𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐋𝐞𝐟𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐔𝐬

CHAPTER 12: THE ONES WHO HUNT THEMSELVES

I was playing in the basement again. With only a candle to light what seemed was my entire world inside the rotting old house in the midst of the woods that protected our family from the horrors of the outside.

As a 10-year-old boy, I was much more mature for my age. Countless times I imagined strong people destroying the house, made of weak wood, and killing what was left of my family in there.

All I had was Mom and Dad. Nobody else survived, but when I was born, I didn't even meet the rest of the family, so when dad came back home after months with news that another member of the family died, I felt like I should be sad and mourning, but weirdly, I never felt like it.

Maybe I am a monster. I had said to myself, playing with dried pens, pretending that they were Gluttons and that I crushed them with my gigantic bald paws over and over again.

Mom always said I was special, that I was blessed or a miracle, but I never believed her. They kept me locked in the basement, how was that supposed to be a miracle?

"It's for your own protection," she said.

If I wanted protection, I would be set for life. With the exhausting training, my dad did to me, I could do just fine on my own, without anyone having to risk their lives for me.

I didn't hate my mom. I understood what she meant, and even though her methods were a little too drastic, I knew that all she wanted was to keep me alive. My dad though, I felt like he was training me for war.

"The world on the outside is cruel, hard, and painful," he had said. "Rule number one: Trust no one. Rule number two: Nice people are dead people. And rule number three: don't let them see your skin. Ever,"

And I didn't. When we were training on the outside, I made sure to cover every part of my body, because if I didn't I was punished. He taught me everything he knew, how to fight, to survive, to kill. When I was 10 years old, I already knew the best way to torture and kill someone.

Today was the last day of my father at the house. He came to me with something on the inside of a syringe. A white liquid very similar to milk could be seen on the inside. Without asking, he grabbed my arm and applied the liquid to me. I had learned not to stop him when he wanted to do something. It would always end up badly.

"People are going to be searching for this," he had said. "When you see a fox, a blue wolf, and a mixed one, try to earn their trust, because it's the most valuable thing you can have. I know what I said about not trusting anyone, but I taught them as I taught you. They'll know what to do,"

"Where are they?" I asked.

"They will find you when the time comes," he simply answered and started to walk away, but then he stopped, turned around, and put his paw on my arm. "One day, you'll understand what I'm doing,"

And those were his last words for me. I didn't know at the time, but that was the last opportunity I would have to see my father.

He went to say goodbye to my mom, and she hugged him without saying a word like she did every single time he left for months. She always looked sad when he left, but I was glad when it happened. He was always mad, stressed, or busy dealing with our problems.

Mom had to work in order to bring food to the table. A few friends from dad always brought us supplies when they had the chance, but most of the time, we were on our own.

Sometimes mom planted, and sometimes she got canned food from the outside. She was a strong woman, one of the strongest I met, but she was gentle as well, and kind, and protective. The best of the best.

But that day, someone was stronger than her.

I was on the outside, covered, of course, playing with my bow. Mom usually didn't allow me to b on the outside, but it was my birthday, so she made an exception for a few hours.