You watch a grey nose twitch, a grey pelt tremble in the new-morning light; you watch a pair of yellow wolf’s-eyes scavenge a barren wood, searching for scraps, the wasted bones of a victim of the winter. You watch—and wonder how such a tiny creature like yourself could take down a beast such as that.

It had stung to know how great your sister has become, without you. It still stings to think about, a hot, bubbling shame in the back of your throat and eyes every time you think about it. You’re not sure if it’s safe to face Father again until you’ve come to your senses—until you’ve become equally as great, just as worthy of praise as the cunning predator that has come to be your sibling.

This is a young wolf, a stringy creature cast from its pack, slender and near-death. You watch its unsteady gait and think—yes, you can do this! How difficult could it possibly be to take down a mangy, ragged mutt who already scratches the door to Death’s hearth? It should be easy. It would be a disgrace, in all actuality—but you need to kill something, and fast, so it’ll have to do.

You gulp as you watch the poor beast browse, swallowing down an unwelcome flutter in your nerves, a wiggling in your gut that sets your heart pounding. You try to ignore the screaming in your nerves, that shouting of NO coursing through your veins—you ignore it, stifling it with a pillow, willing it to shrivel and die and leave you with peace and courage and focus, those mighty things a hunter possesses.  And you are a hunter--just keep telling yourself that. You’re a hunter, you’re a hunter, you’re a hunter, you’re a hunter, you’re a—

You take a step forward.

You know—immediately-- that it’s a mistake.

The wolf snaps its head toward the sound, its cunning, hungry eyes resting upon—you. Your delicious bones, your tender foal-meat. You know, instantly, that you are a prime choice for prey for the wolf.

You swear you had had a game-plan—you promise you had thought it through beforehand, had calculated your every step, your every move in order to slay the beast. But now you’re standing, frozen, in the still gaze of the yearling wolf. You stare at each other, hearts beating fast, nerves standing still, tense; a wild thought crosses your mind, a disgraceful, hopeful thought that it will decide to turn away and scurry from sight, and there will be no altercation, after all.

You begin to run away. Because, of course, you know better.

The wolf is not far behind you at all. You can hear its panting, the slight growl of both its fang and stomach, and you know the starving predator is desperate, and you are just small enough, soft enough, to slaughter without thought. Your legs pump beneath you swiftly, and your precious brain is buzzing blindly, thoughtlessly, as you’re tearing through the mountainside.

And you’re screaming.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!”

It’s a raw-throated shriek that tears from your maw like claws, grasping and reaching for anything close, anything that can deliver you from this mistake. You’re running, and screaming, and the wolf is close behind you—and for the second time in your short life, it flashes before you.



[SOMEONE SAVE ENNY PLS D:]
 "talk talk talk"