Wolves of the Coast

Chapter 6: The Call Home

I never imagined I would have to return. Not after everything I have endured. Yet, here I stand, bracing myself in front of Commander Harris, who seems to loom larger than life, his authoritative presence making the walls feel as if they are closing in around me.

“Ethan, you need to go home,” Commander Harris states, his voice resolute yet tempered with a hint of compassion. “Your father is missing, and there’s a possibility he’s dead. You need to close this chapter of your life.”

I shake my head, a surge of tumultuous memories from my childhood crashing over me like a tidal wave. “I can’t, sir. I don’t want to relive that agony. The abuse…it’s too overwhelming.”

Commander Harris regards me intently, his eyes reflecting a profound understanding that pierces through my defenses. “I know it’s difficult,” he replies gently. “But you must confront it. You can’t keep fleeing from your past.”

A part of me yearns to protest, to insist that he doesn’t grasp the depths of my pain, but deep down, I recognize the truth in his words. I inhale, attempting to calm the storm within me. “Fine. I’ll go,” I concede, my voice concealing the turmoil inside. “But I’m not happy about it.”

Leaving my team is proving to be more challenging than I ever expected. We’ve shared countless experiences—moments of laughter, struggles, and triumphs—and the idea of confronting my past alone sends a chill down my spine.

Ramirez is the first to approach me, his expression shadowed with concern. “Hey, Ethan. You sure you’re okay with this?” His voice is steady but laced with an undercurrent of worry.

A nod, masking internal turmoil, escaped me. It’s something I need to do.” My words carry the weight of resolve, but they falter under the strain of my truth.

Ramirez places a reassuring hand on my shoulder, his grip warm and firm—a silent promise of support. “Just remember, we’re here for you. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to reach out.” His words linger in the air between us, a lifeline between my past and the uncertain road ahead.

The rest of the team gathers around, their faces a blend of concern and determination, offering words of encouragement that resonate in the charged air. Lieutenant Jackson steps forward, his eyes gleaming with a profound understanding that speaks volumes.

Blackwood, this will prove challenging. But I know your strength, and you’ve got us backing you every step of the way. Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself out there.”

I nod, a wave of gratitude washing over me, tempered by a twinge of apprehension. “Thanks, sir. I’ll do my best.”

As I pack my belongings, a heavy sense of foreboding envelops me like a suffocating fog. Memories of my childhood swirl around me, spectral echoes that haunt my every thought. I strive to concentrate on the mundane task at hand, but waves of fear and anxiety crash over me, relentless and inescapable. Each item I place in my battered bag feels like a fragment of my past—an artifact that weighs with the pain and trauma I’ve fought to survive. That old photo of my mother,

I pause, cradling the photograph of my mother in trembling hands. Her gentle eyes, brimming with warmth and love, stand in stark contrast to the darkness that enveloped our lives after her untimely death. A painful lump forms in my throat as emotions threaten to overwhelm me, a tide of grief and longing that I struggle to contain. I inhale, attempting to steady my racing heart, but the weight of my past presses down even harder, each breath a reminder of the fear I wish I could shed.

The flight to Oregon is a simmering volcano of tension. I sit in my cramped seat, my gaze riveted to the window as the patchwork of landscapes unfolds beneath me. The clouds drift past like a vast, white tapestry woven from whispers, yet my mind is a turbulent ocean of dark memories crashing against the shores of the present.

I recall the long, haunting nights I spent nestled among the towering trees, shrouded in the embrace of the woods, seeking refuge from my father’s unpredictable rages fueled by alcohol. The icy grip of fear wraps around my heart, the sharp pangs of pain echo through my chest, and the suffocating loneliness presses down like an oppressive fog. I close my eyes tight, willing the memories to fade, yet they cling to me with the persistence of shadows, haunting and inescapable.

As the plane descends, I catch sight of the coastline I know all too well—the jagged cliffs rising defiantly from the roiling sea, their rugged faces kissed by the frothy waves below. The dense forests stretch endlessly, their emerald canopy contrasting with the deep blue of the ocean. It’s a breathtaking view, yet beneath its beauty lies an unsettling familiarity that feels constricting, almost like a prison. The tension in my chest tightens, each heartbeat echoing the gravity of the moment. I take a deep, steadying breath, trying to ground myself amidst the swirl of emotions as I prepare to confront the past that awaits.

When I arrive at the old farmhouse, it feels as though I’ve crossed the threshold into a waking nightmare. The structure leans slightly, its aged facade a canvas of peeling paint and weathered wood, while the windows stand cracked and clouded like the eyes of a long-forgotten specter. I pause at the entrance, my heart thundering in my chest, a mix of apprehension and curiosity flooding my senses.

I push the door open, the rusted hinges groaning in protest, and step into the dim interior. The air is thick with an oppressive silence, heavy with the musty scent of dust and decay that gnaws at my throat. Each cautious step I take reverberates through the hollow halls, the floorboards creaking beneath my weight, sending an icy shiver racing down my spine. As I wander from room to room, the shadows seem to flicker with memories, each corner igniting vivid flashbacks that tug at the edges of my mind, blurring the line between past and present.

The kitchen looms in my memory like a haunting shadow. I can still see my father standing there, his face contorted with rage, fists clenched tightly, as if gripping the last vestiges of control. The echoes of punishments and merciless beatings reverberate in my mind, intertwining with an overwhelming sense of fear that settles deep in my bones. I close my eyes, trying to block out the flood of memories, but they surge forth, relentless and inescapable.

I escape to the living room, a sanctuary of bittersweet recollections where my mother used to cradle me in her arms and read enchanting stories. Her gentle voice, like a soothing melody, and her warm, radiant smile are the only fragments of joy I can cling to. The crushing darkness after her death overshadows even these cherished moments, leaving a lingering ache in my heart.

I step outside, a wave of fresh air washing over me as I seek to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the house. Before me, a wild forest: both refuge and unnerving. I recall the moments spent hidden among the trees, where the gentle rustling of leaves and the melodic calls of birds offered solace to my troubled mind. Yet, lurking in the shadows of my memory is the strange creature I once glimpsed—its haunting visage emerging from the darkness, forever etched in my dreams, a reminder of the mysteries that dwell within these woods.