Post by Drachona on Jan 17, 2015 15:33:18 GMT -6
Just submitted this for a contest. Hopefully something will come of it. I also post readings of my stories. If you search "Ryan Nooe" on Youtube, you can find them.
We Are Wolves
It was not a beautiful night. It was not a bad night either, just not one that a person may care to remember. The clouds came in the dark. Not a star shown, and yet it was brighter in that absence of light. The grey above reflected the distant brightness of the city, and the artificiality of that glow barred the beauty of the night. But who would think so deeply on this? Perhaps most would never question the night, or even call one beautiful. Only now, one man critiqued the sky through the front windows of his home. There was no other light in the room besides the dim glow from outside, but the man was not bothered. He sat on the couch in his living room, his hands wrapped with fingers locked and arms resting on his knees. The man was hesitant. All day, he had it in his head; it was something he wanted to do. His feet seemed rooted as he struggled between choices, but his instinct spoke as clearly and yet unclearly as ever. He knew what to do.
Only one, artificial light shone in the house, and the man was drawn to it. Up the stairs and into a short hallway, he moved like a person without desire. He did not wish to seek out that last lighted room, but he had to. Tonight was the night; he could no longer avoid it. Each step seemed more dragging and heavy than the one before it, and he knew well why. Those dreaded steps; the man remembered them. Only a month ago, he made similar steps. They were not so slow and difficult at first, but they seemed so in hindsight. He had walked to the front door a month ago. He had been told one of a few things he never wanted to hear, a month ago. “There’s been an accident.” the policeman had said, “Your wife…she was killed. It was an attempted robbery. Her purse was stolen and we think…” the policeman’s voice faded from the man’s hearing, his mind frozen on the first thing said. Nothing; nothing before had ever struck his ears so hard. For a moment that seemed void of time and place, the man had stood in the doorway of his own home. His vision almost blurred and a chill came to his neck. As he stood there, he found himself almost too hurt to cry. It was some mix of sadness, fear, and anger that made him shiver coldly. He had seen the body; he had confirmed the far-too-white face of his wife. He knew the details, as much as a part of him craved knowledge of them and another part did not. He had his suspicion at first, and it only came to be proven fact. The police would never have understood the cause of this; just another murder for money? He knew the truth. The knowledge of that filled him with a sense of dread. It was dread, and it was sadness, and it was anger. He knew what had happened, and he made those long, frictious steps toward the house’s last light. With an arm stretched outward into the darkness, he pushed open the solid wood door of the room that his children shared. On parallel beds, across from the doorway, the two sat awake.
“Hi Dad!” the son called out, a mere 10-year-old; wise for his age, and yet still immature as one would expect.
The father smiled, but did not respond in words.
“Dad, what’s wrong?” the daughter asked, a girl of 15. Her eyes showed her concern.
The father sat on the end of the son’s bed; the bed of the youngest. “I just thought I’d come up here and…talk to you both about Mom.”
The children were silent for a moment, and then the daughter spoke, “Dad…we understand. We just…”
“I don’t want to think about it.” the son interrupted, his eyes turned downward.
The father watched the boy and copied the motion. With eyes upon the ground, the father replied, “I know, son. I know. I just need to tell you both something.”
The look on the faces of the children was one of confusion, and fear lay somewhere below of what it was that may be imminently spoken.
“You remember how I told you…” the father hesitated, inhaling as if to dam his tears from flowing through use of breath, “…how I told you she died.”
The daughter spoke with as much hesitation as her father, “You told us that a man shot her.”
“An attempted robbery.” the father said, “That was the official story, but that’s not what happened to your mom.”
“What do you mean, Dad?” the boy said, fear growing beneath his skin.
“It wasn’t an accident. Your mom was murdered. That man…he did it on purpose.” the father clenched his eyes to hold what his breath could not.
“What?” the daughter said, knowing what she had heard.
“Why?” the son seemed to beg.
The father re-opened his eyes, and he paused in his thoughts to remember what he wanted to say. “When you kids were born, your mom and I…we made a promise that we would keep a very important secret from you. It was a secret about me…about your mom…about you two. We thought you’d be safer not knowing.”
The fear rose in both of the children, but the daughter was the one who spoke. “Knowing what, Dad?”
The father cleared his throat. “We’re not like other people. Some people…they don’t understand. Some people don’t like us. They’re scared because they don’t understand. That man…” the father started to cry, as much as his will was against it, “…he killed your mom because of what she was…what we are.”
A long pause came. That one, lighted room in the house became as silent and as dull as the clouds that barred the night from its beauty. Only the heavier-growing breaths of the father seemed to break the silence, and the daughter followed in words. “What are we Dad?”
The father felt frozen. It was a feeling reminiscent of a month ago, and reminiscent of only a few moments ago in the dark of the living room. His feet were rooted and his glance fixed on the wooden floor. His heart was the only free muscle in his body, and it pumped so heavily that the vibrations became waves throughout him. No words were harder than these for someone to say to innocent children; young minds that could barely grasp the hatred and fear in this world without begging Why? For the answer itself would explain the unjustified murder of a mother, the distress of a father, and the potential fate of two so young and unknowing.
“We…” the father said, as his chin dripped tears on the floor and his shaking lungs tried to expel the air for words.
“We are wolves.”