by Roxanne Lee
I have run that thought through my mind over and over again.
What is he?
He had seemed so human, was exactly that in so many ways, but there is something else to him, I have no doubt now.
We had returned to a routine well known within two weeks of that hellish morning. His hands running over the marks he'd left on my back and hips with a sick sort of achievement. Clara's body was gone the following morning and I could not even fathom what he had done with her. Her clothes were still here though, hung from a nail in my prison. A statue of warning, a shrine to the fallen, a tormenting presence of remembrance.
Her absence was felt keenly.
In the darkest hour of the night, when the shadows consumed the light, my eyes fixated on the obscured clothing and her whispered words filled my empty soul, repeated soundlessly from my lips.
It was one morning, three weeks 'after Clara', that I caught a flash of light from her hanging clothes. My cell was mostly a muddy grey, like the sky before rainfall, apart from early morning when the sun hit the tiny window high in the outside wall.
I had learnt well from that day. My eyes betrayed nothing and my stance remained the same. I could wait. I had nothing but time.
It was maybe a week later when I had been let out for the day and he was returning me to my room for the evening. He would be leaving for a few hours, a community meeting, a joke by his invitation. I was colder than normal, the weather turning from mild end Summer to Autumns chilly start. I was slightly anxious to be alone and maybe this was shown too evidently. He peered at me curiously as he dropped me to the floor.
"You have something on your mind, pet?"
I crinkled my brow, I didn't have to fake the confusion, I was still desperate to figure out the puzzle that he was.
"No, Sir."
He raised an eyebrow and hummed in response. His eyes flicked to the clothes hanging on the wall and he smiled at me.
"Just you remember that then, there's to be nothing on your mind except me, right baby?"
His warning was clear and my frustration grew, how does he do it?
"Of course, Sir."
He bent and stroked a rough hand over my thigh whispering, "good little pet," before locking me in for the night.
I froze in position for an hour, his echoing taps long since gone, until my curiosity overwhelmed my fear. I half slid, half crawled to the wall where her clothes hung, peering at the spot the light had revealed. I pushed myself up with a grunt, waiting for the pins and needles to subside seemed a drawn out agony. Cold fingers felt around the legs of the jeans she had worn, one side seeming heavier than the other.
My breath caught as I ran my finger over a raised hardness in the hem. A split in the stitching allowed my finger to poke inside. It was some sort of metal, steel maybe, solid and cold to the touch. I ran my finger along the bottom edge and hissed in glee when I felt the tell tale sharp pain.
Oh Clara, it seems I keep owing you.
I pulled at the stitching some more, it gave way with a few tugs and the knife dropped to the cement floor with a heavenly sound. I arranged the jeans back to a similar position, hiding the now ruined hem. I only needed it to pass muster for a moment, a passing glance would reveal nothing.
I picked up the knife and stroked the blade lovingly. The pattern on the steel made my smile turn evil in its nature. I know this steel, this saviour in weapon form. My fathers passion, a blade so fine it was art in motion. His knives long since removed from the house had a story to every single one. A collection of history, the envy of warriors worldwide.
This one was small. A few inches long, not much wider than my finger, but those markings were a watery song written in lines.
Damascus steel. My father had been a fan, a collector.
It was like one big circle of fate.
I held the blade close to my chest, my eyes closed, that smile never leaving my lips. Remembering the stories he told, the wars of years gone past. Crusades for religion, for freedom, for Kings. How he would build such wondrous tales until, in my excitement I could not hold still as he spoke.
My father was a strong man. Patient, fair and gruff. A warrior by right but a father and husband first.
I think he would be disappointed in me.
I failed so many times. I had allowed so many things. I hope he knows that this is the end. Clara was a wake up call, no more waiting, this is as good as it's going to get.
