Wolf's Desire

The scent

Lisa

The warm rays of sunshine caressed my face, waking me up. I wrestled the messy sheets to get out of bed, and put on my gray house slippers. Yawning and rubbing my eyes that were still dreaming, I walked out of the room.

After finding my way to the bathroom, I heard the doorbell ring furiously. It was a blue, gloomy Tuesday, around 7 a.m., so it must have been something urgent. We rarely heard that startling sound of the doorbell so early – unless there was some emergency to be taken care of. Yet, I shrugged it off, letting my dad open the door. With a daunting feeling crippling into my bones, I brushed my teeth as quietly as I could and listened with an ear intently pressed on the bathroom door.

" 'Morning, Jim." The sound of our closest neighbor was muffled, but clear enough for me to understand what the conversation was about. Mark was a man in his sixties, a woodcutter, with a colossal moustache decorating his perpetually inflamed face. The redness on his nose and cheeks was a stamp of a recovering alcoholic.

"Is everything fine, Mark?" The tone in my father's voice was charged with worry.

I heard the old man sigh, his chest creating an upsetting, creaking sound as a consequence of smoking like a chimney.

"The entire flock was slain last night," Mark uttered, his voice shaking, "I can't even describe it, son. The bowels and blood everywhere..."

I shivered as I imagined the scenario of sweet little sheep lying on the ground, their wool covered in red. Mark's upcoming struggle to pay the bills with the milk, cheese and wool he occasionally sold was almost as tragic as the entire flock being gruesomely murdered. And it was only in one night, as if the mere wolves were capable of such thing. It was something much bigger and hungrier. Something far more sinister.

Something we all listened about in the stories, that were supposed to keep us away from the woods.

"Damn it, Mark," my father cursed, lowering his voice, "Give me five minutes to get ready and we'll go check out the sheepfold together. What could've pushed the wolves towards the village? Aren't they far up in the mountain, away from the town noise?"

"I don't think it's the wolves this time, son," Mark said in the distance, "my gran told me stories of werewolves, or God knows what that old witch called them. It was a long time ago, I don't remember well. But maybe they weren't just stories after all..."

Further, I heard my father reaching for his jacket and most probably his hat, along with the stamp of his working boots against the timber laminate. Trying to banish the disturbing thoughts of blood and gore that my father was just about to witness, I took a shower and got ready for a school day.

*

Noah

Wood crackled in the fireplace, tossing the beaming sparks towards the protection glass. I listened to the sound while sitting idly in the dark green armchair, with a book as old as time in the firm grasp of my hands. My legs were crossed against the arm support. I waited for my father to come back from town – and hopefully bring something for dinner. Touching the ink smeared in several places with my fingertips and smelling age on these ancient pages, I followed the course of the story with unnerved devotion.

The legend of the witch Morgana and her revenge against the love of her life, Griffin the Lionheart, was leading me nearer the edge of my temper. I knew the story already, and it was even a mystery to me why I was reading it all over again, why I was losing my mind over a stupid legend of the werewolves' origin. I wished I could erase the sentences and rewrite the story.

I am a monster.

I startled – the voices were here again, surrounding me, threatening to engulf me.

I am an abomination of nature.

Pressing the palms against my ears, as if the voices were not inside of my head, I begged for silence. Whispering a prayer I could not follow, because my mind was disturbed and the room was spinning already, I stood up.

Clasping the book in my hand, I focused on the flames behind the fireplace glass. They began to spin, too. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the vein protruding on my forehead.

I am a monster forever.

The silence was broken off once again, and I swung the book towards the fireplace. I opened my eyes when it hit the area of the hearth, its structure of stone ripping the book to shreds.

Finally, the voices went silent and I was too exhausted to worry about returning the book in that state to the library. As I walked over to the kitchen counter to sip myself some water, the doorbell rang. First I thought it was father, but he would have just entered the house.

With the careful steps, I tilted my head to see who it was before I decide to open the door. And to both my surprise and fascination, a beautiful girl was standing outside. As I swung the door open politely, I noticed she was holding a bowl in her hands. It was covered with aluminum foil and I could smell the freshly baked mushroom pie.

I was slightly disappointed that there was no meat, because I was starving, but I managed to put on a friendly smile.

"Hi." The girl said, as the long, wavy strands of chestnut-colored hair hung over her pale shoulders. It was visible that she did not bother to brush her hair as often, but in her case it was a forgiven advantage. Her face was alluring, her eyes were the deepest blues of the ocean and her cherry red lips were slightly parted. She was wearing a blue shirt and white overalls.

"Hi." I blurted out, obviously making her uncomfortable with my intimidating stare. I quickly looked away, waiting for her next words like a hungry wolf waited for his prey.

She struggled for a second with the bowl as she handed it to me. "My parents and I live next door. Mom sent you a welcome gift."

"Uh – Thank you," I said as her fingers faintly brushed against mine, like the loveliest breeze in the spring, "I'm Noah Delgado, by the way."

"Lisa Crawford," She said, smiling, "it was nice to meet you."

As she turned around to leave, a familiar scent hit my nostrils. I almost dropped the bowl.

I knew I would find you, I thought to myself as I watched her walk back towards her modest, white house. God knows for how long I was standing there on our front porch, remembering things that were yet to happen and smelling the scent of freedom, lavender and desire. Something about her was a force I could not fight, a spell out of whose handcuffs I did not want to escape.

"It was... nice to meet you too, Lisa." I whispered to myself, thinking of the book I borrowed from the library and the scent of freedom, lavender and desire trapped on its ancient, tattered covers.