Scribblings from the Asylum Walls

Wolves by Rebekah_Hakeberr

They forced the stories into her head, until images formed in her mind’s eye, like a movie that would not turn off. All day long she saw twisted bodies and twisted people, calling to her, singing to her, pleading with her to join them in their game of death.

“What is death?” she had asked the wolves one night, after they spoke of a young prince dying in one of their stories.  The wolves laughed and one of them stuck its head out of the darkness, showing itself to Stacy for the first time. It had long course fur that ran down its face and muzzle, but the golden  eyes glowed in front, as if they were floating in front of the fur.

We will show you, it said and the next night the stories changed.

Now she knew what death was. It was a monster, lurking around corners, waiting to strike. Death lived in everything. She could choke on a pea and fall into endless dark, or she could fall ill and never get better, no matter how many cold compresses Mommy put on her head.

And death could be wielded, like one of the weapons now swimming through her mind. People poured death over others, stomping those that got in their way. They slaughtered for sport, for gain, or just to see the life drain from one’s eyes. Most people killed all they could find. The wolves showed her the truth.

She clung to Mommy and Daddy. They weren’t killers. They were islands of safety, perfect protection from the terror of the world and her own mind. They calmed her fears with cookies and hugs and she knew that no matter what, she was safe in their arms.

“Your stories make me cry,” she told the wolves one night, as she crouched down next to her bed. “I don’t like you anymore.”

The wolves laughed and stuck their heads out of the shadows. We’re sorry to hear that, they said. We were just showing you the truth. But we have one more story to tell you and it will make everything better. We promise.

“O-okay,” she said, ready for a story that would take away the horrors crowding her head.

Listen little one,  the wolves crooned, and be free.

***

Stacy knew the truth. The whole world killed, locked in a game that pitted neighbor against neighbor, each trying to draw the blood of the other. They never spoke of it, but all participated, teaching their children the joy of the blade.

Her parents didn’t murder. They never came home covered in blood, giddy from the hunt, and they never brought wounded children for her to practice on. They were weak, the dregs of society, poor deluded souls who most looked upon with pity.

She refused to pity such useless creatures. It was her duty, her right, to join society’s game. No one would fault her for cutting the blight of her parents from her life. They were robbing her of humanity’s greatest pleasure and would pay the price.

Mommy and Daddy sat at the breakfast table, eating their eggs and toast. Stacy stepped over, holding the long black blade her wolf friends had given her. Daddy looked up and smiled.

“Good morning! Sleep – “ He stared in confusion at the weapon clutched in her small fist and his eyes quickly clouded with concern.

“Stacy, where did you get that?” he said, and her mother turned around and gasped.

“You’ll cut yourself!” She sprung from the table and rushed over to Stacy, but Stacy jammed the blade into her mother’s side.

“You are the one I’ll cut,” she said, watching her mother stumble back, eyes wide and clamped to her wound.

Her father ran forward, but Stacy leapt up and jammed the blade into his chest. “Foolish,” she said, taking the knife from his skin with a pop. “You should have run.”

“Stacy,” her father croaked, as he fell to his knees. “This isn’t real… it’s a dream… wake up…”

“It’s not a dream,” she said, stepped around her father to get to her mother, who slipped on her own blood. Stacy grabbed her mother’s hair and lifted her head, the strength of wolves pumping through her heart.

“Honey,” the woman sobbed, but Stacy ignored her and ran the blade across her neck.

“Pathetic,” she said and dropped her to the floor. “No wonder you never played the game.”

Stacy made her way back  over to her father. He continued to kneel and mutter, worth less and less with each sobbing word.

“You shouldn’t have robbed me of the game,” she said, holding the tip of the blade to his throat.

“What… what game?” He looked up at her, watery eyes glistening with cowardice.

“So, you deny it even with your last breath.” Stacy sneered and gripped the blade tighter. “You deserve death.” She jammed the blade into his throat and twisted the handle.

Her mind exploded in a blast of blackness and Stacy stepped back from the scene, her body twisting into something… powerful. She was shadow, pure and free, and she shed everything; her skin, her mind, her name.

Well done, her brethren said, rising up from the ground and surrounding her, their glowing eyes bright with approval. She looked over at the two human bodies. She would remember them, her first kill.

Let’s go home, she said. The other wolves nodded and  they all faded into the shadows, leaving only the smell of breakfast and death behind.