Call of the Wild

2 - The Intruder

Sharpening clarity gives way to pain. A fog of pure confusion smothers my mind, and when I blearily blink my eyes open, that confusion only worsens.

For one, I'm not dead.

I can't be— surely I wouldn't still be hurting if I'm dead. And I sure as hell wouldn't be curled up on a pile of bloody blankets in a dusty old bedroom that smells of damp and musk.

As if that's not bad enough, I find — to my horror — a bowl of water laid out by my makeshift den.

And, perhaps even worse, I'm so thirsty that I'm half-tempted to stoop so low as to drink from it.

My leg is on fire with agony and I'm almost delirious with pain and thirst and hunger. I'll be honest, I'm a little scared, too. I mean, who wouldn't be? I've just been kidnapped. Hit by a car and kidnapped. And offered water from a bowl— like some common house pet. Disgusting.

The room, and the house beyond, is quiet and still. A hazy, early-morning sunlight streams in through open curtains somewhere to my right. Dust sparkles like diamonds. There's a bed with a messy duvet piled up on its end, and an old dresser is shoved up against the wall opposite. I can see two closed doors with flaking white paint. Where they lead, I've got no idea, and I don't intend to find out. For such a big room, the place is sparsely furnished.

I try and fail to stand. If I want to get out of this place, I'll have no choice but to shift. As a wolf, I'm useless without my front legs to support me, but as a human, I can manage with only one working arm.

That's how I end up shifting. Biting back groans of pain as my leg— arm jostles and sends shards of fire slicing through me. My skin is littered with black bruises and half-healed cuts. For a few moments, I pant through the agony. Slowly, with my head spinning from blood loss and my limbs weak with exertion (both from the run and the energy it has taken to heal the lesser injuries I sustained), I rise. Listening intently for any change, I search through the dresser for briefs— after all, I am naked in a stranger's bedroom.

I find some and don them quickly. And then I decide to be a bit of a prick. After all, I have literally nothing. I'm freezing and filthy, covered in sticky blood, my arm's broken, and I'm pretty sure this is the place of the guy who drove into me and called me a dog. I'm stealing his fucking clothes. So I find out some joggers and a T-shirt, too. I get dressed as quickly as possible, trying hard not to use my broken arm and biting back a yelp of pain when I shrug on the top.

I grab a thick, faux fur-lined denim jacket, noting with disapproval that it'll be nowhere near as good as real fur, but until my arm heals itself, it'll have to do. I wipe the blood from my face as best I can with the sleeve and throw the jacket over my good shoulder as I retreat to the window to assess my escape route.

Fuck.

I'm two storeys up, at least. With nothing to ease my route down. No vines, or outbuildings, or roofs. On the ground, there's a long stretch of unkempt grass and flower bushes left to grow wild, and I can see a high stone wall bordering the place. Behind it, trees crowd in close.

So I'm not quite out of the woods, yet. I could lose myself there. But the problem is getting there.

As a human, if I jump, I'm risking breaking both my legs. And with my arm fucked, I know jumping as a wolf will do more harm than good.

I throw open the window, anyway, and am just about to climb out and take my chances when a deafening clatter from behind me almost gives me a heart attack.

I whip back around— heart racing, senses going wild at being caught off-guard. My nerves are electric with hysteria.

The guy who hit me is stood in the open doorway; mouth agape, eyes wide. He's messy, with tousled brown hair and crumpled clothes, but nowhere near my level of chaos. The remnants of a bowl and what looks like brown pellets cover the hardwood floor around him. Fucking kibble?! Seriously?!