at my precious room, which my mom arranged for me right from when I was much younger, I feel so bad that I am moving out of it unplanned. It was heartbreaking and so disheartening that one could wake up to see that she is being sold to a stranger, I picked up my duffel bag mom got me and took one last look around my bedroom: the single bed, with its stained but freshly washed sheets; the beat-up wooden desk and matching chair that got me through years of homework; the now-empty dresser, which barely had any clothes in it to begin with. I don't have many good memories of this place-at least not any recent ones-but it's still home, and it certainly beats whatever hell's waiting for me next. "Nancy," DMC bellows from the living room. My hands clenched into fists at his use of the name Mom gave me, and I struggled against the urge to run, or worse yet, fight. If I do either, I know I'll regret it. DMC's footsteps thunder up the stairs and my heart starts to race. It only took me a couple of minutes to pack, but I've still managed to piss him off. It's a good thing I don't own more stuff. His appearance makes me afraid. I see him to be deadly and ready to do anything for his money. I needed to be fast in order for him not to scream at me. Even my dad could join him to scream at me. I head to the door, and my eyes instinctively drift to the empty spot above my bed. Mom's painting used to hang there for as long as I can remember. It's of a beautiful Nancy flower, the one the spice comes from, and I look at it whenever I feel sad or afraid. I know it's silly, but it makes me feel like Mom's with me. I'm glad it's small enough to fit in my duffel bag because I honestly don't think I could leave without it. Furthermore, I step out into the living room and DMC is already at the entrance door and glaring at me. He certainly moves fast, even for a Wolf. "Sorry, sir," my voice trembles. I don't even have to pretend to be the submissive, obedient Wolf Dad made me out to be. I'm so freaked out over everything that's just happened that I will be sick. "Let's go." DMC gestures toward the stairs. "Toothbrush," I mumble, taking a step toward the bathroom. DMC emits a frustrated growl and I freeze in my tracks. What am I doing? The pushover Omega that DMC expects, the one who does anything she's told, the one too scared to ever run away, would never do this. She'd have been too overwhelmed by fear to think of things she forgot to pack, like her toothbrush. I just disobeyed a seven-foot-tall Wolf because I forgot to pack a treated toothbrush! What's wrong with me? Good dental hygiene is so not worth dying for. My toothbrush is unique to me. You do not find such in the markets so easily. When I went back to buy more as a spare, I was unable to get any. I stand halfway between DMC and the bathroom as he comes closer, and I begin to tremble. I'm never going to pull this off. DMC is probably going to put guards on me and chain me up in the dungeon. I'll never escape... never see the light of day... never finish high school or go today... never go to school or go to college... never fall in love... never get married... never have kids. I'll starve to death in a cold, dank basement or bleed out from beatings and torture. Furthermore, I should just let DMC kill me now and get it over with! "Go." DMC orders in a voice that sounds deceptively gentle. "Just make it fast." He doesn't growl or yell, the only ways I thought he knew how to communicate, and his words are barely above a whisper. His tone sounds soothing, but it's also laced with authority, and my feet take me inside the bathroom before I even have time to think about it. Looking at his face is fearful, hearing his voice is imaginary, believing him is at your risk. I saw him as a man, who is not diplomatic, doesn't shift grounds, pity is not in his dictionary, love will be far from him, and mercy is not close to him. A bully man I was seeing him to be like. I grab my toothbrush and the toothpaste, floss, and mouthwash, since I doubt Dad ever uses them, and shove everything into my bag. Given Dad's rotting teeth, genetics are stacked against me, so I need to keep up with my 'brush-floss-disinfect' routine if I want to stay cavity-free. "Come," DMC orders, and I follow him closer on autopilot, wondering how I can even think about dental hygiene at a time like this. DMC stops abruptly when he reaches the living room, and I jump back to avoid crashing into him. He growls and I peek around him and gape. I decided to act responsibly so that I do not have a clash with him. My life is almost in his hands, and he is to decide what I should do, where I should be, where I should go, and what I should do next. Dad is sitting on the couch, a beer in one hand and the remote in the other. He's acting as if he doesn't have a care in the world, switching channels until he finally settles on the game. He looks up from the TV when he finally notices us and raises a questioning eyebrow. His relaxation signifies he was a bit free. Owing a debt could be scary and uncomfortable. His worries have reduced drastically since I am to clean up his mess. He and I briefly make eye contact, but there isn't a shred of guilt on his face. I may be his only child, but he couldn't care less about me. DMC growls and walks over to the couch, towering over Dad. Suddenly, his right arm shoots out, and he wraps his hand around Dad's neck, lifting him as if he weighs nothing. Dad's jaw drops, his eyes widen, and he begins to choke. Shouts and cheers echo from the TV, mocking him. He pulls at DMC's arm with both hands, feet kicking out as he tries to break free, but no matter how hard he tries, DMC's grip doesn't waver. "If I ever catch you playing Poker again, or any card game, or any other activity that will waste your money, I will kill you. Are we clear?" DMC demands, holding dad up at eye level. I guess that explains how Dad came to owe so much money. Although why he'd bet money, he'd never be able to pay back escapes me. Dad tries to nod, and when that doesn't work, he manages to get out a strangled "yes." He looks so small and helpless, feet dangling high above the ground, arms trying and failing to loosen DMC's grip. On TV, the announcer drones on as Dad starts to turn blue. I can tell his arms are weakening, and when his eyes start to close, I let out an involuntary gasp. My dad is about to die right in front of me, and I'm not doing anything to stop it. What sort of person does that make me? Unexpectedly, DMC lets go and Dad comes crashing down onto the brown leather. There are bruises around his neck, but he's still breathing, so he'll live. Because of our superior healing ability, I know the damage will be gone in minutes and Dad will be as good as new; while I'll still be DMC's slave. It is not an easy task to be a slave, especially when you are not prepared for that or even have knowledge of becoming such. My mom told me several times that I am her princess and that greater futures are ahead for me. She said I should not panic, but I should always remain resolute. I wondered how all this could work out for me again since I will be a slave to DMC. "Come," DMC orders, marching past me. I take one last look at Dad, silently begging him to change his mind to save me but he's too busy rubbing his neck to pay me any attention. I look away, hold back tears, and follow DMC out of the house. There's a dark blue pickup truck parked in the driveway. DMC opens the passenger-side door, lifts me, and tosses me onto the seat as if I were his gym bag; just another possession, bought and paid for. DMC slams the door shut, and I don't move a muscle, following him with my eyes as he rounds the truck and climbs in. Surprisingly, I saw two young able-bodied guys who entered the back seat. That made me know that they have been hanging around. Looking at him, he told me they are his boys. He asked me never to be afraid, that no one would ever hurt me. According to him, he always goes out of his pack with the boys for security reasons. "Seatbelt," DMC growls and buckles up. I quickly do as he says, and he starts the engine. Then he hits the gas, and the truck tires screech as we race out of the driveway. I hold on to my seat belt with one hand and cradle my bag with the other. As the truck speeds up, I turn to stare out the window, watching the only home. Thinking about where I am going and what could come up there? I shouted like something hit me in the middle of the road and he stopped. I jumped out of the car immediately at the bridge. They all came down, only for armed Young men who came out of the bush, shot at the air, overpowered DMC and his boys, and took me away.