Not So Human After All

”No! Stop! Please!” I hear my girlfriend scream from across the school building. I bite my lip to keep from crying as I lower my head, struggling to focus on my assignment.

This happens nearly everyday; having to listen as bullies hurt her and ruin her belongings. It only happens when she and I have classes on the opposite ends of the building. I’m pretty sure the jerks have our schedules memorized class for class; creepy as hell.

It kills me to never be able to help her. Why can’t I? She’d be really disappointed if I skipped class. I can’t use my inhuman speed to save her because my clothes—that already make me stick out—would give me away. I’d love to shift halfway or even fully and tear them to shreds but if I did that then my mother and I would have to instantly pack up and leave before we were found out and I don’t want to leave Emilie here alone; I can’t exactly tell her my secret either.

Gods, as much as I’d love to rid the world of those horrible, undisciplined teenagers that get away with everything, my mom doesn’t need ‘Teen [bullies] murdered by supposedly mythical werewolf’ drama on her plate.

All I need to do is make it through the rest of class. Easier said than done...

~~~

The bell—signaling the end of the day—rings right as I finish my work and I practically fly out of my seat and head right for Emilie’s locker.

She’s already there gathering her things as I arrive and I quickly wrap my arms around her, scaring her but she calms down when she realizes it’s me with my face in her neck. “I missed you so much, Em.” She closes her locker and quickly turns around, burying her face in my chest. My poor baby..

We stand like that for a little while before I pull away, taking her hand, grabbing her bag and leading her to my car. I wait until she’s buckled and situated before I get into my own seat, buckle up and begin the ten minute drive to my house. Since it’s the weekend, she’s staying at my place; she doesn’t like being at her foster home during the weekend. It’s no big deal though, my mother loves her.

When we enter the house, my nose is immediately assuaged by the amazing aroma of food being prepared. I think those are barbecued ribs. They smell great. I can’t wait to be able to chow down.

Every other weekend, my mom loves to create a feast for the three of us. It’s wonderful. “Welcome home girls. I’m still working on dinner so go work on your homework until I call you to eat.”

Just as she says, we do our work. It takes about an hour and a half before we’re finished. Mother is still working on dinner from the sounds of it so the Emilie and I decide to play ‘Go Fish’. The simplest game in the world and I’m losing big time. I bet I would do better if fate didn’t think it funny to keep giving me crappy hands.

Eventually we get called to dinner and once again, I’m astonished by the amount of food and how delicious it looks.

Right as I’m about to take a seat, the doorbell rings and I see Mom flinch, a bad habit that she’s had for a long time now; it doesn’t occur as much anymore though, maybe because we don’t often get visitors. She goes to get the door before coming back with my cousin, Maylee, her boyfriend, Tanner, and our family friend and [witch] protector, Ansell. My grandfather sent Ansell to protect us because he knew he couldn’t always be around to do so himself.

We all sit down and get to eating, talking about everything and nothing, just updating one another and enjoying our time together. For obvious reasons, Emilie doesn’t disclose the fact that she’s a victim of bullying; she doesn’t even know that I know.

We eventually finish and once again, my mother has outdone herself. Just like I knew it would be, the food was absolutely amazing, probably better than Gordon Ramsey himself kind of amazing.

I’ve been telling her for awhile now that she should open up her own little restaurant, diner, or cafe but she refuses and everytime I bring it up, the idea is immediately shot down and the subject gets changed. Everyone else has given up on trying to persuade her, but I haven’t. I know that she loves to cook and bake and can’t help but love and appreciate the praises, as if it’s the first time.

She’s afraid though. Afraid that she’d unintentionally become like the man that helped her create me, the man once known as my father.

The man, Roy Silven, was born in Athens, Georgia in 1970. He was raised to hate anyone of color: black/African American, and anyone of any Spanish, Asian, or European decent, so literally anyone that wasn’t white. Not even being half-white made you good enough. If anything, it made you an abomination.

While his family had money, he became a businessman all on his own. He left high school at 16 and went to college for business management, accounting, entrepreneurship and telecommunications. He took up six years in culinary school even though his parents, who owned a small pub, taught him to cook. In twelve long and hard years, he learned plenty on how to become the head chef and how to run his own establishment. He also learned how lead charitable, non-profit organizations. With a buddy of his, he learned how to run a food processing plant; this friend of his became the owner of a butcher shop.

Roy eventually opened his first restaurant in Indiana. He named it ‘The White Snake’. He sent fancy invitations to celebrities, they came a-flying, enjoyed his food beyond words and told all of their famous friends about the place. Reservations were booked months forward because of how suddenly busy and popular the place was and that’s saying a lot considering the restaurant was four stories, had a few hundred cooks and a couple thousand tables and chairs. The place was huge and it was filled quickly.

Nobody could pass up the opportunity to try out the new exquisite, high class eatery. My speed donor collected millions of dollars before the two year anniversary even hit.

It was extremely hard for Mr. Silven to find competent waitstaff and assistant cooks. High pay offers brought in many applications but barely half of them were given a chance. Some that were, didn’t even let a week. My mother though, was one of the lucky applicants. A young, fresh out of high school, college freshman chocolate girl with an extreme amount of ambition, willpower, and talent. Within two weeks, there was gossip about her using some kind of witchcraft to do everything perfectly and have things always go her way. That wasn’t the case, she was just a hard worker. Not that the middle-aged gossip starters needed to know, but Grace Maybourne was a werewolf, not a witch.

Albeit her race, Roy Silven took an almost instant liking to the talented and young Black American employee of his. Despite his very strict upbringing, he began to have feelings for Grace. They eventually began dating; majority of the staff didn’t like this. Some quit because they didn’t want to worked for a n***** loving guy like Roy. Those that stayed tormented her. They bullied her, called her horrible things such as “the boss’ little black plaything”. They told her things such as Roy only being with her because she was different and new and that he’d get tired of her soon enough.

Roy and Grace were together for four years. In those four years, Roy built himself an empire. He opened charities, had many galas for them. He funded school fundraisers and donated epic prizes for them. He taught high school cooking classes that lasted a few days each; he even taught business management classes. He opened his own meat manufacturing plant about ten minutes outside the city. All sorts of animals were used at the plant but he made sure that they were only fed organic, non-GMO products. He even helped the homeless.

He became a [90%] self-made billionaire in a matter of six and a half years. He worked hard for his money. Except, it wasn’t made honestly or with good intentions really.