Claws Of The Past

Chapter One

Blizzard lay weary in his cage. He was one tired and exhausted, and fresh fang marks scarred his flank. The cold floor was uncomfortable and freezing. There was a cold lump of meat in his cell, one he had barely touched. You didn't feel like eating after a while in one of these rank cells. From Blizzard's own estimations, he'd spent nearly four years in this place, however his estimations weren't nearly that accurate. In his living hell, days bled together and he often lost track of time. He marked the days with claw marks on the ground, but with limited accuracy. For all he knew, he had been there for far longer, or far shorter. What he did know for certain, was that he certainly wasn't the innocent pup he had been when he arrived. It felt like decades ago when he first made his kill, and he knew that he had made many hundreds of kills after that. Sometimes, the faces of his victims haunted his dreams. He saw the bright, scared eyes. He saw the flashing jaws and claws. He heard the sound they made when they died echoing through his head. Those noises threatened to explode within his skull, to burst out of his head and wreck havoc upon his already miserable world.

Blizzard let out a sigh and turned over, inspecting his flank. Several tufts of fur had been ripped out, and there were deep gouge marks. But it would heal; and hopefully not scar. He had enough of those already.

Blizzard closed his eyes, trying to get a shred of sleep. There would be another fight tomorrow, and the day after that, and so on. His cycle of existence would continue like it always had.

However, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't get rid of the memories. They always harassed him, never dying down. Even if he did manage to catch a few hours of sleep, his memories would petrify him in his nightmares. There was no escape from them, whatever he tried to do.

If he closed his eyes, he could still see them. The slobbering jaws and dripping drool, the bared fangs gleaming white as bone. The dog he had fought today had been a jumping kid Tibetan Mastiff, dark ebony black as the night. The eyes of the beast had been manic and full of blood-lust, full of madness. Madness and a want for blood and death; Blizzard knew his type. Dogs like that had entered the cycle from birth and simply thrived on every life they took, growing in strength and insanity, they saw nothing to killing and enjoyed it. Blizzard had simply put the monster out of it's misery. But none of that made Blizzard forget it's terrified shrieks of pain, the anguished howl full of agony and despair as Blizzard sunk his fangs into it's neck.

Blizzard had learnt a long time ago that no matter what you did, you never forgot those things. They never left your mind, and would be a haunting memory to last throughout the ages. Your nightmares would be plagued by them, your world darkened by them. There was nothing you could do about that, no matter what you did.

Blizzard lifted his head, looking round the room. It was dreary and pale grey, metallic and harsh. He had been alone in his cell for many years; with no proper interaction with fellow canines. The only dogs of any kind he'd seen where the ones he fought, and occasionally he glimpsed their cages before a fight. Yet he had been alone in his silence and misery for many years, so long he would try and talk to the rats. (however, he'd killed all the rats anyway, after a long winter of starvation and famine in the dog fighting ring). There was a bed so straw, rough and uncomfortable, for the only sort of bedding he was given.

More often than not, however, he preferred to sleep on the cold floor. The straw was often left rotting for days and weeks, fouling up his cage with its rancid reek. He'd also found that the straw attracted mice, a source of real food and company in some ways. Though he had left his pack, he never forgot the ways of the wild wolf. He would recite them every night, before he slept. The ways of the hunt and the wild, of territory and border skirmishes. Of protecting your pack with loyalty and honour.

Sometimes, he would feel the tug of the wild, calling to him in the night. He imagined that he could see his mother, beckoning him, a glowing beacon in the eternal onyx darkness in which he lived his life.

So Blizzard closed his eyes, shutting out the images of scarlet blood and slashing jaws. Blocking the onslaught of dying howls, and imagined a world where he was free. Imagined a world where he ran with his siblings in the snow, and laughed freely with happiness and joy.

Blizzard closed his eyes, and wished.

~ Olivia