For a long time, I've had an untamed rage inside of me. There was never an explanation, never a reason for my rotten temper that waged war on my insides. And because no one else had a problem with anger issues, or with breaking the rules, I've always felt like a freak. I never belonged.

It's something that isn't easily explained. No one really understands it when I try to tell them exactly what I'm feeling. I instinctively know when it's about to show itself. It's as if there's a hand of black claws crawling up my neck. A deadly darkness born from my own brain. It could be triggered by something, or it could happen randomly.

I could be laying under a tree as peaceful as could be, and suddenly I need to punch something.

When a fit of rage takes a hold of me, there's only so much that I can do to stop it. Sometimes, I can't even attempt to tamper it back. Like now.

I see the young lycan before me as we circle each other slowly, there are hoots and hollers of excitement around us. It makes me feel like an animal in a zoo. Watched, observed, only a source of entertainment.

Spars like these happen every week. It's so everyday, so normal. Just another form of training to mold us into soldiers.

But, something inside of me turns over. The claws of fierce anger start their way up my back and into my head. My heart thumps wildly in my chest. My lips pinch. My blood pours through each vein like a race against time.

Heat builds in my chest until it becomes unbearable.

The brave kid comes at me, and something snaps. Physically.

A shout of pain rings out in the foggy morning. Confusion blossoms. It's followed by a deafening silence that hangs heavy in the air, so think that I'm suffocating on it. I try desperately to breathe, my breath fanning in and out of my lungs in rugged pants.

"He broke my bone! Shit, my collarbone." The kid rocks on the ground, the melted snow turned to mud slicking his back. "You monster!" He accuses.

I don't deny it. I agree with him wholeheartedly. I don't even remember it, everything is so blurry, but I don't question that it was me that did it.

I don't want to look up at the faces surrounding me. I'm too afraid of what I'll see there. The same fear. The same accusatory stares. Hatred. Judement. Disgust.

When I do finally lift my head from the injured pup to the people who share this hell with me, I don't see those things. I see respect. I see amazement. Some are even smiling. They're quiet, and the only sound I hear is the soft sobbing of the boy who I maimed.

I stare down at my open hands that tremble slightly. I don't even remember touching him. I hardly feel like myself.

I'm a monster.

I'm the enemy.

I picture my mate and I suddenly want to cry and scream and break everything in sight.

What if Opal saw me like this?

What if she realized how volatile I am and ran the other way?

She has always defended me. Always stood by me and saw the best in me.

She was wrong.

"Veiler! What the hell?" It's the Sergeant that's rushing over after the commotion, coming to lay into me. His big boots squish through the mud as he pushes aside the line of spectators.

Bruce's eyes grow wide at the sight of the weak lycan that I've dispatched. He runs a hand over his shaved head and his jaw clenches as his head raises.

I know that look on his stern face, and it means that Sergeant Bruce is not happy. I don't exactly blame him.

Everything that follows happens in a torrent of motion. I go along with all of it without even muttering a word. I'm afraid to speak.

I'm questioned as they drag the kid away, and I still don't even know his name. Why would I do that? Who do I think I am? Why was it always me? Why would I let things get out of control?

I blink at the questions, pausing occasionally to glare at whoever asked it. Sergeant Bruce and his commanding officers bicker over what to do with me. How to deal with this. They've sent the rest of the outcasts to go along with their day while I receive my punishment.

I cringe at that word. I'm going to be punished for this. It's not that I don't deserve it, but I'm 21 years old, dammit, I'm not a child, and I most certainly shouldn't be locked up here anymore. I have my own agency, my own choices to make. Only, I know that I have to stay. I deserve to rot here for my sins.

Everyone knows that I'm a danger to society. That's why I'm still here.

I'm in a tug of war between the leaders. Most of them shout for severe repercussions. They're foaming at the mouth for a taste of my blood.

All of the loud words just scramble my brain like eggs in a pot. I squeeze my eyes shut until I focus on one voice of reason. Sergeant Bruce.

"I say we call his father and see what he has to say. I'm sure a phone call with Alpha Veiler will put him back into shape." He offers, and no one seems to disagree.

Sighing, I rub the back of my neck as I'm paraded by my sergeant around camp to reveal my shame. I'm the only outcast in all of Arrowhead who thinks what I just did was bad. Everyone else appears to be impressed with me. It's like I can't do anything wrong in their eyes.

They stare and gawk, point and whisper as the rumors already bubble forth like a raging wave of regret.

I'm disgusted by all of it. That poor kid. Those poor, lost souls that think me snapping his bones was somehow entertaining.

I don't want to be here. For the first time in a long time all I want to do is hide. It's all I ever felt my last few years back at the pack. The countless eyes following me and critiquing my every move, it puts a pit in my stomach. It reminds me of when I was young. All I ever seem to do is screw up.

Spacing out, I barely remember a single step of the journey when we reach the small building on the other side of camp. It's in the darkest, most secluded part of the woods. This is where the detention facility is. I shutter at the thought.

I've spent a lot of time here over the days, months, and years I've spent trapped here like a bug in a jar. There's solitary confinement, public service, and the workout room. The workout room is the least painful, but the most physically exhausting. All you have to do is workout for hours until you finally pass out.

But phone calls are probably the worst. Calling home and telling your family what you did? There's no worse shame than that.

Sergeant Bruce doesn't even say anything to me when he makes me sit. He just gives me a knowing look, a very tired look, as he clicks Dad's phone number into the black keys of the phone. It starts ringing when he hands it to me and leaves.

I press the cold plastic to the shell of my ear, a shiver running through my body, and it's not from the temperature.

"Hello?" My Father's voice is expectant, but almost bored. The deep rumble of his words bring some sort of comfort in their familiarity. I sigh in relief as warmth spreads through me.

"Hey, Pop." I sigh, scratching my hair as I stand and lean against the wall, unsure of what to do with my overly large body in the midst of my predicament.

Dad groans, and I picture him in his office chair, leaning back as he presses his lips together in disappointment.

"What did you do this time?" He asks after a while. He knows. He always knows.

"I broke someone's collarbone while we were sparring." I admit, pausing to gather my wits. "It was just a fight, like any normal day, but my temper just slipped and I..."

Shame shakes me.

Breaking off the sentence, I can't continue without my heart wrenching in my chest. Saying it out loud makes it even more real.

"Shit, Keifer." Dad grumbles.

I nod, even though he can't see me.

"What am I supposed to tell your Mother? She will be so upset. She won't stop talking about you coming home, and then you do stuff like this!" He rants, I let him continue laying into me like I deserve.

Every syllable of it registers in my mind, stabbing my brain and wreaking havoc on my skull.

"And Opal. She wants you back desperately, and I had to shoot her down too. Breaks my damn heart." He takes a deep breath while I think on what he just said.

Wait a minute. Opal wants me back? Well of course she does, because she has no idea what I'm really like.

I think of her heart shaped face, her thick eyebrows and dark hair swinging by her jaw. She was always so vibrant, and she still is in my memory. My sweet mate. What I wouldn't give to see her again. Dad only reminds me that I can't.

I open my mouth to ask the countless questions bubbling under the surface, but he keeps talking.

"You know that I can't allow you to return to the pack until this is under control. I don't know what to do anymore, son. This is getting out of hand. As soon as you're better, you can come home. Don't you want that?"

It's a ridiculous question. The answer beats in my ribs along with my heart.

"More than anything."

Dad sighs, and gives me his final words before disconnecting.

"Then act like it."

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If you're reading this, you are brave :)

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