The Wolf

Because I am just so darned creative that I have to name a story about a werewolf "The Wolf."

*sigh*

(no parts this time because I wouldn't know where to cut it off...)

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A deep, primal yell burst forth from his lips and into the cool night air. The sound echoed in the dark forest around him. Despite having experienced this since his early adolescence, Haydn had never grown accustomed to that yell. Each time it terrified him, this inhuman bellow that was a result of the agonizing change that tore through his body. His bones ached as they twisted and ground against each other; his skin itched and itched as coarse, dark hair sprouted all over his body. The bellow rose in pitch and slowly became less of a painful “aaaaaAAAAAAAAAgggggggggh!” and more of the familiar “aaaaaoooooOOOOOOOOO!” that haunted his dreams and his very being.
Above him, taunting him, hung the huge white moon, stark against the black, starless sky.


He awoke hours later. This, too, was not new. Every time that full, white moon hung in the sky, Haydn stole away to the deepest part of the woods and hoped he wouldn’t hurt anyone. If he were to hurt someone...he shook his head and that thought fluttered away. He didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to think about keeping his dinner—whatever poor creature it had been—in his stomach. He didn’t want to see it again, no, then he might start thinking about what it might have been, and then...what if it had been a rabbit? Or a deer? Images of Bambi and his pet rabbit appeared in his head. He may have been a grown man, but he still didn’t like to think of Bambi or Oreo the bunny being his supper. The very thought almost made him vomit.
Slowly he stood, stark in his nakedness. It was a logical thought that a wolf would not be able to wear clothes, but Haydn still wished that he could. No matter how many times he might have walked nude through the trees, he wished and wished he could have something to wear on his trek home. There were rarely any people in these parts of the woods, but he was so timid that the thought made him terrified. Or perhaps it was because Haydn had so rarely seen people since he had began living on his own in the woods. Fourteen was a hard age to start being alone all the time, but...Haydn knew he had to. A shudder ran through him as he remembered. Yes, he had to.
He paused, seeing his shack of a home. It was well-hidden, but a trained eye could pick out the shape easily. A clump of trees stood close together and in the middle was his little house. The outside was the color of the trees and it almost look like it was part of all the trees, some unique trunk that held them all together. Haydn raised a hand and placed it on the nearest tree. All of this forest was his home now, though he might still, sometimes, just a little bit, miss his old home. Miss his father and his mother. Miss his little sister and her smile. That was how it was and he would deal with it.
Haydn continued on to his home, no longer wincing at the stick and rocks that hurt his feet. That was one thing he had gotten used to, luckily. Once inside his shabby but still comfortable home, Haydn began to dress. His clothes were old and torn, much like you’d expect a castaway’s to be. His clothes were not this way because of a disaster, though, but because he had to wear them so often. Though it shamed him, he was forced to steal clothes every now and then. He wore the clothes as much as he could, though, to ensure that he wouldn’t have to do it so often. Otherwise he might have gone insane in that little shack and no one wanted that.
Haydn chewed on his lip at the thought of being insane. What if it were to happen while he was a wolf? That would make things very hard to hide, now wouldn’t it? But, then again, maybe he already was insane as the wolf. That would make sense. If wolves were insane, then he could blame the things he did as one on that. But Haydn didn’t think it was that easy. Things were never that easy.
After he was dressed, he wandered outside again to walk. It was all he really did to pass the days because it was the only thing he felt was safe; safe for him, from him, for those other people. He always, always worried about them. What if some child wondered into his part of the forest one moonlit night? Stories of creatures in the forest had all but died out nowadays. No one was afraid of Nature or her fantastically monstrous children. No one thought that a man could ever possibly become a wolf. And yet it happened. It just showed how little man really knew until it happened to him.
A strange yet familiar sound caught Haydn’s attention. It took him a moment to understand what it was, but when he did a bolt of terror struck him like lightning. He froze and listened again for it. And there it was. A tinkling sound, something young and innocent and probably the last sound he’d ever want to here: A child’s laugh.
He wanted to run. He knew he had to run. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t move. His feet had become tree roots that glued him to the spot. For some reason this seemed the most logical explanation and he checked his feet to see if they were, indeed, roots that snaked into the ground, but they weren’t, because that was illogical. But so was a man becoming a wolf and a boy a having to leave his home at only fourteen and living the rest of his life in the woods alone, but this was more so, it couldn’t happen, but the others could, so why not? Why not become a tree and stay there, finally a beautiful part of nature that could hear a child’s laugh without being scared?
Haydn shook his head. He had to gain control. Looking around him, he tried to find the child. If he could find the little bundle of joy, he could get as far away as possible. And then the child would be safe. He might need to find a new home, maybe even a whole new forest, but it would be okay. Anything would be better than finding the little girl or boy, finding them and being unable to control himself…
