Winter Moon

V I P E R

Three thousand, two hundred, and sixty-three days. That's how long I've been a prisoner of war.

I'm surrounded by four cold, dirty concrete walls. Exposed wires bring insufficient power to a flickering fluorescent bulb on the ceiling. The electric buzzing is enough to drive anyone insane.

I tried to unscrew it a few times, but the cuffs around my wrists are chained to the middle of the floor, preventing me from making much progress. I have enough leash to sleep and walk circles around my cell. That's it.

I'm relieved they at least replaced the silver cuffs with iron ones. Though it definitely wasn't out of compassion for me. They were genuinely afraid that the silver would corrode my hands right off and allow me to escape. Sick bastards.

Even these have to be adjusted every few months. My emaciated form continues to grow smaller, making my shackles too loose for their liking.

I'm sitting up against the cold wall with my hands shackled between my legs. I don't know how many hours I've been like this. Time doesn't really mean anything anymore. I just count the days for my own sanity. I like to know when it's Christmas, or my birthday, or a Tuesday. I just like knowing that I'm still in touch with the outside world—somehow.

A small, iron-barred window at the top of the far wall is the only indication of whether it's day or night. The faint glow filtering in is beginning to grow brighter, heralding the start of another day.

Correction: Three thousand, two hundred, and sixty-four days. I lean over slightly and scratch a mark on the wall with my iron cuff to mark the turn of another day. My wall is lined with marks like this. Nine years' worth. I slouch back against the wall and stare out at the brightening sky.

I both love and hate this time. I love the calm and the quiet. I've always enjoyed being the first one up. The first one to greet the day. One of my last memories with my pack flashes to my mind...

It's the start of another day. The sweet scent of morning dew fills my nose. Soft notes of pine and earthy nuttiness swirl in the air.

I'd let my wolf, Althea, come forward to enjoy the new day. She took the lead with confidence, guiding me effortlessly through our pack's forest. Her deep brown fur, the same coffee color as my hair, shimmered beneath the filtered light.

I wasn't sure how long we had been in the underbrush. I took the backseat, letting her have her time. She enjoys her own company: a 'lone wolf' by choice.

"Honey, where are you?" My mother's voice calls through the trees.

Althea, too caught up in her own mind, didn't respond. Mother shifted and came through the brush to greet us.

Our wolves nuzzled each other in greeting and then we sat in easy quiet for several minutes, just enjoying the forest. Eventually, my mother grew impatient and let her motherly authority come through.

Althea, send my daughter forward please. It was a command. Althea agreed in huffy submission.

Hi Mom, I thought apologetically. Althea is much bolder than I am.

Happy birthday, honey. She spoke lovingly through the link and nudged my side in a wolfish embrace. Eighteen years. I can't believe it.

All grown up, I linked back with a grin.

Mmm, you'll always be my pup. She hummed. Come on then. Excitement broke through. We have a whole day of festivities planned.

I shook my head at her exuberance and trotted along behind her as she led us back to the pack house.

The screech of metal sliding breaks me out of my thoughts, reminding me why I hate this time of day. My cell door is slid open. I wipe a stray tear I didn't realize had fallen. Thinking of my wolf makes me miss her desperately. It's been years since I've heard her voice. The water I drink is laced with wolfsbane to keep her hidden within the recesses of my mind. I know she's still in there, but my heart breaks at how lonely she must be. As am I.