The Power-lock (UNDER CONSTRUCTION)

CHAPTER X : ROSS

"I am vile, don't you get it?" Tears flowing down her cheeks and overcome with self-pity, she fought for air. "I am Midas, I drain life and happiness from everything that I touch," she said in between whimpers. Ross looked at the wreck in front of him, glare fixed on her twinkling eyes. He had always found them full of playful mischief and spirit. Never once did he think those eyes would veil such a crippled soul.

He didn't know what to do - fearing he might utter something inappropriate that would do the her current state more harm. He started counting ten breaths.

One, two. He cleared his mind of all surfacing thoughts that were useless to the situation at hand. Three, four, five. He started taking cautious steps p towards her. Six, seven. He filtered his mind for good advice that wouldn't offend her or her feelings.

He could only think of his dad telling him it was okay for a wolf to not have an anticipatory shift - his kind eyes pouring forth a boutade of understandingness, crinkled at the corners like golden beams emitting from a mango sun.

He now thought of his mother helping him blend every color on the canvas; familiarizing him with every emotion behind their intensity, teaching him to paint miracles that you couldn't just see but smell and hear like an an artly onomatopoeia.

Lastly, came to his mind, his little sister. Standing at a dainty three feet, she had the most elevated choice of words. He always fell in awe of the possibility of it but then again, he had met the most unusual circumstances himself.

Thinking of his family, he felt like he was amidst them again. He could feel himself transported back home at the Packhouse - the constant chatter and occasional bark every new and then from the kitchen; the pungent smell off cinnamon prevailing in every hook and nook, from the air to the clothes that covered skin, it was wonderfully vexing! Thinking of his family, he felt like the luckiest wolf alive buy not everyone was born on the right end of the rainbow.

Eight, nine. He sat down on the hollow, decaying log beside Andrea, taking a deep breath, preparing himself to finally say for he still hadn't and from what he had learnt, silence only birthed misunderstandings and complications.

From across him, he could feel her shifting on the log. He looked up over his right shoulder and for a moment, their eyes met - both pairs tired but filled with emotion. Ten. And suddenly, Ross knew exactly what to say.

"You know, someone once wise once told me that everyone wants appreciation but it always has to start with the person in the mirror."

She let out a snort. "Quoting me back to myself, eh? Nice move, chucho," said Andrea as she raised an eyebrow and douted all traces of the pain and misery she had been putting up with.

A smile played upon his lips at the mention of that name. Once used as a derogatory term, it now felt that of endearment- one that he felt entitled to. It had been a while she had called him by that and suddenly, he could smell cinnamon all around him.