The Boy Who Loved The Werewolf
First off, it's all those damn witches fault. I knew I shouldn't have killed their mother, but its not like I had a choice! It is-or was-my job to slay, back in 1692. Yea, that long ago. But we were living in a primitive world and the word "witch" got to anyone's ears, and all hell would break loose. Those damn women, three girls all of the marrying age at the time, their mother was accused of witchcraft. It was my job to dispose of the witches. I was the executioner after all, but I was supposed to do it as if it were an accident.
The night I went after the girls mother, they were home and watched me do it. Crying, sobbing, screaming at me to stop. But I couldn't, I wasn't allowed. At the end I felt something happening to me, I was getting dizzy and everything was hazy. I heard the three girls speaking-no, cursing me in unison.
"You have slain our mother, an innocent women. She had not been dabbling in witchery, she only kept our secret. For having killed our mother, we curse you and your family to roam the world as immortals. Never growing old after the age of twenty one and turning into the beasts you are at the age sixteen. Every night when the moon rises, you and your family shall turn into giant beasts. Beasts bigger than bears but in the body of a wolf. Each night you will kill and you must live with the guilt of the murders you are capable of. Are you satisfied with the blood you've shed tonight?!"
Those words are burned into my skull, never leaving. The witches were hanged a few days later, on the night of a full moon.
That's when my curse began.
Present day, it's easier to hide nowadays from the community. Nobody is looking for me, trying to hunt me down and kill me. At least, not that I know of.
But anyways, my name is Fiona Mansfield. I was only seventeen years old when I was an executioner in the Salem Witch Trials. Three witches cast a spell on my family and me, that was 322 years ago. I am 339 now and my family and I are werewolves.