We Were Wolves
The day my isosceles became equilateral
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
She shot me a frosty glare, and I reflexively looked away.
I should never have agreed to take her on. She’s too inexperienced, and I struggle enough with interactions as is. This is a recipe for disaster — crash and burn.
Werewolves are meant to hunt alone.
“Is it a good time to talk?”
Of course, she doesn’t wait for my answer. She knows the lines but doesn’t understand them.
“I wanted to tell you how grateful I am. I wouldn’t have survived without your help.”
Damn right.
“But I noticed a few things you could improve.”
I bare my teeth and am met with a knowing smirk.
She’s been at this for six months, while my apex predator status remains unchallenged across these ancient woods for five years. And she dares to behave like my equal?
“I’m going to give you a thirty-second head start.”
“Run.”
“You don’t understand,” she says, pulling a gun from under her fur, “I’m not into these old-school teachings. I want to learn the new tricks.”
My turn to smirk.
“You don’t understand,” I say, showing the silver bullets I stole from her. “First, the old tricks, then the new ones.”
A blinding flash of lightning stuns us both.
All the sounds die, leaves falling still like they are afraid to move. Charcoal clouds wrap the moon in a deathly embrace, and the glitter of fireflies dims as they nestle into the ground.
It wasn’t supposed to rain today, it can’t.
“Is this part of the training?!” She asks. Her fur bristles with shades of dark turquoise I’ve never seen before.
“Now you listen and do what I say. The Hunters are no joke. They want our furs.”
Her smirk again. “But they’ll get our fangs.”
I’m starting to like her.
Moments ago, I’d wanted to kill her. Now a wave of responsibility blisters in my ears. The future of our kind rests on my ruthless brand of leadership. I thrive on preparedness, but my instincts are sharper.
We wait for a sign, the crunching of twigs, clinks of snares, laughter — anything.
Nothing. I don’t understand. I smell the Hunters in the air. What disguise did they choose?
My eyes linger on her turquoise shimmers. The finger I run over her fur comes back with blood.
The Hunters are in the air.
I don’t have time to explain. It’s a split-second decision.
Digging came easily. All she needs is time.
Humans have come for my territory before, but I didn’t expect them to target my weakness.
I want to shred some necks.
My steps falter as I form my attack strategy, heart threatening to leap out of my rib cage.
Wolf’s bane.
I know these plants don’t affect me, but centuries of conditioning are hard to overcome. Legends exist because people believe in them. I take deep breaths and recentre my focus with a mantra.
My fur is the fractal.
My howl is the foghorn.
I’m the ferocious beast.
The imperfect isosceles.
The difference between a panic and a heart attack is one of them passes. I’m seconds away from bursting a hole into my abdomen when I begin to regain my senses.
I feel her low pulse, one I’ve wanted to snuff out countless times.
It’s time to stalk my predators.
Bad news for them. I didn’t have time to brush my teeth after my putrid raccoon breakfast. They will have to deal with my bad breath on top of their missing limbs. The first one is an easy target. He made a stop to pee against a tree — rookie mistake.
The hallucinations are fading, yet there are too many of them to count. On another night, I’d make them watch, maim a body, and soak up the heightening panic.
I stand on all fours, letting my weight do the work. Crushing bones make beautiful symphonies.
Shrapnel scrapes against my jaw.
Fuck.
Turquoise trips out of the bushes.
I just christened her with a battle name.
She shakes off soil from her fur and asks, “Ready to unleash the Tsunami?” We form the imperfect isosceles with our paws and merge our spirits. It’s her first fight, and she’s stealing the show.
Incredible.
Slivers of moonlight perforate the sky, her agile movements precede my brute force. Every swing is a slash, my fists pummelling through ribs.
This isn’t anticipation or skill, it’s trust.
I feel a thunderous crack in my meticulously guarded heart.
This is wrong. This won’t last. It can’t be me.
Author’s note
We co-wrote this story with Debdutta Pal in alternate increments of 50 words on Notes.
It’s a true pleasure to improv-write with her because she’s very talented AND lets me steal words from her poems. (Thank you!) I meant she lets me find inspiration from her poetry — this one in the present case.
Fun fact! The story is 750 words instead of our usual 500 because we had too much fun to stop!
Yes, my postcard stack is ready. Now, I'm watching the subscribers graph. 😁
This was such an interesting experience, when I read it back, I can't believe I wrote half of it.
Sometimes, inspiration comes from odd places. And it helps when you don't doubt yourself. :)