I ran through scenarios in my head, hiding the knife is my main problem, my nightie concealed nothing and there was nothing in this room. My eyes flicked to Clara's clothing and I released the knife from my tight grip with a sigh. I did not want to part with it so soon but better that then have him find it. I took the leg of her jeans in hand and pushed the knife back into place, the ruined hem held precariously but it was the best I could do right now.
I came to a firm resolution; No more. No more will I submit to his wishes, allow my body to be so debased. By the time he returns to my cell a new creature will sit in my place. That dark mass of swirling malignancy that had been so tempered by Clara's death was now alive and well. Growing, thriving, multiplying on its malevolent path. Invading my thoughts with death and ruination. My head was full of slaughter, my hands itching to cause such butchery.
This is what he's done to me, I am a product of his affliction. He will be begging on his knees when I am done. This monster inside is clawing at its chains, roaring it's way to freedom, pulling at its restraints until a link snaps and it's one inch closer to the surface.
There's a thought that passes through my brain, I hear it and kick it back out quickly.
The thought however leaves me with more fear then he ever gave me. A thought of why my wolf hasn't shown, a thought of what she'll be if she arrives.
My hand shakes; tremors in the muscles.
Could I control that?
I can't even control my life.
Lights flicker over the wall. Headlights beaming through the narrow window. He's back. My eyes flick to the jeans again hoping the hem has stayed in place. I calm myself by breathing slowly, I am just waiting for him to return that's all, nothing else.
The knife gives me peace in my turbulent world. I am laying on the floor, my eyes lost in the wall to my right by the time he opens the cell door. He looks in on me but nothing else. He leaves and locks the door, his retreating footsteps lull me to sleep.
I dream of wars from long ago, Knights in battle and wolves in carnage. I dream of knives in hands that plunge and slice and of claws that gouge and gut. I dream of girls with red hair dripping with blood and animals with red eyes and teeth full of meat.
And I dream of my father, standing tall and strong, a face full of pity but eyes full of abhorrence.
A tear falls in my sleep before the monster takes over, a snarl and a growl and a paw full of claws. A swipe of the wrist and my father's no more.
I wake in the morning with a promise.
The chains do not come off. Not until I am no longer so weak.
Chapter 6.
Werewolves; a genetic mutation of evolution.
But evolution wasn't done.
Gone are the days where a person shifts to a wolf; a four legged animal that answers the call of nature. No, these werewolves were beasts.
Monsters of nightmares brought to life. There were few wolves of old left. Evolution had turned nature's proud canine into a horror story.
No less than seven feet of thick muscle, a two legged creature with thighs you'd struggle to wrap your arms around. Toughened skin, coarse and hard to the touch. Biceps large enough to suffocate. A thin film of rough hair; their body temperature too high for need of the old wolves coat. Hands that span triple the normal size, claws like a demon, long and sharp and hard to break. The face of a modified wolf, the body of an obscene man. The perfect hunter, the perfect predator.
The human that held such a beast had grown to be larger than its predecessor's. The body changing to accommodate such a
large animal.
What evolution had gained in power and strength, it had lost in beauty and agility. Though fast in its bipedal form, it was no match for an old wolf. Should it catch you in its grip, a life could be so easily crushed. Those demon claws sinking into your skull as effortlessly as through water.
But first it must catch you.
The few old wolves left were protected, revered for their speed, the beauty of their shift, the softer stature of their human.
I don't know what I am. I can guess; my mother was one after all. My size seemed to indicate an old wolf; even the women of the evolved shift were larger, more muscled, more delineated. I'd be confident in what I was, if only it wasn't for that creature breaking through. It seemed so much more than what an old wolf should be.
If this is what I am, then the nearest pack shall feel my wrath. Protected? Revered? They failed both my mother and myself. I feel anger, hate, blame towards them. It boils in my veins. How could I just have been left here? My vengeance is expanding, including people I have never met, wolves I have never seen. I don’t know how to control this rage, it's burning from the inside out. I don't know any more if this is just. My morality is skewed.
I woke early to the morning sunshine. The light once again picking up the glint of my knife, taunting me with its infinite possibilities. I had sat for a while, my dreams of the previous night fresh and living.
