New Haven

The Last Straw

I always seemed to be on the run. It didn’t matter whether it was the reoccurring nightmares I had every night or the reality I lived in, I was always running from my faceless perpetrators or countless policemen.

I was seventeen years old and everyone was still trying to bribe me into another family. I insisted that there was no need, that I could take care of myself, but they always suspected me of being unstable after they found me covered in my own parent’s blood; I was only four at the time.

I could hardly talk and was clumsy, but I managed to adapt like everyone else until I was better than most at running far distances without breaks and sports.

Sometimes, my classmates taunted and accused me of killing my own parents, but I ignored them and turned the other cheek, not wanting to start a fight. I stuck mostly to myself, not wanting to rely on other’s help. I guess you could say I was an outcast at school.

So once again I was out of breath when I reached where my parents were so brutally murdered. I was panting for breath, putting my hands on my knees as my lungs felt like they were about to burst. Anyone else would think I would stay clear of this place, that I would be afraid to even step foot on the grounds. But I found it very comforting and peaceful. This was the place where I felt I was closest to my parents. It was the place that no one ventured in Wyoming. 

Everywhere I looked was lush and green, except of course, in the winter where everything was magically covered in a blanket of white. It was getting closer and closer to the harsh winters. Each day got a few degrees cooler and every day I would need to put on an extra layer of clothing.

Today, I knew it was going to start snowing. It was dreary and at most thirty degrees. I rubbed my cold hands together, trying to stimulate some warmth back into them. They were sore and aching from the winter cold, but this was definitely not something I couldn’t handle.

I sat down in a place I was first found, my first memory. I looked around, hoping to see the wolves make their way toward the babbling stream, a thin layer of frost covering its surface. In the winter, it would freeze over completely and it would then be completely silent in these woods.

I sat on a dry boulder and waited. There was a reason people never came here. It was where wolves most frequented and rested. People were always afraid of the wolves because they would kill a human being if they were hungry; like my parents. There would be no warning of their presence until they were lunging in for the kill. I, however, never believed any of that. Wolves kept to themselves if nobody bothered them. 

I was fascinated by the very creatures that killed my parents. I think most people thought of me as suicidal, that I wanted to die by the same things that killed my parents. They thought I was so depressed that I didn’t have the will to continue my life, but that wasn’t true at all. Why was it so wrong to respect the very animals that killed my family? 

I heard the rustling of bushes. I cocked my head in the direction of the sound as I held my breath in anticipation. I was trying to sit as still as possible as to not scare the wolves away.

One by one, each wolf gathered into the clearing. They looked at me and held their advance, deciding whether or not to flee or ignore me. I kept my unmoving position and continued to wait, hoping this time they would stay for me to watch them interact. One more glance and they looked away, retreating back into the forest, back into the wild. 

I let out the breath I had been holding, sighing in frustration. Every day, I would see them, every day the wolves would contemplate again and again whether or not to stay, and every day they would end up leaving. It was the same cycle each time, but I was still hopeful and grateful that I saw them as often as I did.