Chapter 4: The Awakening That Burned Away Who I Used to Be
1316 Words
I don't sleep that night.
I sit on the bathroom floor with my back against the tub, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror. The silver in my eyes hasn't faded. The fangs haven't retracted. Every few minutes, a pulse of heat rolls through my body, making my skin prickle and my muscles twitch.
I try to think. To make sense of what's happening to me. But my brain keeps circling back to the same impossible fact: I'm changing. I'm becoming something I don't understand.
The old stories come back to me in fragments. The ones the elders told to scare the young wolves into obedience. About the lost bloodlines. The wolves so powerful they had to be erased from history. I never paid attention. I never thought they had anything to do with me.
But my eyes are silver. My teeth are sharp. And something inside me is waking up.
I press my palm to the mirror. The glass is cold, but my hand is hot, and a faint fog forms around my fingers. I watch my reflection watch me, and for a moment I don't recognize the girl in the glass.
She looks older. Fiercer. Like someone who's been waiting a long time to come out.
The heat peaks again. This time it's different—sharper, more focused. It starts in my chest and radiates outward, down my arms, into my fingertips. I feel something shift under my skin, a rippling sensation like muscles rearranging themselves. I gasp and pull my hand away from the mirror.
My nails are longer. Darker at the tips, almost black. Not quite claws, but close.
"Okay," I whisper to myself. "Okay. This is happening. This is real. Just breathe."
I don't breathe. I hyperventilate until my vision goes spotty, and then I force myself to count to ten. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. The way my therapist taught me. The way I've been doing for years.
It works, barely. My pulse slows. The heat recedes, settling into a low, constant warmth beneath my skin. I look at my hands again. The nails are still dark, but they're not growing anymore. The silver in my eyes is still there, but less bright.
I sit on the bathroom floor until the sun comes up.
Dawn is grey and cold, the same as yesterday. I pack nothing—I have nothing to pack—and leave the motel room behind. The twenty-dollar bill Marge gave me covered the night, but I'm out of money now. Out of options. Out of places to go.
The town wakes up around me as I walk. Cars start. Lights turn on in windows. A bakery opens its doors, and the smell of fresh bread makes my stomach cramp with hunger. I keep walking.
I don't know where I'm going. I just know I can't stay here. I need to find somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can figure out what's happening to me without anyone watching.
I walk until the town ends and the forest begins. The trees are thick and old, the kind that have been standing for centuries. I push through the undergrowth, branches scratching at my jacket, and find a small clearing hidden from the road.
I sit on a fallen log and finally let myself think.
The bond is gone. The King made sure of that. But something else is happening. Something that feels older, deeper, more permanent. Something that was already inside me, waiting.
I close my eyes and reach inward. I don't know what I'm looking for, but I feel it—a presence, coiled tight and sleeping. The warmth from last night. It's still there. Waiting.
I probe it carefully, like a tongue exploring a broken tooth. It stirs. A pulse of heat rolls through my chest, then spreads outward. My skin prickles. My muscles twitch. And then—
Pain.
Sharp, searing, like a knife driven straight through my ribs. I double over and scream, but no sound comes out. My body is on fire. Every nerve ending is lit up at once, and I feel myself—
Changing.
It's not a shift the way the wolves describe. There's no grace to it, no fluid motion. It's a breaking and a remaking, bones cracking and reforming, skin stretching and splitting. I feel my spine arch, my shoulders widen, my fingers lengthen into claws.
It lasts forever. It lasts a second.
When it's over, I'm on my hands and knees in the dirt. My clothes are shredded. My body is covered in fine silver-grey fur. My muzzle is long, my ears are pointed, and I can hear everything—the rustle of leaves, the heartbeat of a squirrel fifty feet away, the distant hum of a car on the highway.
I am a wolf.
I don't know how to shift back.
Hours pass. Maybe more. The sun moves across the sky, and I stay curled in the clearing, terrified to move. My wolf body is strange and unfamiliar. Every sound is too loud. Every smell is too strong. The ground under my paws feels different, more textured, like I can feel every grain of dirt and every blade of grass.
I try to shift back. I focus hard, the way I used to focus on my breathing during therapy. But nothing happens. I'm stuck.
"Okay," I say, but it comes out as a whine. "Okay. Think. There has to be a way."
I don't know if it works the same for wolves. I don't know if shifting is something you learn or something you just do. The wolves in the pack made it look effortless, but they had years of practice. They had families to teach them.
I have nothing.
I lie down in the leaves and wait. Maybe I'll die here. Maybe I'll stay like this forever. Maybe someone will find me and put me out of my misery.
Then I hear footsteps.
Not animal. Human. Slow and deliberate, someone walking through the forest without trying to hide it. I lift my head, ears swiveling toward the sound. My instinct says run, but I'm too exhausted. Too broken. I stay where I am and wait.
He emerges from the trees.
He's old. Older than anyone I've ever seen. His hair is white, his face is lined with wrinkles, and he walks with a carved wooden staff that he leans on heavily. He wears simple clothes—a worn coat, thick boots, a scarf wrapped around his neck.
When he sees me, he doesn't startle. He doesn't reach for a weapon. He just stops and looks at me with eyes that are pale and clear and surprisingly sharp.
"Well," he says. "Took you long enough."
I whine in confusion. He's not afraid of me. He's not even surprised.
"Shift back," he says. "You can do it. It's not hard. Just picture your human face. Feel it in your bones. Let the skin remember what it's supposed to look like."
I try. I picture my face, my hands, my feet. I feel the warmth in my chest again, and this time I lean into it. The pain is less sharp than before—still uncomfortable, but not unbearable. I feel my bones shift, my fur recede, my claws shorten.
And then I'm human again. Naked, cold, but human.
"Good," the old man says. "Took you two tries, but that's not bad for someone who didn't know she could shift until yesterday."
I open my mouth to speak, but all that comes out is a croak. My throat is raw.
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a thin blanket. He tosses it to me, and I wrap it around myself with shaking hands.
"Who are you?" I manage.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "I'm the person who's been waiting for you. Sit down, child. We have a lot to talk about."
- Writer
