After the former conversation with Parker, I headed upstairs. My feet quickly yet gently padded up the cushioned steps and I could feel the bile piling up in my throat. Images of my childhood flooded through my mind and I stopped, questioning whether I had started to regret my decision.
No, you haven't and you won't. My wolf Alycia spoke with confidence, something I clearly lacked as of the moment. Of course anyone whose future was set up forcefully would want to run away, yet guilt radiated throughout the air taking it's jealous course.
I snapped out of my thoughts when I heard footsteps taking the route my feet had previously taken. Skidding to my room quickly, I softly shut the door behind me. My nose was invaded with a scent that would have made anyone melt. It was the best aroma in the world; a little bit sweet, sort of spicy, and a mixture of french vanilla and peppermint. It was Cinnamon. Almost instantly my fingers made their way to my eyes, pushing the wet droplets away.
I scrunched my nose, a habit I had made which worked well at stopping my tears. Looking around the room, I took in every detail. The mismatch socks preoccupying the space under my bed. A stained shirt I had was lying on top of a mountain of jeans. And last but not least, what I considered to be my hobby, the smudged papers scattered all over my desk.
At night when I was alone, I would take out a piece of clean notebook paper and a pencil and start writing away. It didn't matter if it was my imagination wanting to be let out of it's cage, or an empty void of emotion I wanted someone to feel, fiction or not. Many people made fun of me for my writings, but I didn't care. Stories were the one thing that drove me out of this world. I could fill in the role of an author. I could create a whole new world, and become the God to new people. I could make up their future into something great. Obviously when I had told my mother this she scoffed, stating that writing was a pigment of the imagination and that I was simply living in a dream world. I internally agreed somewhat; making up stories was a way for me to relive life, even if in a weird way. It was my soul being reincarnated into someone else's body for a chance to live again. To make up for wasted time.
Now isn't the time for silly thoughts, Aspyn. Pack your bag and go. Alyicia had entered my mind once again, bothering me with her comments. Unlike most other times, I didn't reply back with a snarky comment. I simply headed over to my closet and pulled out a duffelbag before getting to work.
YOU ARE READING
Red Riding Hood
Werewolf"I never wanted any of this!" I yell, pulling my hair. I divert my eyes to different sections of the room, hoping to avoid his judgmental stares. We sit in silence for a few moments before I notice him inch closer in my peripheral vision. I take the...