Now, any sort of supernatural logic would make one think that he should have been fine then. If he was only a wolf during the full moon, then why shouldn’t he be human right that second, shouldn’t he be human every second that the full moon was gone? It made sense, or as much sense as anything that was a part of Nature’s darker and hidden side. But Haydn always felt that a little of him was always that creature. Part of him was always wild and barbaric, wishing to tear something apart. He was so scared of that part of him that he wouldn’t dare let himself near people. If it were to take over, just for a moment, then what would happen? Who could die? He knew television and books showed werewolves—for that was what he was, wasn’t it?—being a part of society. They were just like everyone else, weren’t they? They were just normal people that turned into wolves every once in awhile. But Haydn never felt like that. He always felt that little bit of wolf tearing at him, wanting to get out. In the middle of nowhere? That was alright. He could make sure no one was hurt here because there was no one here. In any populated area, any at all…he could find someone. And hurt them. Or maybe…even…
No, he wouldn’t think like that! He would make sure he was away from that child, make sure that they were safe, that he was safe, that the wolf was well tucked away in him, never to hurt anything more than a deer or a rabbit.
His stomach lurched. He shouldn’t have thought about what the wolf had eaten. But it was too late. He fell to his knees and retched, spewing hunks of some meat. He sat for what seemed hours, hunched over and breathing heavily. He had gotten used to the effects of the wolf’s diet on his stomach a long time ago. Or, rather, his body had. Haydn’s mind still saw the blood and the raw meat and…he his stomach protested once more, sending him into dry heaves. Soon these stopped and Haydn listened. No more laughter. But then, maybe the little girl was close enough to see him and was frozen as he had been. Why was he picturing a little girl? There had been no indicator…but then, his memory…oh, that terrible memory…
Haydn forced himself to stand and took off into the trees, despite feeling woozy and lightheaded. He ran like that memory was behind him, like if he got far enough away he would forget. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t, could he? You couldn’t run away from your past, but Haydn had to try. His conscience wouldn’t let him not try. So he ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran and ran until he felt his legs would give out from under him. When they did, he collapsed to the ground in a wheezing pile of human and tried to catch his breath. He had not succeeded in outrunning the memory. It was still the first and foremost thought in his brain, still throbbing painfully like an infected wound.
Just stop, he thought, gritting his teeth. Don’t think about it anymore. It’s your brain; think what you want to, not about this…
But he couldn’t stop his mind from focusing upon that which he wanted to avoid most. It wouldn’t let him. The little girl’s laugh—who said it was a little girl! he thought fiercely—had been the trigger, he knew it. And now he couldn’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking and thinking…
He laid there for what really were hours, hours and hours. He caught his breath but still did not move. The thought of the girl, the girl, that girl kept him there, glued to the spot. He could not move. He would not move. He had to sort out his brain before he could go on, he knew it. If he could not keep himself sane, keep that animal at bay, then he would be even worse off than he was now, lying on the forest floor with a throat torn by bile and an aching body. He would have to sort his mind out before he could move. Yes. That was the only way.
His mind wandered. A lot. He thought sometimes that he would be able to get up and move, but no. It would assert itself to the front again, That Memory. That Memory would not go away, would not stay quiet. He saw the torn clothes, heard the high-pitched scream that would echo through his head for days, weeks afterwards…he let loose his own scream, one of anguish and terror, frustration and anger. Anger that rose up in him like a hot flame, tearing at his conscience and his humanity. He ground his teeth, feeling the change come on. It astounded him. The full moon had been done, had it not? So why was he changing? He couldn’t be. It defied all logic. All logic! He should not have been feeling his skeleton twist and break, reforming the bones of something that walked on four legs instead of his two, should not have felt new hair growing like grass pumped with Miracle-Gro, should not have felt a howl building up in him, leaving his lips and echoing through the forest. That had been done. It shouldn’t have been happening again.
But it was. And Haydn knew why, though he still wished it impossible. It was happening and he could not stop it.
His bones ceased their movement and the fur was grown. The wolf stood and shook itself off, glancing around. It saw no problem with the little girl that wandered over to it. It did not like the taste of human and knew it could find better food nearby. The little girl and the wolf looked at each other, both interested and disinterested in each other. Then the wolf went on its way and so did the girl.

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So. That was for English and is supposed to be a "romantic" story (as in Poe and other awesome writers' romance, not lovey-dovey stuff). Dunno if it worked or not, though... >> Any ideas on a moral? I've sort of got one, but hey. Maybe you found something else.