Home -- Wolv book 3

Two - Post Trauma

*Trigger warning

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What have I done.

I pulled the bear-skin blanket around me tighter, and tucked my knees into my chest. I couldn't stop myself from shaking.

Oh please, what did I do?

I didn't dare look, but I could feel Norman's blood drying on my hands, crusting over and undoubtedly painting my palms maroon.

I'd been in this place before. I'd had the blood of others on my fingers...and here I was, again. I'd beaten another human being, nearly to death.

Again.

I curled in on myself, my back pressed against the wall of the grain silo, and began to cry. My sobs only made me shake all the more.

Daanis stood in the middle of the silo, walking circles around Norman and Machk. I looked up, and she met my gaze for a moment, before averting her eyes.

I'm so sorry.

I'd been lucky. Daanis, being just as stubborn as I, if not more so, had thrown herself against the silo doors until they'd finally opened. She'd found me just in time--another second, and I would have opened Norm's throat.

The man deserved to die; that hadn't changed. But after Daanis had dragged me away, I'd caved in on myself, becoming a miserable, sobbing, shaking wreck. Now that my mind had had a chance to clear, I'd realized what I'd been about to do.

As much as I hated him, I didn't want his death on my hands. They already had his blood on them--literally.

The two timberwolves were both unconscious, each bloodied and broken. Despite being unconscious, Norman had fully shifted into his wolven body; somehow, he'd come out on the other end of the change looking worse than before. Some of his cuts had torn themselves wider during his shift; his brown fur was now plastered with slick blood.

I blinked, but I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. I did that to him. I did that. I was horrified at what I'd done--what had happened, that hadn't been me. I couldn't, I wouldn't accept that. Since when had I become so savage? I'd shot the man several times, barely blinking through it all...

...And now I was curled up in a ball, on the verge of soiling myself out of sheer terror. I couldn't get the images out of my mind; I could still feel the rage I'd felt, burning inside my chest. No amount of crying would put the flames inside out; nothing was dulling the hurt.

Why did I lose control like that? I dug my nails into my knees, pulling them in tighter. That wasn't me. It wasn't!

Before any of this happened, long before I'd been bitten the first time a year ago, I had been shy, and relatively quiet--I hadn't been one to let such hateful, angry emotions spur me into action. I'd taken beatings at home plenty of times before--the one time I'd hit back, I'd ended up in a similar state to what I found myself in now.

But then I'd been bitten, and remaining silent and subservient became impossible. In the first month alone after being bitten, I shot someone, nearly choked a man to death on a boat, and found myself in several fights with fellow pack members and people alike. Maybe it was a result of my body changing; perhaps it was a result of some new, animalistic instinctual savagery materializing as a result of the bite.