The Hunter's Wolf

Melancholy

Melancholy

10 years ago

At first light of daybreak, my first training begins.

My father has demonstrated many different methods and procedures, letting me watch each and every of his illustrations of pain and torture since I was at the age of five, and after that incident which nearly took my life away, the carnage has only multiplied. The patterns of his felony acts have gone only worse, and much like savages.

Despite his brutality and primitive ways, the society does not fear him; not the very least.

They fear the weapon that he has taken under his wing— not as a daughter, but as an apprentice.

To begin with, his discipline inquires perseverance and fortitude. This, especially, is tested during the cardinal lesson; a hand-to-hand combat, in which I am left unarmed in order to learn how to protect myself, and to master the basics of sabotage.

"Faster," my father presses, pushing me beyond my limits.

I swing my fist at the pair of mitts in my line of sight and duck, before rotating my hips and spin a double-kick onto it. He attacks at times and I block them with my arms as a shield, then I continue to strike dozens of jabs onto the mitts. He raises his legs and tries to cut through the attacks, and I dodge his punch, quickly locking my arms and tackling him down onto the ground. 

My six year-old figure has brought an advantage to him. He easily lifts me up and throws me onto the ground, my back hitting the mat and I grunt. Standing up to my feet, he takes off his mitts and tosses them somewhere, his fists now tightening, his legs bending in ready, his eyes focused on me.

A one-on-one. 

A grin forms on my lips as he swings his legs under me, but I jump on them, his legs kicking into the air. For the next few minutes, I keep dodging his offenses, defending myself by observing all his moves, aiming for his weakness. My eyes widen when I see the opportunity, and I slip behind him and swing my legs on his shoulders, locking them around his neck. He jams me onto the walls, and my holds loosen, and he easily throws me over his shoulders, my body tumbling on the mat once more.

"Again," he says, his voice gruff and cold.

"It's been five hours," I tell him while catching my breath, slightly wincing at the pain on my shoulder, "Can't we take a break for a couple of minutes ?"

His eyes narrow and his throat emits an unpleasant sound. His hand yanks me off the ground and slams my back onto the other wall, and I gasp from the pain.

"They won't give you mercy, Rose," he growls, "You of all people should know that after the incident that almost took your life."

His eyes glare into mine. "Now, again."

Present day

"You can't keep me here !"

My hands have gripped on the bars and wrench them vigorously, but they don't rattle, their roots keeping an intact, ingrained into the asphalted ground as if the cell was built exclusively for super-villains with extraordinary strength. Scorning on my shrilling yells as the nonchalant guards leave for the door, and exit the mucky dungeon without sparing me another glance.

A frustrated ground resonates inside my head, and fully perceiving that these dungeons are impossible to bail, I sigh and slowly peeks behind me, my eyes scanning the prison cellar.

The wet mosaic floor is grey and greasy with blackish puddles and shoe-prints. Occasionally, a rat scuttles past before dropping noiselessly into the uncovered drain that runs along the prison. Foul-smelling swill piles high, and a trail of translucent yellowish-green slime and hair blocks the drainage hole.