Mistress of the Werewolf

MOTW entry 13

"What do you want?" The werewolf asked when Angela showed up at his door without forewarning, yet again. He didn’t care if her phone wasn’t working.

He had enjoyed his nine days of solitude and now waited, tense, half dreading that she would say she wanted something definite from him, or worse, the request underlying it all: that she wanted a real relationship, that she wanted him, wanted him to belong to her.

At the same time, he was halfway annoyed that she wouldn’t assert herself enough to ask for anything from him.

Either way, just seeing her annoyed him.

He was beginning to think of her visits as confrontations to be endured.

Even now, as she fumbled for words on his doorstep, removing her head phones and standing in the cold puffing clouds of mist into the night air, he was analyzing her and planning his own strategy in the event of either alternative: whether or not she asked for a more definite relationship

in doing this, he assessed her like he would his enemies for their strengths and weaknesses.

When he prepared himself to listen to her, he also prepared himself to weed out any possible problems she might create that would inconvenience him, his own goals and ambitions, his own carefully arranged and rigid way of life.

"I have to talk to you." She said, and he invited her in, now thinking of drawing her upstairs as he eyed her lovely long legs.

He was looking at the loose curls that fell over her shoulders when she summoned all her courage and delivered a shocking blow.

"I came here to end it. I think it would be better if we didn’t see each other again."

The werewolf blinked, blinked again, then staggered back. He felt a gasp of air escape from his lips.

"It will end sooner or later, as you said a long time ago," she explained levelly, masking the fact that his unexpected reaction was ripping her heart in two. "So it might as well end now."

This time the werewolf was silent because he could not speak, and his face was less guarded than it had ever been.

There was pain in his red-stung eyes, real pain. He was having difficulty breathing.

Oh, God! He wasn’t entirely a werewolf! Why oh why had she doubted what she knew in her heart?! Angela cried to herself, and then suddenly hated herself. How could she do this to the man she loved? How could she end it? Better to be the one who was cut out in the end, rather than not even to give him a chance!

But it was too late, she could see that. Her werewolf looked as though someone had knocked the wind out of him.

He looked at her, at her sweet pretty face, and felt a stab of pain, of anger. And he felt cruelly betrayed, attacked without provocation. The werewolf, who had always thought he could never be hurt, felt these things, and felt them harder than he had felt anything of this ilk before.

"Can’t we be friends instead?" Angela was asking. "I mean, nothing would really change, since that’s all we supposedly were anyway."

How could she explain it to him? she wondered. How could she say that she was making it easier on herself because she had sworn long ago never to let any man leave her first, as had happened to all of the women in her family? She had sworn she wouldn’t be like them, like her poor heartbroken mother, and knew that the werewolf would have left her if he had his chance.

No matter what she knew, the look in his eyes was too much for her.

Angela found herself overcome by pangs of pain. She choked, stared at him, fought impulses to rush to his side, comfort him, take it all back. And as his eyes began to glisten just barely, she found she could fight her own tears no longer.

She burst into racking sobs.

"I can’t, I can’t... How can I do this?" she found herself pleading, to herself, hating herself, still loving him. In the end, no matter how she tried to protect herself, she still loved him, and leaving him wouldn’t put an end to that.

"What a fool I am!" Angela thought in despair and fled the werewolf’s house.

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