Reaching for the Stars

Chapter 33: Lone Wolf

Strong warning: This chapter contains depression, blood, PTSD, suicidal thoughts and attempt, and psychopathic behaviour. Overall, this is a very, very dark and depressing chapter. Don't read this chapter if you're triggered by such things. Read at your own discretion.

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Tch. It was always like this.

"Loup? You've been staring at the windows for almost half an hour now."

The wolf sighed but didn't look away from the falling snow. He hated this, he hated this for making him hate everything.

"Um, loup, I'm really concerned." Martin said again from behind him. Tom could feel his gaze on his back, full of questions.

"I'm fine, Mart, wait, I'm not fine." He turned around and looked at the fox. "Sorry, looks like I need to go out for a bit. Thanks for tonight, though."

"Pas de problème, it's okay. Are you gonna be okay, though?"

"We'll see," Tom walked ahead of him and took his phone and jacket. "If I still post a new status on WhatsUp then I guess I'm not dead."

The fox put his hand on the wolf's shoulder, making him stop. He looked at the back of Tom's head worriedly. "Don't do anything dangerous, okay? Really... please just stay here."

"I won't. I can't." Tom opened the door and gave a sigh. "Thanks a lot, Mart.", he said as he stepped into the hallway and closed the door softly.

It had been snowing since yesterday, so the snow was piling up tonight. As he exited the dorm building, the wolf made his way through the snow, occasionally looking around. Few were outside at this time of night. He glanced at his phone and pocketed it back. Seemed like he was alone again, like he had been for the most part of his life.

He exited the campus complex and looked at the falling snow. Sometimes, he desired death. Death seemed like a kinder option compared to what he'd been through. He had watched death before, it seemed beautiful, compassionate, welcoming. Red dancing with black, creating a wonderful mix of grey. He was familiar with it; often, they chased each other just for fun.

He could've done it himself. Just a knife or a rope or a car or a bridge, and then there would be bliss. Utter nothingness. Deprivation. He would be free.

Instead, this lifeless, merciless joke of reality grabbed his tail and dragged him back. How many times did he have his arm bleeding, his head punched, his body beaten? He lost count; he was sure that sooner or later, he would be blind, or his feet paralysed, or he'd become crazy. He was broken beyond repair. The scars on his body were the testimony that god left him a long time ago.

He kicked the snow as a car passed by. Society was merciless. Most people only cared for themselves. The only reason he was not crazy right now was the Seven Rules he had been following. It was the main thing keeping his sanity. Without it, he probably would've been a serial killer or a psychopath long ago. He had wanted to throw it away, to succumb to his desire to hurt.

Compassion was a precious thing, buried deep in hatred and pain.

He chuckled a bit. Pain. What a joke. Pain had been his best friend; it told him that he was still alive. Yet now, pain did the opposite. Did it mean he was dead? Probably. Dead inside. See? Even pain left him.

So why did he keep holding on to the Rules? Mercy was for the weak, but time after time he found himself giving it. Good thing his life had taken a turn for the less terrible. Had it not, mercy would be his road to annihilation. Mercy was weakness, compassion was rubbish.