I opened my eyes.
The first thing that came to my attention was the antagonism. In every direction I was blinded by the violent resentment, detachment and unsympathetic, brutal ire. It looked as though someone had enthused a hornet’s nest; they were screaming for an execution; for a lustful relief; for wicked justice, I could see it in there starless expressions. Next was the silence. Not the soundless type of silence, but rather the reserve as the whole world knows something dreadful is about to ensue, and we’ve all resigned ourselves to death; the calm before a tempest. The brashest sound of all, so still that it becomes deafening.
Sullen expressions stared back at me, their crow-eyes beckoning to my thirst. Occasionally the odd brooder would materialize, a whisper of comicality, a beam of resistance, nostalgic faces and unresponsive bodies obedient to their sovereign’s programming. They all looked like deer in the headlights, caught between law and order, and decisive disgrace and massacre.
My heart shuddered, begging me to take pity on these unknowingly mislead dogs, but behind those funereal guises, fabrications that would lead me to believe they were, on the surface, just as wolf as I was, I knew at the end of the day that they were only lunch.
I doubted anyone noticed my arrival, their thoughtfulness captivated only by what I could not see. Their boney shoulders appeared to press together, sealing the seams to distinguish one from the other until they were just a solitary massif of blacks, whites, greys and browns, daring me; forbidding me from sighting their sacred design. I once was told that an Alpha does not shape its pack, that instead the pack shapes the Alpha.
Even though it’s been so long I can’t even manage to drudge up who it was who uttered these words of wisdom, I’ve come to know what was spoken is true. A mother will do anything in the defense of her cub; Abendrot would die to preserve its offspring. I’m not sure I can commit to that.
Of course, throughout all this, there was still that undercurrent of want; that waterway of scents being forced onto me, driving the saliva from my mouth and the sagacity from my head, querying of me to devour them and fall into the self-drug induced stupor where I’m the only one who survives.
Making my way past rows of hypercritical wolves, I weigh the gain and loss. First of all, I don’t want to repeat my innocence, I want the pleasure of losing it again. This is a gain; a new start, another chance to douse my white sheet in a gasoline of filth and blood. Loss: a hefty stretch of my freedom is taken; my will is molded to fit a shelf packed with duplicated personalities, and it’s obligatory that I respect someone who isn’t Orcus.
I’d already gone over this, analyzed every possible sentimental falter and made my decision.
I think it’s very clear what I’ve chosen, or I wouldn’t be standing here. But, thinking back on it, I really didn’t have a choice in the matter. My kind, we were animals. Unlike humans, we have to give in to every feeling, every instinct. We are forced to let our animal natures lead us by the nose wherever it wants to take us. We are blind to the consequences of our actions and find it difficult to comprehend the effect of what we see to will do to others around us, or, in most cases, to ourselves.
I take liberty in knowing that I did this on my own terms.
I don’t pay very much attention to the specifics, not to any particular wolf other than a recognitional lingering glance towards what I hope was my guide here, Enigma. But already they’re all starting to look the same to me (“Dinner, dinner, lunch, breakfast, dinner, dinner, brunch”). I don’t distrust that the only way I’ll be able to tell them apart is by their odor and actions and maybe, soon, their taste.
Unlike the rest, though, it isn’t hard to spot Kershov, if only because he holds the consideration of nearly the entire forest and only he would have the authority to hold another animal in the manner that he is with such great authority in his own home. I’m distracted, shortly, by the insignificant swell of his carnal muscles as he finds a hold on the estranged female’s body, the ‘bum, bum, bum’ of a tendon bellow his left eye, the same eye that holds such a washed out shade of nigrescent brown that is so nearly identical to my own. I have no curiosity towards his victim; fate is indifferent, as am I. If she lives, so be it, if she does not, then the same. I’m almost torn whether I should interrupt him or not, but I later decide it would be better to than not. I don’t aspire to waste more time than need be. ”Darien Valentine”” Nor do I intent to waste more words than need be.
No sooner have I finished speaking my name than the wind, unmerciful, stirs itself enough to transgress; a breeze, wafting his cologne like a pike to my chest.
The impulse to bury my nose in his dense, swarthy gossamer, to sink my teeth around his neck and lap the tide of cherry red blood from the wound I’m sure to produce eventually nearly overwhelms me.
I’ve never savored anything sweeter than Kershov; I’m glad now that I have the amount of physical restrain that I do.
He tasted like sugary power,
The blood of leaders.
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