The little boy sits on his mothers lap, apprehensive at the sound of a dog barking far away. The dog beckons louder, its bark ringing through the town as the little boy sits on his mother’s lap eating a biscuit. The mother sits in front of the fire sewing an old striped sock, its seams ripped to shreds by an unknown force. She doesn’t seem to hear the dog or notice the bite marks on her sons little arms.
Crunch crunch crunch. Howl.
The little boy hears the dog walking towards the door, and the mother hears the little boy whimpering, and the father next door stands up to get his gun.
Crunch, crunch crunch.
The little boy looks at the door and feels his arms prickling, feels the heat of a breath down his back, feels a sharpness in his hands. The mother puts down the sock, puts down the needle and grabs a piece of rope, which sits next to the fireplace on an old rusty nail. She knows what to do. The little boy drops his half eaten biscuit to the ground, he can’t ignore the feeling now. The mother calmly walks towards the boy and places the rope over his neck.
The boy pleads with his mother, begs her to stop, but no words come out, only gutteral sounds of an inconceivable nature. The father emerges from his den, his gun cocked and calmly takes his place next to the fireplace. The mother goes to kitchen and returns with some bread and a bleeding piece of meat, which she throws to the ground. It falls with a heavy thud and drips into the cracks underneath the floorboards.
Crunch crunch crunch.
The little boy is crying, he doesn’t understand.
Crunch crunch.
The door starts rattling, the boy starts rattling, his bones twitching and jumping and changing inside him. The light burns his eyes, he thinks he is sweating, or is he crying, he can’t tell anymore. He twitches to get out of his chair but the rope holds him back. He lashes out into the darkness, he sees very little now, only forward. His ears prick up, he hears it all, he can hear the breath on the other side of the door, he can hear the stomach rumbling, like thunder through his brain. He doesn’t realize that it is his stomach rumbling, his breath grunting, him howling at the door.
The father walks over to the door and twists the key.
Crunch crunch crunch.
Two wolves stand snarling at the man with the gun. He keeps his gun pointed at them, which they know not to fight. The smaller one tugs at the rope keeping him tied to a chair, he is too weak and too small to break it, but the human standing next to the fireplace calmly unties the knot. The little wolf breaks free and eyes the piece of meat hungrily, wolfing it down in seconds. He sees a broken biscuit lying on the floor and eats that too. The little wolf looks at the man with the gun, his eyes betray something in him, sadness?
The little boy is inside the little wolf. He is screaming for help, but no one can hear him. He is the little wolf now.
The bigger wolf howls at the little one angrily.
…we must go now…
The two wolves bound out the door in a snarling, smelly, vicious mound of fur and dirt.
The mother looks at the father, who puts down his gun. The mother returns to her chair and picks up the sock which she has mended time and time again. Always the same rips, always the same smells and stains.
The father returns to his den, and continues his reading.
The mother says quietly to the father through the wall.
“…the harvest is early this year…I thought we’d have a little more time …just a bit more with him, before….”
