Why the Wolf Howls...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Written for a contest on deviantart. The story consists of a few paragraphs of truth and a few that are close enough to it to sound real enough.

Submitted: September 12, 2008

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Submitted: September 12, 2008

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You see, it’s hard to explain, the motives for such a terrible deed... How could such a normal, happy child grow to do such a thing?

Well, I suppose it started when I was a young girl. I wasn’t neglected, or looked down upon, or anything of the sort. I certainly wasn’t sociable, but I was a bright little thing, friendly and eager-to-please, despite my shyness. I was top of my class, and happily so. I craved acceptance, just as I always have, and made sure to earn it wherever possible. In short, I was young and content in my place. But alas, that was not meant to be.

I grew older, and I found my friends- precious few, but I was close to them. They cheered me on in my triumphs, and helped me in my failures, and I was sure to return the favor. But in time I began distancing myself from everybody else- it became so that I ignored all but my closest friends. It didn’t take long to imagine myself an outcast, as though my little tight-knit group of friends was the only place I’d ever find acceptance. I fancied myself a lone wolf- cast out from the world, to be sure, but I certainly didn’t need them. I was an independent sort, I thought- I needed no one else. A pack was not needed for the sake of survival. I found myself scorning the other wolves for howling at the moon. It was a sign of weakness, surely!

Years passed, and I grew apart from my peers. I began to over-think things, having nothing better to do with my time, and found myself paying more and more attention to their faults. One was too depressed, another had an obnoxious obsession, and another simply got on my nerves. I spent less and less time with them, and more time on my own. I became tempered and snappish when they spoke to me, quick to jeer at them with my quick and angry wit.

With too much pride to return to my friends, and no one else to turn to, it was in my teenage years that I began to write. My notebook became my best- and only- friend. I was a poet, and a sad one at that, writing to find what I’d done wrong, how I’d lost it all, and to be able to see my own faults more clearly. And, too, I wrote of my dreams- of acceptance, awakening… reprieve. But what was the point of these dreams, without the courage to chase them? A lone wolf I certainly was, a being built of regret and remorse, and I could do nothing about it.

I was a fool and a coward; I could see that all too clearly. It haunted the all of my pitiful existence. I did not live, though my lungs still breathed and my heart still pumped blood through my veins. This was a mere shadow of life, certainly not the real thing. I was broken, far beyond the hope of saving. Even while I slept, my deeds haunted me. In the mist-shrouded realms of dreams, I would hear myself whisper, as if with a last gasp of air before death, "My heart escaped from my friends..."

I had no doubt as to what it meant, but I had gone through this nightmare many times before. I had grown numb to it long ago. The fear, the regret, the sorrow, all feeling was long gone. There was nothing left. I looked in my mirror, scarcely seeing a thing through the darkness- only the faint glimmer of eyes hardened by time, which betrayed nothing as I recalled an old saying;
The night grows darker before the dawn...
It had been nothing but night for all too long. I had spent too long simply waiting for dawn. There would be no dawn for me, I knew that much. I took the knife from my bedside table, and whispered my last words to the world that had forgotten me.

"I know why the wolf howls at the moon..."


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