Page 4 of Happy Valentine's Day, Omega
Anger issues, hand-me-down uniform, shitty social skills, and a competitive streak a mile-wide.
Patricia smirks with victory and sweeps away with an extra sway to her narrow hips. The other Omegas trail after her, their mocking glances pressing into my self-esteem with bruising pressure.
Sighing, I frown.
I've always been a tomboy – being the first daughter after six sons has that effect. Being the first Omega after six Alphas means I didn't stand a chance.
My Alpha father encouraged a love of chess to keep me from traipsing after my brothers and learning too many bad habits.
It backfired spectacularly when I developed a taste for mentally dominating an Alpha in chess. To me, there's nothing better than beating an arrogant Alpha who underestimates me because I'm an Omega.
He swiftly gave up raising me as a precious, mild-mannered Omega.
I received little beauty and poise instruction from my mother. She died shortly after my birth, and with her, she took my only feminine influence.
Glancing down at my hands, I cringe at the disparity between my hands and Patricia's delicate pink French tip polish. I guess I could attempt to remove the dirt from under my fingernails after Gardening class.
Later that evening, as I tip the contents of my bag out onto my bed to repack it for tomorrow's schedule, a bundle of fabric bounces out onto my crocheted bedspread.
Socks.
Thick, insulated socks.
Someone stuffed a pack of three pairs of woolen socks into my bag without my notice. I want to feel embarrassed that someone noticed my ratty socks, but mostly I'm relieved.
I'd been dreading another day of achingly cold feet. The wool is a smart gray color, as per the uniform regulations, but it is so soft I want to cry.
I didn't know socks were supposed to feel so soft, as I've never owned a new pair before. They are always too large and slightly crunchy from use by the time they are in my possession.
I press the socks into my face and smile softly to myself. Omegas love soft things, and I'm no exception.
I don't question where the socks came from. I only want to enjoy how toasty my toes will be in my History class tomorrow.
It was probably a teacher, right?
They know my family can't afford new things and took pity on me.
Probably.
3
Aweek passes before the next gift appears.
I drop my burdensome bag against the south courtyard's stone wall and go to pull out my book of chess strategies.
I blink in confusion.
My worn, fraying messenger bag, handed down from my many older Alpha brothers, has a large red ribbon tied to perfection in a big looping bow. The knot is complex and distinct, different from the standard style.
The fine silk fabric is an inch and a half wide and edged in a shimmering gold thread which dances under the sunlight. I blink rapidly in confusion before crouching before it and gingerly lifting one of the perfectly symmetrical loops with the tip of my finger.
The cool fabric slips against my finger, and I sigh in delight. I've never touched anything so smooth and flawless.
I narrow my eyes.
I don't know where this bow came from. Ishouldbe wary. Yet I struggle to think of a malicious reason someone placed it there.
It's a ribbon, for Goddess' sake. It's not dangerous.
