The Werewolf [COMPLETE]

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There was no corpse in the Village Square this morning, no shredded limbs, no rotting bodies, no gruesome scene. Just a bloody sentence on the snow. The Village awakes with every Villager and every Werewolf.

For the first time since the game had begun, no one had died during the night. Should we have been grateful for it? Should we have rejoiced and celebrated? After all, it was a miracle; if it were to be called anything at all, it were to be called a miracle. We could then have believed that our survival was due to the Werewolves' will, that they had chosen not to kill us, that they had decided not to play the game. But it wouldn't have been believing, it would have been fooling ourselves. We weren't alive thanks to the Werewolves, we were alive thanks to the Villagers. The victim of the night had been saved before the sun had risen by one of us, it could have been the work of the Witch or the Defender, the miracle of a healing potion or of a protective hand. So should we have been grateful for it? There was no point in trying to answer that question, for it wasn't the question that had been asked.

The question that had been asked had been quite different, succinct and forthright. A legitimate question that was in the head of more than one. It shocked some, it even rose a few into protesting out loud, but it led most to assent in silence.

"How come you're still alive Emily?"

Louis Hawkins had been the only man brave enough to voice the question. Not because of the question itself, but because of the question's implications. It seemed obvious. The question didn't ask for an answer, the question was the answer. Why was I alive. Why was I still alive.

Every strong figure had been killed over the last week. Trevor Sherwood because he had been the shoulder everyone leant on, Ian Dempsey because he had been the voice everyone listened to, and Marcus Shelton because he had been the brain everyone followed. They had all been a threat to the Werewolves in a way, even a Werewolf himself had been murdered, because too powerful, too influential and too dominant.

I had been the reason why Helen Winfield and Raleigh Britton had died, I had been close to Tommy Howell and Ivy Conner and both had died, I had been even closer to Seth Adkins and he had died. I was a threat to the Werewolves, so why hadn't I been killed? How come I was alive, still alive?

To the quick-judging, my implication with the death of three Werewolves would be a token of my belonging to the Villagers, but to the wise, the former could also hide worse, much worse. Was I a Werewolf killing my pack to avoid being accused during the day? Or was I the White Werewolf, finishing the night's work with the vote?

How could I still be alive? How could I have survived when so many others hadn't, so many others less threatening moreover? I had known a Werewolf, the Seer and the Little Girl personally, and nothing had happened to me, when Heather Wilson, Heather Wilson the smiling waitress, Heather Wilson who hadn't made a comment or a sound since the beginning of the game, she, she had died. I could understand why they wouldn't kill me on the first night, or the second, or the third, or even the fourth. But now? Eight nights later and I was still alive. How could I still be alive?

The answer was in front of us, in front of them. I was a Werewolf. It was clear, wasn't it? It was clear for a majority of them. It wasn't for Aaron. He was advocating and arguing for my cause, listing points and points in my favour, logical and rational points, but they weren't listening to him. I knew it because I wasn't listening to him either, I was listening to them.

They were whispering to one another, glancing up at me for a second, maybe two, then looked back down, frowning. They, they Lily Hughes and William Garner, they Mark Westley, they Louis Hawkins, they Kathleen Sculley and Owen Hogan. But Owen didn't look back down, he didn't frown. He stared into my eyes, without deviating or straying his gaze the slightest. We were feet apart, he stood near the platform where there was only death while I stood by the fountain where I used to play in the water as a child. He remained as silent as he had always been. A discreet figure in my life, non-talkative, non-expressive, non-emotional, but a recurrent one.

I had seen Owen on the first Sunday of every month for many years, so many years that I couldn't remember when it had begun. At least I knew why it had begun, why he would always buy stocks, why he would always buy twenty-seven stocks. It was for his wife, with whom he had shared twenty-seven years of his life. He would come to the shop at a quarter past nine, leave at twenty past nine, walk to the cemetery just behind the Church at twenty-two past nine and sit next to his wife's tomb at twenty-five past nine. And he would stay there for hours, resting on the grass next to her, lying by her side, motionless and soundless.

We would never talk much when he came to the shop; to an outsider, or to just anyone else, our exchanges would have appeared cold in their formality. He simply ordered the bouquet to my mum without a hello or a goodbye, he took the flowers from my hands without a thank you, he slipped the money in my pocket and left the shop. But there was much more to it. He didn't greet us with words but with warmth, he didn't snatch the bouquet from me but bent down to my level, he looked into my eyes and he cracked a smile. The bills ending in my pocket would always be two notes of twenty, regardless of the price, or of any discounts or free bouquets we tried to sell to him. 38.45 it had been once, 38.45 it would be for him, or rather 40, because it would be impossible to hand him his change.

Over the years, I would help my mum more and more, working longer and harder in the shop. I wouldn't just hand the bouquet to Owen anymore, I would make it, then I wouldn't just make and hand the bouquets to the clients, I would keep the shop for a few hours during the Sunday, then the entire Sunday, then most of the weekend.

I would wake up earlier to get to the shop while my family was still asleep; I would open the doors and the shutters, pour fresh water in the plant pots and in the buckets of flowers, I would pick the stocks for the bouquet, trim them, arrange them and assemble them, dress them in coloured wrappings, all before Owen's arrival at a quarter past nine, while my parents and my brother were only waking up for mass.

I would always welcome Mr. Hogan or any other client during the weekend hunched over the counter, working on a math exercise, studying a biology book or writing a science assignment. Owen would always be as regular, to the point that if he hadn't made it to the shop by twenty past nine, I would know that he wouldn't come at all. And in the rare occasions when it happened, I wouldn't throw the flowers away, I wouldn't wait for the next Sunday or for the next month. I simply grabbed the bouquet and the keys, closed the shop and walked to the cemetery, going myself to Mrs. Hogan's tomb. Owen would always smile brighter at those attentions, but he would remain as silent.

He had always been silent, I had known his silence, I had learned to love it and to respect it. He was a man of a few words, that must have been why I'd started when he had spoken up. His voice had silenced the Square, everyone's attention was turned to him, when his was turned to me only. His gaze was locked on mine while his mouth and tongue had just been unlocked.

"Do not kill Emily Pierce. She is innocent. I have had a long life. Take mine, not hers."

There were a few protests, but they didn't stand long, they couldn't. Whatever the doubts or the suspicions held against me, those couldn't justify the killing of a victim when a martyr offered his life.

They did to him what they had done to the others before him. It was identical, if not— if not for the respect. The process was the same, for it was a process. It was automatic, the way they raised their hands, the way they counted the votes, the way they sentenced to death,. There was no heart left, if there were to be any emotion left, it would have been fear. Only fear could have managed to turn it into a routine. Yet here, it was different, the slightest different. His arms weren't held together and his wrists weren't tied together, he wasn't thrown to his knees but helped down to the wooden boards –they killed him just the same, but they killed him with what they must have thought was honour, or dignity, or something like that.

A few seconds away from death, Owen's gaze drifted away from mine. He had told me his farewell, in the same way with which that he had addressed me for years. His eyes roamed over the crowd calmly, slowly, as if he had the all the time in the world before him, and not the barrel of a gun. His search stopped, he found the person he was looking for, he told that person what he had to say. He closed his lids, he nodded his head, and the bullet was shot.

Owen Hogan.

A Villager is dead.