Look at them, John thought disdainfully. All those power-hungry Alphas huddled together in the cold, circle jerking themselves as they bond over their ultimate superiority over everything on the fucking planet.
*This seems like a good opportunity to remind all of you that the views and opinions expressed by John regarding Alphas doesn't necessarily reflect those of the amazingly wonderful narrator.
"You're doing it again, aren't you?"
John sighed.
Greg Lestrade.
"I understand your frustration," Greg said, standing beside his best friend. Following John's eyes, he looked across the street at the group of Alphas giggling like school children at recess, ignoring the way his breath mingled with his companion's in the cold autumn air. "With all the hype society gives them, people like us can't help but wonder what the hell they have that we don't."
Silence, then, "Knots."
Somewhere in the distance, a bird sang a variety of notes in rapid succession, humming its assent. Greg smiled at John, refusing to argue with him. John smiled back, and before they knew it, both men were laughing so loud, the pack of Alphas turned their heads to leer at the happy Omegas, some going so far as to howl in such a manner as to convey their obvious interest in a potential fuck.
Barbarians.
The chiming of the clock inside the house warned John that the hour of death was upon him, and it was with obvious reluctance that he fought the urge to tear the Alphas apart, instead turning from his friend and heading inside to get ready, trusting that Greg would follow (which he did). Stepping inside, he took a look at his surroundings, shaking his head in defeat.
The Watson house, built in the late 1800's, was a far cry from the 21 bedroom mansion owned by the Holmes family, yet it still invoked awe among people lucky enough to be invited inside. With its spacious living quarters, polished wooden floors, and gourmet appliances, the house that made everyone ooh and aah in wonderment did nothing but suffocate John. Even now, he could feel the dark energy from the place sucking the life out of him, and he couldn't help but think that, should he move into the Holmes,' he'd be in the same position, only that destination would surely kill him for good.
"John," Greg said, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Are you alright?"
John snapped himself out of his thoughts and looked at Greg. "Yeah. 'Course I am." No, you're not. You're suffocating.
"Right . . . okay, then. Well, it's 7:15 now. The Holmes family should be here soon, so you'd better get ready."
"You're staying. You know that right?" John said, looking fondly at the other man.
Greg smiled. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
When two families get together to put aside their differences through a marriage, it is generally preferred that the lovely couple be present for the good of all that are involved . . .
That is not what happened here. *Notice the way your storyteller attempted to build up your enthusiasm. Naturally, it worked, for your narrator is a person of amazing brilliance and creativity.*
See, instead of . . . all that, one of the pairing ended up late in coming, leaving everyone else, including John (yes, of course John was there. Did you honestly believe your narrator would introduce his other half right at this instant? His entrance is supposed to be dramatic, goddammit) wondering just where in the hell he was. With the exception of the ticking brought forth by the grandfather clock, the dinner table was silent as eyes darted from one face to the next, each person trying to figure out the reactions of the other.
John looked at his father with raised eyebrows. "Maybe he's not coming." Please let it be true.
"Oh, he'll come," Ichabod assured him forcefully, glancing at Barnabas. "Won't he?"
Mr. Holmes swallowed, all eyes turning to him. "Hmm? Oh, y-yes. Yes, of course."
More silence. Then, "Well, I certainly wouldn't blame him for being late. The boy is obviously nervous and is stalling. I remember when I first found Frederick-"
Pontius Watson, father to Olivia Watson, cut her off. "Nobody gives a good goddamn about that boy, Ingrid. He was nothing but trouble."
Ingrid Holmes, sister of Barnabas, scowled. "He most certainly was not."
"The hell he wasn't! He was the one who got Sheryl Watson pregnant, causing an even greater spat between the families. For fuck sake, he was responsible for that girl's abortion that went horribly wrong. If my father wasn't such a gifted medical doctor, her death would have been on his head."
That's a vicious lie!" Ingrid yelled, slamming her hand on the table.
Angry tones started to fill the Watson household. John sat and listened without saying a word, sipping from his wine glass without a care in the world. It wasn't that he didn't care about his family . . . he just didn't care about his family. They could scream and yell all they wanted. In the end, everyone in that room had a hand in the ridiculous marriage that he was being forced into, and as far as he was concerned, they could all rip each other to shreds until the cows came home. The only thing he wanted in return was a promise from the Almighty himself that memories of their existence would never come back to darken his days again.
Before he could stop himself, John suddenly began thinking of all the pain these people had caused him, and everything he remembered only served to fuel the fire he could feel igniting in the pit of his stomach. He thought of his wonderful father, a man who relished the impact his psychological abuse had on John and his mother. He thought of his sister Harry, an alcoholic (not at this table) who despised her blood relatives so much that she left John to suffer them all on his own. He thought of his mother, someone so numb that she didn't seem to care about her son's unhappiness or her own. He thought of the helplessness and despair he felt as a child, living in a world where these wretched people lived and breathed his misery as if it were a turn on for them, making the hand around his glass tighten with suppressed rage. He thought of all these things without shutting them out so that he could feel justified in his hatred and so far, it seemed to be working. Then his gaze fell on the person directly in front of him, and before he knew it, all of that anger he'd used as a shield vanished in a puff of smoke, leaving nothing behind but fear.
Of all the people who have wronged him, none of them stood out in his mind as prominently as Pontius Watson. Hypocrite. Wife beater. Child molester. The one who told an 8-year-old John that it was okay to touch himself as long as uncle Ponty was allowed to watch. A beast. A demon. An Alpha.
