The Wolf That Saved Me

The world blurred in front of me, neon lights melting into streaks of color as I stumbled out of the bar. My mother was dead. That fact sat in my chest like a weight, pressing the air from my lungs with every step. I wasn’t even sure how I’d gotten here, to this dingy dive bar on the outskirts of town, but the whiskey burned in my stomach, and I welcomed the numbness it brought. Anything was better than the crushing emptiness of grief. The parking lot was deserted, save for my car sitting beneath a flickering streetlamp. I fumbled for my keys, blinking away the haze clouding my vision. I knew I shouldn’t drive, not like this. But the thought of going home to an empty house made my stomach churn. I didn’t see the headlights until they were almost on top of me. Time slowed. My breath caught in my throat as a pair of blinding beams bore down on me. A truck, speeding. My body froze, too slow, too drunk, too A blur of motion. A force slamming into me. The world flipped upside down. I hit the pavement hard, my head cracking against the asphalt. Pain shot through me, but before I could even process what had happened, I felt it, teeth sinking into my skin. A growl vibrated through the night. Hot breath against my throat. And then—nothing. When I forced my eyes open, I was alone. No truck. No attacker. Just the cold night air and the dull throb of something burning beneath my skin. I pressed my hand to my shoulder where I swore I had been bitten, but there was no blood. Only a faint crescent of indents where something, someone had sunk their teeth into me. I should have run. I should have screamed. Instead, I staggered to my feet and whispered into the darkness: “Who… are you?” The wind howled in response. Whoever saved me had vanished. And nothing would ever be the same again. The nightmares started the next night. Dark woods. Glowing eyes. The taste of blood in my mouth. I woke up drenched in sweat, gasping for air as though I had been running for miles. My body ached in ways I couldn’t explain, and my skin felt feverishly hot one second, then freezing cold the next. At first, I thought it was the hangover. But the days passed, and the symptoms only got worse. I could barely sleep. My head throbbed constantly. My skin had grown pale, almost sickly, with dark circles sinking beneath my eyes. My hands shook when I tried to write in class, and my focus was slipping. By the end of the week, my grades had tanked. “Olivia, you failed another quiz.” My professor’s voice was stern, but I barely registered it. I stared at the paper in front of me, red ink slashed across every answer. I used to be a straight-A student. This wasn’t me. “You need to get your priorities straight, Miss Carter,” he continued. “Are you even sleeping?” No. But I wasn’t about to tell him that. Instead, I stuffed the paper into my bag and walked out of class, heart hammering as I made my way across campus. I needed to talk to someone. I needed someone to tell me I wasn’t losing my mind. I found Cara sitting outside the library, flipping through her textbook with a bored expression. My best friend since middle school, the one person I could trust. She took one look at me and frowned. “Liv, you look like shit.” “Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, sitting beside her. She shut her book, eyes narrowing. “Alright, what’s going on? And don’t say ‘nothing’ because I know when you’re lying.” I swallowed hard, my fingers tightening into fists. “I think… I think I was bitten by something.” Cara raised an eyebrow. “Bitten? Like by a dog?” I hesitated. “No. Not a dog.” Her frown deepened. “Liv…” I took a shaky breath. “That night… the night I got drunk after my mom died… I almost got hit by a truck. But something saved me. It—it bit me.” Cara’s expression shifted from concern to something else, something cautious. “Okay… What do you mean, something?” I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears. “I don’t know! It was fast. It was strong. And then it disappeared.” She let out a slow exhale, running a hand through her hair. “Liv, do you hear yourself right now? You were wasted. You probably tripped, hit your head, and imagined the rest.” I clenched my jaw. “I didn’t imagine it.” She looked at me carefully, her voice softening. “Liv… maybe you should talk to someone. Like a counselor or…” I shot to my feet. “You think I’m crazy.” “I didn’t say that.” “You don’t have to.” I turned on my heel and stormed away before she could say anything else. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was crazy. But then why did my body feel like it was changing? Why did my skin feel like it was burning from the inside out? Why did my senses feel sharper, my hearing more sensitive, my nose picking up scents I shouldn’t even notice? By the end of the month, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I dropped out of school. I told myself it was temporary. That I just needed time to get better. But deep down, I knew the truth. I wasn’t getting better. I was becoming something else. NIGHT OF THE FULL MOON The night I lost myself, the moon was full. It started with the pain. A deep, bone-crushing agony that ripped through my body, twisting and contorting me into something unnatural. My skin burned like it was being peeled away, my spine cracked as it lengthened, and my fingernails split into something sharp, something deadly. I had never known true agony until that moment. I remember running_ no, hunting. The trees blurred past me as I tore through the woods, a primal hunger taking over my thoughts. I smelled something familiar. Warm. Sweet. Alive. Then, screams. At first, I thought they were mine. But when I woke up, naked and drenched in something thick and sticky, I realized they weren’t. Blood. The metallic scent flooded my nose before I even opened my eyes. My stomach twisted, my body trembling violently as I lifted my hands. Crimson stained my fingers, smeared across my arms, my bare chest, my lips. My breath hitched in my throat, the sickening taste of iron lingering on my tongue. Then I saw her. Cara’s body lay sprawled on the cold earth, her throat torn open. Her wide, unblinking eyes stared up at the sky, frozen in terror. No. No, no, no. A sob choked its way out of my throat as I crawled toward her, my fingers digging into the dirt. "Cara…?" My voice was barely a whisper, shaking so violently I barely recognized it. She didn’t answer. She would never answer again. Because I had killed her. I felt bile rise in my throat, my body convulsing as I staggered back, shaking my head. This couldn’t be real. But it was. The blood was real. Her lifeless body was real. And the monstrous thing inside me, the thing that had ripped her apart was real. I screamed. I screamed so loud I thought my lungs would collapse. I clawed at my skin, desperate to tear it off, to rip away whatever thing had taken over me. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't escape it. I wasn’t Olivia Carter anymore. I was a monster. And I had just killed the only person who ever truly cared about me. Like a fugitive, I ran until my legs gave out. The pain in my chest had nothing to do with exhaustion, it was the weight of what I’d done. The blood on my hands. The lifeless stare in Cara’s eyes. I couldn't stay. Not in that town. Not with the smell of death still lingering in my lungs. So I ran. I took the little money I had left, stole clothes from a laundromat, and hitched a ride to a town where no one knew my name. A town where Olivia Carter didn’t exist. (One Month Later) The town of Ashwood was small, buried in the heart of nowhere, surrounded by thick forests that seemed to swallow the sky. It was the kind of place where people asked too many questions, where everyone knew each other’s business. I rented a cheap room above a rundown diner, paid in cash, and kept my head down. The only job I could get was working nights at a bar, wiping down tables and pretending I didn’t feel like I was coming apart at the seams. But the symptoms didn’t stop. The hunger. The fevers. The unbearable ache in my bones whenever the moon grew full. And the nightmares. I dreamed of blood. Of tearing flesh. Of screams that sounded too familiar. Every night, I woke up gasping for air, drenched in sweat, gripping the sheets like they could hold me together. They never did. (Then Came the Missing Person Report) I saw it on the old TV behind the bar. A picture of Cara. The words: MISSING. PRESUMED DEAD. Her family was still looking for her. The police were still searching for answers. I was the answer. The weight of it crushed me, drowning me in guilt so thick I could barely breathe. I gripped the bar counter, my nails digging into the worn wood. My stomach churned. I thought I might be sick. Then, a whisper of movement outside the window made my blood run cold. Someone was watching me. Not a cop. Not a stranger. Something else. I could feel it in my bones, in the way my skin prickled like a warning. I wasn’t alone.