The Thing about the Wolf

I wouldn’t call it a privilege, or even say “it was an honor” to have known her. I wouldn’t remember her without feeling nauseated, knowing in what kind of light I had looked upon her.

The wolf in beautiful white, angelic fur, calling herself a godsend. Meanwhile making the victim look like a bloody wolf, caught and blamed over her doing out in the open.

She was an insecure soul, such poor little heart, so she had to claim her rightful place. To be worshipped and praised, like a fallen creature of heaven on earth, seen in her glorious ways and adored by suitors whom she could claim hers someday.

“Why do you hate me so?” I’d ask. “Of course, I don’t, sweetie.” She’d answer with a layer that sounded a lot like compassion.

Before she made a turn and pushed a dagger into my back, laughing for few seconds and crying for help later.

My words got stuck, my mind bled a river. How could anyone blame such a beautiful creature? How could I?

And she took no chances, she shot me a couple of times and announced my nonexistent crimes. When questioning did me no justice, challenging got me nowhere. So I took my leave and decided to never go back.

Was she just too blinded by her obsession to open her heart? Was she too possessed by her desire to be admired to open her eyes? Was she too scared to admit what she had always been?

“What else could I be?” she’d wonder.

A wolf, I’d say. Somewhere far away. Somewhere out of her reach. Wondering what good would come out of her realizing her true nature, or what darker evil might come around.

 

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