The Moon festival is of great importance in our pack. It's one of the last traditions we have left as modernized wolves. On the first full moon of the New Year, every wolf gives thanks to the Moon for all it gave us, and continues to give us. All-day long there will be festivities and gathering in the pursuit of celebration. The festival is also an annual kickstarter for young pups to meet their wolves. It's one of the only times someone might shift in a year, aside from kids always wanting to shift. It's sad to see people take their wolf for granted, that as a species our defining quality has become something you grow out of as an adult.
When we are born, our consciousness is split into two halves. Our human half, and our wolf half. Typically, we are not introduced to our inner wolf until puberty. The Moon festival is a chance for our young to endure their first shift. As for myself, I have not met my wolf yet. Not even at twenty years old. I have been told many cruel things, such as the Moon did not bless me with the ability to shift, that she wanted me to suffer for what I am. For what I wish I wasn't.
The Moon festival is just another reason I am not meant to be who I am, and for a moment, I feel blessed that I was not given the ability to shift, so I would not have to praise her. I have nothing to thank her for.
~~~~~
It is the morning of the festival and my mother is helping me get ready. My lack of dependence drills me deeper inside of my mind, gravely yearning for a way out of my appearance at today's event.
"Since you won't be shifting. . ." My mother glares pointedly, sending my already warped stomach into a knot. I could feel the distaste of her scowled face. "I want you to look presentable on the outside", as if it were possible. If I could see myself, I know I would dislike what I am. Nobody except my brother has ever been kind to my appearance. What is worse, is that I will never have the ability to live up to what I was meant to be; a spaewife. They are one of the utmost significant members of a pack, aside from the Alpha. The Oracle's of the Moon are symbols of peace among our kind. And since my grandmama passed when I was 5, our pack has been left without. Every second generation supposedly holds the soothsayer gene, equipped with the potential to enchant.
With an outstretched arm, I grab a piece of clothing hanging in the wardrobe. The satin touch of fabric makes my arm hairs arise, a silk material engulfing my hands with pleasure. I have never felt a material so rich, so redeeming. I want to wear it, to dance with it. I crave the feeling of a material so beautiful to cover my repulsive body. A throaty scoff is heard to my right, which compels me to forcible drop the silken dress.
"As if you could wear something as white. It would make your complexion even paler." She hands me something else, a tulle material that scratches at my raw pores.
I memorize the icy feel of the white dress from before, slipping through my grip, yet forever in my mind. The cool fabric reminded me of the way my bloodied skin felt against the hard wood floor. I want to wear that white dress. White. It is my least favourite colour.
She raises both my arms to manipulate the clothes off of my sunken in body. My top is thrown carelessly onto the floor beside me, the plop of it hitting the ground startles me. Mutters astray from her irritated mouth, forcing my bottoms off as well. I could be doing this by myself.
My malnourished body protrudes in places it likely shouldn't. I attempt to cover myself in this moment of vulnerability, unable to control the situation. I step into the hem of the itchy clothing item that my mother deemed suitable for tonight. She pulls it up and over my body, covering the places I desperately want to keep hidden.
"There." Is all she says, as she successfully put the dress on my body. I feel her presence in front of my own, something I've had the ability to do for as long as I can remember. I want to speak, to invent a conversation between us. Today she is not angry, which I am grateful for. She never is, on the night of the Moon. Full moons are what I look forward to.
"What am I wearing?" She hates when I speak. I never used to stutter, until she started getting angry enough to hit me. I am her living, breathing shame.
"A dress," she says keenly. "An ankle length dress, it's dark blue and has stars on it." I lift my agile hands to feel it, my waist, my arms, my chest. It is fitted at the waist up, and extends over my shoulders to the wrists of my arm. A long V-neck cut right to the edge of my stomach, exposing my chest. The bottom is loose and slightly puffed out, around my form. It suits the events of tonight.
We depart from the house without any issues. No yelling, no breaking things. The festival conciliates any and all bad feelings, making today possibly the best day of my life.
The central, not far from the house, is beaming with people everywhere. My stomach bursts with an upsurge of uneasy feelings, unable to comprehend anything around me. My heart quickens and my breath thins, noises in every direction team my senses in an overload of stimulation. Footsteps on pavement behind and in front, bells rung from food booths and various smells of delicious servings, nonstop cheery conversation in sequence, spiraling my mind until all my senses combine into one and my eyes roll in the back of my head and I'm falling. My chest heaves with heavy uncertainty, and I jolt at an abrupt grab of my arm.
"Focus. . . Me. . . On me. . . Focus on my voice," words are heard but not processed, the breath of someone close on the side of my face.
"Focus on what I'm saying, okay? Monet? Are you there?" The person speaking is unfamiliar to my ears, an innocent bystander, a witness of my overwhelmed, anxiety-ridden state. I listen to them inherently, concentrating on their counting. They ask me to identify 4 things I hear: People walking, birds chirping, food truck bells, my own breathing. Then, 3 things I feel: The grass beneath me, their breath on my face, and the constraint of the waist-fitted dress. After that, 2 things I smell: The damaged grass around me, and something profuse in the distance I can't pinpoint. The smell intrigues me, my mind focuses on it and hones me back to reality. I dig my hands into the dirt and steady myself, taking a breath knowing I'm safe.
Word Count: 1185
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Blind Instincts
Werewolf*COMPLETED* My head bowed in a heavy mannor, not in respect, but in trepidation. I discern his unwavering gaze over my ill silhouette. "Look at me." I opened my eyes, though it made no difference. Black is still black, all I am left with are my four...