John could have thanked the man for turning him into the exact opposite of your typical doe-eyed, weakling of an Omega, had he not ruined all chances of John ever being able to trust an Alpha as long as he lived. The thought that there was an Alpha out there somewhere that wanted to love and cherish John escaped him. To him, Alphas were incapable of love and compassion. They never gave. All they did was take, take, take. They ruined other people's lives and didn't have the goddamn common courtesy to feel guilty about it. This wasn't about projection; this was the truth. The only thing Pontius did was show John an Alpha's true colors, the real nature of the wolf inside every last one of them.
Had John believed in telepathy, he would have thought his dear old uncle had read his mind, because it was at that exact moment that the monster turned his eyes, slick as a serpent's, to John's, the corner of his foul lips drifting upwards into a sly smile that the younger man wanted to slap right off his face.
Greg, who was sitting beside John, noticed. "Hey, guys. Why don't we just calm down, eh?"
The fight between the families continued, Greg's plea going unnoticed.
"Why in the hell are we agreeing to this marriage anyhow? There's no possible way this is gonna work."
"It has to, goddammit! It's our only hope of stopping this!"
"Our only hope hasn't even bothered to show up yet. We've got one that's M.I.A. and another one that's sitting here acting as useless as the rest of his kind. What a sorry bunch you're putting your trust in. An Omega bitch who doesn't know his place and an Alpha who can't even be bothered to keep time! That's rich!"
"ENOUGH!"
Stillness tightened its hold on the Watson home, one word echoing off the walls like voices in a cave.
The fighting stopped. Why did it stop? It took John a moment to realize that the call for order had come from him. When his brain caught up with the situation, something inside of him snapped.
"I am getting sick and tired of all this noise," he whispered, looking around the room with what must have been a frightening expression, considering the terror present on everyone's faces."I have been hearing this incoherent babbling since the day I was born. Between the two of you, it's like I have stupid in stereo and my poor ears need a fucking break."
Someone's breath hitched. John didn't notice. Every nerve ending inside of him was lighting up with anger. Danger flashed in his eyes when his father tried to move, making the older man still as a statue. The beats of his own heart vibrated in his chest, pumping toxic fury through his body like poison. Shaking slightly, he continued, "All you people have ever done is cause me pain and, quite frankly, uh, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the fighting, I'm sick of the lies, and I'm sick of the sins we acknowledge quietly but refuse to voice aloud"-John gave Pontius and his parents very pointed looks-"but most importantly? I'm sick of you. All of you. Now, I don't give a shit about the Holmes' or my family so I'm gonna make this perfectly clear for all of you. I . . . am NOT getting married. I would rather die than give any part of me to an Alpha. I like my independence. I like my freedom. I like being able to do whatever I want without the burden of fear or consequence. In short, I like living the life of an Alpha. I'm not a bitch that needs to be bred or a tool you plan to use for your own dastardly agendas. I am an Omega, and as an Omega, someone who bears the gift of creating life, I deserve a little goddamn respect, so fuck you and fuck your problems. Take them to someone else 'cause I don't give a shit! I am done being treated like garbage. There's a new Johnny in town, and guess what? He's someone who's going to stay single and delight in the downfall his relationship status brings you. Get used to fighting, ladies and gentleman, because Johnny boy has left the building!"
This should have been the moment when John left his house and never looked back. Seeing this day from a future point in time, he knew that if he had stormed out the door right then and there, he'd have lived a different life than the one in his current possession. He would have lived with Greg until he was able to find his own place, finish school, and possibly become one of the most brilliant doctors this world has ever known.*
Instead of doing all that, he somehow opted for looking stupidly at his uncle while a transformation took place that his own eyes couldn't believe even as he stared at the man with lids wide open. Coughing and sputtering, followed by an overthrown chair and a couple shuddering breaths lead John to believe that he was in the process of witnessing a murder. He didn't know how or why, but the thought suddenly occurred to him that his uncle, someone who he hated with an intensity akin to the contempt Satan has for the Lord up above, was poisoned.
"Oh my god," Ingrid screamed. "What in the wo-Pontius? Pontius?!"
"Somebody call an ambulance!" Ichabod shouted.
Murder. There was a murder in the family. John couldn't seem to wrap his brain around the bizarre scene before him. He didn't move. He didn't panic. He didn't scream to the heavens for help. All he did was stand there and-whether or not this made him a bad man, he had no idea-wonder just why in the hell he hadn't thought of doing that to the dumb bastard when he'd had the chance..
"John!" Ichabod snarled. "Don't just stand there like an idiot. He's dead, you moron!"
"Yeah," John mumbled dazedly.
Ichabod blew out a breath. "This can't be happening. I don't believe this. I don't fucking believe this!"
"Can't we get some help?"
"Who in the hell is going to help us with this?!" Ichabod screamed. "Someone in our family has just been murdered!"
As if by some form of dark magic, the front door to the house suddenly burst open, letting in a blast of cold air that blew straight through John, making him shiver. All eyes turned to the two men blocking the outside from view. Somehow, the taller of the two captured John's attention in a way that nobody else ever would, staring at the dead body of his uncle with icy blue eyes that would forever be branded in John's very soul.
"Did someone say murder?"
*Narrator would like to point out that, had John done any of those things, he would be known as Suckey McSuckerton because, as some of you probably have already deduced, his life would suck.*