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SOMETHING about the world felt different when the darkness faded away.
A soft pillow cradled the side of my face like a cloud. The mattress brushing against me seemed more comfortable as if taking place of the soothing aura of a blanket. On top of me, a comforter exuded warmth. The great Howl Falls featured none of these comforts.
There, a game of survival of the fittest ensued: only those who learned the art of accepting the lack of these luxuries made it to adulthood.
Learning such an art began at the tender age of five. You learned to ignore the lack of heat. You learned to appreciate the roughness of the mattresses and the thinness of the pillows. Support for such a tradition came from the relation between these practices and the spirituality inside a young wolf.
For a moment, everything seemed silent. But as I opened my eyes into the dark room that seemed to squeeze in on my claustrophobia.
Sound suddenly filled the room: two voices pounded against the floorboards in a foreign language I didn't understand.
Upstairs neighbors must love us, I thought with a chuckle.
Dull thuds verberated against the ceiling, meshing with the muffled talent show audition that joined with the roar of something.
I'd never heard it before, so curiosity drew me out of the bed. There, I noticed that my wardrobe hadn't changed since my last memory. How strange, I thought as other questions swarmed my weak brain:
Where am I?
How did I get here?
Where is Rylan?
I pushed the door open and entered into a mess of a living room. It suffered from a binge session that no one cared to clean. Two of my fingers hooked into the back of my sneaker—I swear, I wore heels at the wedding.
I found a woman behind the counter upon glancing to the side. She busily worked a machine that mashed ingredients into a mixture. A pair of silver headphones sat on her ears, emitting a faint preview of the instrumental to the lyrics she sang:
Another one bites the dust.
Another one bites the dust.
Not far away, lonely dishes lined the counter area; others piled inside the sink. The faucet added its solemn drip to the melody every time she paused. The counters and the linoleum-like floor bore vivid stains.
The woman mimicked those head-bobbing people from that famous SNL skit — Rylan showed me that on a device he called a cellphone, which Zavory Piper gave to him. Unfortunately, the Alpha found out about the phone and confiscated it, but it was a life-changing two months of learning the culture of these humans.
