Only Broken

Feral truth

A conversation, eerily similar to the one I overheard when I was previously unconscious, unfolds around me again. But this time, there’s a woman among them.

Her voice carries concern—deep and genuine—but that doesn’t silence the nagging feeling in my gut. My instincts scream that I’m not surrounded by humans.

Despite the fear clawing at my chest, I decide to wake up in their presence. I need to understand what’s happening.

The first person I lay eyes on is a striking dark-haired woman, seemingly in her early forties. The moment our eyes meet, she gasps. There’s recognition in her gaze, clear as day. But this is my first time seeing her.

I turn my head to the left, and my breath catches. My eyes widen in shock as I sit up abruptly, drawing my knees to my chest as I back away from them—especially him.

“I’m so glad you’re awake, Claire.” he says, his voice calm, steady, as if this is normal. As if I didn’t just wake up in a stranger’s house.

“You remember me, right? I’m—”

“Peter,” I cut him off with a glare. He’s the man my mom introduced me to at the waterfall—the head of one of the founding families of this town.

He’d seemed… nice. The kind of man people respected. I never would have expected this.

“I know you must be scared and overwhelmed, but it’s okay now… you’re safe.” His tone is reassuring and almost convincing. Almost.

A part of me wants to believe him—but then I remember. They’re not human.

“You’re Claire, right?” The woman steps forward a fraction, offering a small, careful smile. “We’re not going to—”

She reaches out, then stops when I flinch.

Her smile falters. She and Peter exchange a quick look, like they’re sorting through things inside their heads without saying a word.

My heart hammers.

“Where am I?” My voice is rough. “And what are you people?”

Their faces change, first showing interest, then something gentler. Both of their brows lift, as if the question was expected.

Peter exhales and pulls a chair over, moving slowly, like he’s handling something fragile. He puts his hands on his knees and meets my eyes.

“Claire,” he says softly, “this is—hard to say. It might sound impossible. It might actually sound crazy. But please—just listen for a minute.”

I keep my hands clenched so hard I can feel the nails press into my palms.

He takes a breath. “We’re werewolves, Claire.”

My stomach drops as if someone’s punched it.

“And you…” He lets the sentence hang. “You’re one of us.”

I don’t even blink. I stare at them as if they’ve lost their minds. Maybe they have.

The woman steps a little closer now, her expression full of something that isn’t pity—more like careful concern. “Have you ever heard the word ‘werewolf’ before?” she asks, gently. “Do you know what people mean when they say that?”

I nod slowly, because I do know—sort of. “Yes… but they’re myths told in stories. They’re not real.”

Peter watches me, his grey eyes patient. “You saw those two boys shift, didn’t you? You saw their bodies change?” His voice is steady; he’s not trying to shock me—he’s trying to help me put the pieces together.

But I can’t answer right away because my memory replays the scene like a horrible movie.

Glowing eyes, fur sprouting with the sickening sound of bones breaking and skin changing. I shut my eyes against it and sink back a little on the bed.

“No. No, werewolves aren’t real,” I whisper. “They’re make-believe.”

The woman exchanges a look with Peter, then speaks softer still. “We know this is a lot. You’ve been through something frightening. But sometimes the truth feels impossible until someone explains it.”

I press my back into the mattress, the familiar stiffness of fear curling around me.

Peter leans forward, elbows on his knees, speaking slowly as if each word matters. “It’s not just about what you saw. There are signs—we don’t tell you this to frighten you, Claire, but because it’s important.” He pauses, eyes never leaving mine. “Your hearing… your sense of smell… maybe your sight. You can do things other kids your age can’t.”

My pulse ratchets up. How does he know that?

The woman reaches out, not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth of her hand near mine.

“You’re thirteen,” she says quietly. “And at your age, if a wolf is waking up inside you, it starts to show. You heal faster, you notice sounds, you smell things stronger. That’s your wolf growing.”

My breathing turns shallow as they wait for my reaction.

Peter’s voice goes softer, the explanation folding into something almost tender. “When you were attacked, you were badly hurt. You healed—faster than anyone should have. That’s not something we’d expect from a normal human.”

I stare at him. “How do you know about that?” How does he know about the attack in the woods?

He meets my gaze with his grey eyes steady. “Because we’re werewolves, Claire. And the thing that attacked you—” He hesitates, choosing the word carefully. “—they are also werewolves but not like us. We call those ones rogues.”

“Rogues?” The word feels wrong in my mouth. In fact all this new info causes my head to spin.

“Yes,” the woman says, gentling it with an explanation. “Rogues are wolves who’ve lost themselves. They lose control and their instincts take over. They’re dangerous, and they don’t think like the rest of us.”

I shake my head, as if denying it will make it stop.

Peter’s shoulders slump the tiniest bit. “We can explain more,” he promises. “We want to help you understand what this means.”

My breath hitches. “I don’t need help, you two should see a therapist.”

Peter’s jaw tightens, but the woman lays a hand lightly on his arm, steadying the moment. “Give her time,” she says quietly.

He nods and stands. “All right.” He looks back at me once more. “Rest, Claire. Someone will bring you something to eat and change into."

As they move toward the door, a tall man in a white lab coat steps in, pausing to glance at us all. The air shifts slightly.

“The blood tests are in,” he says to the room. “You should see this.”

They all exchange looks, then—just like that—they’re gone, and I’m left alone with my thoughts.

I lie back on the pillow and stare at the shut door. My head feels like it’s splitting in two.

No matter how hard I try, the idea won’t leave me: something inside me just shifted. My life, somehow, has changed.