Raised By Wolves

Out of the Shadows

"I can't really see his face."

 Diana Porter sat in the office across from Mrs. Grayson, her advisor, even as she recounted her story. There was something comforting about the office, at least, something comforting about the various portraits set up on the bureau, as well as the colors of the office. At least things didn't seem as terrifying, somehow. It was a reminder, looking around at the calming pale palette of the office, the various books on the shelves, the photographs of the Grayson family, that she wasn't in this strange, distorted nightmare world anymore. Everything was fine now. She was safe.

Are you safe, really?

It was the sort of question that Diana wished that she didn't have to ask, but here she was. This man...this living shadow seemed to be dogging her from the day she was born.

It wasn't the sort of thing that you usually remembered, but somehow, Diana knew. It wasn't one of those things you brought up to Mrs. Grayson as, nice as the witch was, there were some things that even she would find difficult to believe. "I don't remember, but I just know." It wasn't the sort of thing you just said. Even Diana, sometimes, wasn't certain herself, especially considering the matter of how strange it all felt.

Mrs. Grayson, carefully, looked over her books. She was a pretty middle-aged woman, with dark red hair tied back in a bun, her glasses making her eyes look almost owlish in nature. There wasn't any judgment in those eyes, though, and Diana was grateful. After all, she wouldn't have thought that this was ridiculous if not for the fact that all this, all of it, seemed true.

"What do you manage to see, Diana?"

"Well," Diana said, "I think I can see a meadow. It's a long meadow — it seems to stretch out into forever. There's a lot of flowers. Beautiful flowers. It's something you wouldn't think about at first...at least until you find the woman's corpse."

"A corpse?"

"Yeah." Diana swallowed. Even recounting this part was enough to frighten her. The presence that seemed to be gaining on her even as she ran through this ridiculously, almost ironically sunny meadow, the sun beating down on her neck and her hair and the rest of her. The sun that seemed almost uncontrollable in its heat. And then seeing the body of the woman with black hair. Her hair, spilling around her like a dark lake, her skin seeming pale as a marble statue and her eyes, big eyes, green eyes, staring up into space, defiant, as if she were making a stand against a foe that threatened to take her down, and though she would ultimately go down, she would take her enemy with her. Her mouth, frozen as if in the midst of one last dramatic, defiant statement. And the marks on her body — tearing claws, teeth. The body had been dead for quite some time in the dream, to the point that there were already insects buzzing around it.

That was usually the point, looking over the body, feeling the pursuer gaining on her — this presence whose face she could not see — him coming within an inch of her, that Diana would wake up, and Great Aunt Pauline would be chuckling at some sitcom in the other room, and her adoptive mother would be asleep. Diana would have to look around, of course, have to reassure herself that she was still in the right room, that this was her room, photos and all, this was her room with Netflix playing to help Diana sleep, and that she was safe. All the while wishing that she could get to sleep without those strange images dancing in front of her eyes. She envied those who had good dreams. She always did.

"Those dreams have been going on for quite some time, haven't they?" Mrs. Grayson's voice was careful all the while, gentle, enough for Diana to relax a bit despite herself.

Diana nodded. "A long time, actually. It's always been a recurring dream of mine — not a constant one. It's just something that's always been in the back of my head and comes up when I don't want it to. Usually when I'm under stress." That was true enough. There always was the fear of the Monster Slayer reaching where they lived; Mom had constantly moved Diana from place to place just to avoid that. It seemed that the only real constant in Diana's childhood was, honestly, the matter of the wolves she had been raised with. She couldn't remember the last time she had actually felt stability. A feeling of belonging. She always was prepared to move, just to get away from the ever present threat of the Monster Slayer, just to get away from the ever present worry of please-God-don't-let-him-get-me.