The second one

24

When Rohan was five years old he learned he was different. He always knew he wasn't wanted and back then he still cared about that.
He tried to be perfect, to use his gifts to help the people around him. To be good. To not cry or nag. To do what they wanted when they wanted it without hesitation.

He thought that if he just tried hard enough they would forget he was a little bit wolf and would accept him. That they would tell him story's before going to bed to. That they would ruffle his dark blond locks around and pinch his checks.
That they would smile and say he did good.

He wanted it so desperately, he tried so hard. He was quiet when being told. He smiled when they needed him to. He cried when they wanted him to. He tried so hard.

Little Rohan didn't quit understand yet that smiling sweetly at the big werewolf man and asking him where lived would get them all killed. That nothing he did would ever be enough.  He didn't know yet that no one would ever tell him stories before bedtime. That no one would want to touch him without washing their hands after like he was some kind of sickness.

He didn't know yet that no one would ever love him.

But he learned.

And learned.

Rohan was five years old when his caretaker gave him a gun and told him to pull the little handle with his finger. Rohan was five years old when he saw a men begging on his knees, fall down on the ground with a little hole in his head.

Rohan was five years old when he killed his first werewolf.

He didn't know his name.
He didn't know why they man needed to die.
But he knew that for that one night they didn't yell at him.
He knew that that one night they smiled at him and told him he did good.

He didn't understand why it still didn't feel good. He got what he wanted but it hurt. Somewhere inside.

But it didn't matter if it hurt or not.

Because one week later he killed his second wolf.

Rohan was five years old and three days when something inside him died.
Something weak and small. Something wild.
It withered and died off. It got loose and flew away like feathers on a small breeze.

Rohan was was five years old when he killed his own wolf.
And it would never come back.
He never knew it had died. Because no one could explain to him why he couldn't stop crying. Why he felt like something was ripped from his chest. Why it hurt to breath even if he didn't have any wounds.
But crying didn't help.
So he stopped doing that.

Rohan was twelve years old when he turned rouge.

Rohan was twelve years old.... When he caused his first massacre.

Yellow! Baby Rohan 🥺
I'm als updating four new chapters on my new book 'My prince" so if that's something you like wanne read, that be cool!

Thanks for reading! Please comment, vote and do not tell your kids to murder werewolf's!