Trash

Later that night, Trash lay still for a long while, the ache in her back settling into a deep, constant burn. Her skin pulled tight where the salve had begun to scab over the worst of it. Every breath stung, but it was bearable. Bearable was enough. She'd survived worse.

She peeled herself from the filthy bedding, legs trembling as she stood. A sharp pulse radiated down her spine, and she had to steady herself on the cold concrete wall to keep from dropping back to her knees. The whisper of movement above caught her attention, the murmur of voices drifting through the thin vent that connected the basement to the dining room above.

Luther’s voice, low and sharp-edged.

Gabrielle’s giggle, sickeningly sweet.

And Cassian was laughing like pain was a punchline.

Trash pressed closer to the wall, careful not to make a sound as she strained to hear.

“…elders are flying in tomorrow night,” Cassian was saying, his voice clearer now. “Big dinner at the Hall, same setup as last time.”

Gabrielle chimed in, “Which means Trash’ll only be around for breakfast and lunch. Thank the goddess.”

“Lucky her,” Cassian snorted. “Couple of days of hiding in her hole like a scared little rat.”

Trash’s fingers tightened on the brick wall. Her heart beat faster, not from fear this time, but from the tiniest flicker of hope. The Elders were coming. That meant protocol. Ceremony. Formality. Dinner moved to the Pack Hall. That meant she’d have the evenings to herself. Time to breathe. To think. To plan.

She would still have to survive mornings, get breakfast on the table before the first footsteps echoed down the stairs, keep her head down, and avoid eye contact. She would still need to navigate lunch without slipping up. But dinner… dinner would be quiet.

Dinner would be hers.

She pressed her forehead to the wall, her skin cold against the stone. She swallowed down the swell of hope, too much of it, and she’d end up crushed. But a little… a little she could carry.

She would prepare just a bit extra at lunch. Wrap it in foil, hide it in her sweater, maybe tuck it beneath the old furnace if the boiler corner was too obvious now. She’d find a way. She always did.

They thought she was nothing, but nothing survived.

Nothing learned to listen in silence, to move unseen, to make plans even while bleeding.

She’d find out more. She’d memorize their words, their timelines. And when they were too busy playing politics and flaunting titles, she’d be listening, counting seconds, watching for openings.

She curled herself back onto the thin mattress, careful of her back, her arms wrapped tight around her middle.

Just a few more days. A little quiet. A little space. And maybe, one day… a way out.

The first time she discovered what silence could give her was two winters ago, when the Great Howl was held at the Pack Hall.

She was barely fifteen then, thin and bruised, still learning to hide the limp in her walk and to keep her gaze glued to the floor. She’d spent the entire day preparing the ceremonial feast of roasted meats, bone broth stew, trays of root vegetables, honeyed pastries, and a cider reduction that had boiled over when no one had told her to lower the flame. She still remembered the burn across her arm and the backhand from one of the kitchen Omegas that followed.

But that night, after the tables had been laid and the last of the dishes had been carried off to the Pack Hall, the kitchen had emptied.

She had expected to be summoned for cleanup.

She had expected to be dragged along behind the staff, told to scrub floors and polish silver, to bleed her hands raw just to keep the dining room glistening for the Elders.

But no summons came.

They forgot her.

Not on purpose. She was sure of that. They had simply left without thinking, each caught up in their rank and task. The rest of the pack was too focused on who would sit beside who, on what the Elders might say, or which young wolves might be selected for Alpha training next season.

She’d stood in the quiet kitchen, frozen, too shocked to move.

Then, slowly, she sat.

She ate her leftovers without hiding it. Ate it like it was hers.

She washed her hands in warm water without rushing, letting the steam rise into her face.

She pulled a thick roll from the still-warm oven, cracked it open, and stared at the steam like it was magic.

And for the first time since her mother had been killed, she didn’t flinch when the wind rattled the basement door.

It had only lasted a few hours. Someone eventually remembered, sent her to the laundry to clean all that had been used. But the seed had been planted.

She’d realized that when they were distracted when tradition and duty and pride had their attention, she could slip into the cracks.

That silence, when timed just right, could be a doorway.

A breath.

A moment to be something other than a shadow meant only to serve.

From that night on, she watched the calendar. Kept track of feasts, formal visits, full moon rites, and the rare delegations from allied packs.

Those were her hours. Those were her chances to be alone… to be free.

Trash blinked back to the present, the dusty gray light from the basement’s tiny window brushing across her cheek. The air still smelled of mildew and cold iron. But in her chest, the warmth of the memory held steady.

If it only lasted a few hours while everyone was busy. Especially if no one noticed, she could do it. Run. It would give her a head start; she could be far, maybe even off pack land by then. They wouldn’t come after her, right? She wasn’t anything they wanted around. Luther would be mad, sure, he would lose his punching bag, probably send someone to bring her pack, but only if she was still on Pack Land.

She shifted on the thin pile of rags that served as her bed, biting back a wince as her back throbbed, the scabs pulling tight across torn skin. The pain grounded her, but so did the quiet. She got up and went to one of her hiding spots, the one she kept the paper numbers she found while doing laundry.

She removed the loose brick and pulled out the paper bag. Crumbled and folded bills halfway filled the bag. She shook it and pulled some out. Some had ones on them, others fives and tens. Some even had twenties, but she had trouble adding them all up; the highest she could get to was twenty, which was what her mother had taught her.

It didn’t matter; she had something, and she knew the paper numbers were important if she wanted to get away and be free. She put the bag back in its hole and covered it, returning to her bed. She was sure she would find more when she did the laundry after the Elders' and others' departure. She would save it all and be free.

She was awake early. Too early. And that was good.  It meant she had time.

Time to tuck away a portion of the leftover rolls from yesterday into the cracked tin she kept hidden in the boiler panel.

Time to replace the salve she used on her wounds, replacing it behind the loose brick just in case anyone came to mess with her. If they destroyed her bed again, they wouldn’t find anything. Another lesson she’d learned the hard way. The Luna had her chained to the center of the Pack village and flogged repeatedly. She didn’t think she would survive and was happy to welcome death.

But she survived and learned to hide things better so they wouldn’t be found. Wouldn’t be taken from her, and she wouldn’t be punished.

Time to count the hours until the Elders arrived.

She’d heard it from the guards laughing upstairs. The delegation would arrive by early afternoon. That meant the Pack Hall would take the focus. Formal dinner, speeches, and wine. Distractions.

She’d still have to prepare breakfast; she always did. But once lunch was served and cleaned, the house staff would be pulled toward the Pack Hall like moths to ritual fire. The kitchen would be empty. The corridors would hush. Luther would be occupied.

And she? She would disappear.

Not forever. Not yet.

But long enough to eat without looking over her shoulder. Long enough to breathe like she wasn’t waiting for a boot in her ribs.

Long enough to remind herself that one day this quiet wouldn’t be borrowed.

It would be hers.

Her fingers brushed the hidden stash of bloodleaf, tucked safely behind the brick. The bottles of the reds, blues, grays, and blacks waited in silence, like coiled potential. She didn’t know how much she would need. She didn’t even fully understand how it would work.

But she would figure it out.

And when she left, really left, there would be no leash strong enough to pull her back.