I stood, clawing at the wall for purchase until I could feel my legs again, the blood rushing fast and hot, pounding in its racing. I walked the room, following the walls, round and round in my square prison. My steps became more assured with each lap, my legs though tired, more steady. I was panting when I reached Clara's clothes for the twentieth time, this was more exercise then I'd seen in years.
I took her jeans from the nail. Her jumper, a soft, green material felt like silk in my hand. She had been taller than me, more athletically built, but the jeans would stay up and the jumper didn't matter on the size. I ran my hands over the clothes I'd dressed in, it was odd wearing them after so long but the jumper especially was a comfort. I hoped I didn't ruin it.
The knife pulled out of the hem easily and slid into a pocket seamlessly. I could feel it's slight weight against my hip and the coolness of the blade penetrated the thin pocket. I looked above to the grey ceiling, my eyes closed as I took a breath and made another promise: Last call for freedom or death. I'd planned and I'd constructed, a rolling wave of thought, a swirling swell of conscious and yet.....I'd failed. No more planning, I would succeed or I would die trying.
I stood next to the door, staring at the handle, waiting for it to turn. I bounced on the balls of my feet, my atrophied muscles protesting. I can only assume they haven’t completely deteriorated due to my buried nature. Even so I doubt I’ll last long on these withered tendons.
I could not stop the anticipation rising. The darkness like fingers stretching and reaching. Pulling itself along under my skin. If I looked hard enough I swore I could see those fingers, pushing my flesh out, clawing at my innards.
I thought of Clara and her death. Despair replaced my expectancy. I was more comfortable in despair. I let it swallow me whole as I heard his tapping from far above, an echo resounding in my ears.
I’m going to cut those fucking shoes.
The nearer his footsteps, the harder the pounding of my heart. It was hard to stay in my bubble of despondency, Clara's last words the only thing keeping me on track. I had a feeling about him, how he kept a step ahead of me so often. A mind reader he was not but, something was there. A thought spiralling around my head.
His footsteps halted outside my cell door. My breath stopped in my chest. The key slid into the lock, the clang of metal on metal reverberating in my stomach. The knife appeared, cold and hard in my hand. I don't even remember reaching for it.
The handle moved. So slowly it was almost agonising. A gap appeared in the doorway, I pressed myself against the wall harder. A hand first. A wrist following. Most of his arm was through the doorway before his head would come into view. I saw his hand falter on the handle. My heart was too loud, my mind all over the place.
He knows.
Now.
Do it now!
I grabbed his arm and brought my knife down in quick succession. It slid so easily into the meat of his forearm I spent a second too long marvelling at its work. Blood. Deep red. Slimy and viscous. My grip slipped in its sticky path. I returned my knife hand to behind my back as he grabbed his arm and I pushed through the door. He panted out breaths from between his teeth.
"Fuck! You fucking bitch!...... "
His pants changed to huffing laughs, a wince thrown in for good measure.
"You like scars, huh little girl? I'll show you scars. I've obviously been too lenient." He took a step towards me, still holding his bleeding arm. His blood running thick through his fingers. "Drop it. You know you'll never get away, this is pointless. Drop it and I'll agree to keep your punishment light."
Oh he was reaching right now. I don't think he fully understands my resolve. It's okay though, I'll teach him.
I crook my head to the side and stare at his inadequacy. I couldn't stop the smile or the derision in my eyes. I may not be the wolf I was born to be but I was more than whatever he was.
His eyes turned evil. A promise of pain. A declaration of injustice. He launched towards me in the seconds it took me to comprehend his intention. My leap back was not far enough and my legs failed under his weight. I fell crashing to the floor underneath him. Winded by his force and stumped for long moments. Long enough for his hands to wrap around my neck. Blood smeared on my skin. My stomach revolted at his essence leaking on my bare neck.
My eyes widened when I felt a hardness on my leg. His grin sickened me.
"Oh pretty girl, if you just wanted to play why didn't you say so?"
His hands tightened, I had no breath left inside me.
My hand still clutched the knife.
I looked into his crazed eyes as I brought my arm up and plunged straight down again. I felt the jerk of his body against me as I slid my prize home. His side was a soft fleshy target and it gave way beautifully under my strike.
His hands released almost instantly and he howled when I yanked out the knife with a twist of my wrist. He threw himself off me and raised a meaty fist. It connected well and I had no hope of avoiding it. The force caught my face in a harsh grip and rebounded my head against the floor.
I lay still for a moment cradling my bloody knife, catching my breath in deep, heavy gasps, my face throbbing and my head dizzy. I watched him crawl away to the wall, his perverted hand clasped to his wound. Sweat dripped on his forehead, his bodies reaction to the shock of pain.
My own was dulled; I'd had more practice.
The doorbell was a piercing klaxon. An interruption of our stand off. He tried to stand first but fell, his left side weakened. I was next, I didn't fall. My legs supported my route to freedom. I yelled in answer to the door, "one moment please," I was robbed of my revenge for their presence, but then so was he.
I stepped into his slouched form. Leant against the wall, legs spread out in front. He panted through the pain looking more the dog then I ever was. His eyes were closing. He was losing too much blood. It was pooling around his legs, spreading along the wooden floor, staining the ground with his ineptitude.
I unbuttoned his shirt to his chest and tugged it over to reveal his left breastbone. My hand flicked unconsciously to his skin and I carved an 'A' over his heart.
"I'm coming back for that," I whispered.
I limped to the front door and hid my knife in a pocket. I walked bloody footsteps in my wake. I think I was almost in a daze. My mind taking a temporary break from reality. I opened the door to a terrified looking man...I'm sure the bloodstains were worrisome.
"He's been attacked. Please call the police."
He looked past me and gasped at the scene, running into the house. I looked at the street in front of me,
one I had not seen for nearly four years.
It was the same yet not. Same houses, different cars. Same Street, different people. I took my first step off the front porch and my mouth over ran with laughter. It bubbled up through my chest and escaped unwillingly in momentary madness. The grass felt new and enticing on my feet. I looked towards the forest, the start of the trees to my right. This is where I'll go. There's a stream running through and it'll be no colder than that room.
I closed my eyes and smiled up at the sky. "Thank you Clara." I looked down at the bloodstained green covering me and sighed, "I'm sorry about the jumper."
Chapter 7.
I'd managed maybe three miles that first day before my legs collapsed. I wasn't overly worried about being found, he would take a while to heal, I'd given myself some time.
The Autumn leaves, crisp and dying beneath my feet, were cushioning to my bare skin. Small animals scampered around me, in the wandering light of dusk I wasn't overly concerned about the predators. The old mining town of Black-wood was northerly to me, a town high on promise and low on delivery. When the mines had shut the old coaler’s had remained but anyone south of forty had left so fast that thick, black dust had yet time to settle. With the redundancy of life came a lower sustainability in the environment. The larger predators moved on, following their smaller food source. Natural wolves suffered extinction on this land many years ago, humans with their guns and repressed ideals lost a species on par with the Arctic wolf.
I made my bed beneath a large English Elm, the branches still thick enough to provide some cover, it's fallen leaves a tribute to Summer lost. Sleep came quickly; I'd obviously overdone it, my tired muscles sore and aching but I welcomed the feeling – tomorrow would bring thicker sinew, broken down and rebuilt better. I suppose the same could be said for me.
The following day I woke with a peace I'd not felt for too long. Once the tightness in my body stretched and burned I resumed my trek North. I hadn't planned on specifically Black-wood, but it seemed as good a place to begin again as any. By the afternoon I was stumbling my way through woodland, I'd pushed too far again. Still I kept going. I had a plan, a need, a craving deep inside. I saw a light at the end of a bloody tunnel.