Days are the Hardest
Title: Days are the Hardest
Characters/Pairings: OMC, Lyall Woolfe
Word Count: 877
Prompt: #41 Days
Rating: PG
Warnings: Depressing, beyond that, none.
Summary: A young werewolf muses on the daylight.
Author’s Note: Lyall is the same little boy from me Simple in the Moonlight series. He’ll be showing up a little more frequently, I’ve fallen in love with this boy I’ve made up, so I hope you learn to enjoy him as well.
During the night things are easier, I don’t have to hide as much, there are darker places to be, places humans don’t normally go at night. Alleyways, sewers, rooftops. And other’s like me, but not like me, are out; they sympathize with me; they understand living on the streets, scrounging for food, for shelter, for heat.
It’s during the day that I have problems, normal people are out. They are not so accepting of me, they see me for what I am. No dark to cover the physical or the internal grime and filth that is clearly visible in the light of day.
Of course baths are few and far between; but since I was eight years old dirt and blood and excrement have been a stable in my life. It is about the only stable in my life anymore.
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be clean. Much like I’ve forgotten what fresh, warm food tastes like. I find scraps and trash to eat, it’s all I can afford, all I can get, and it’s better then starving.
When I first came to be on the streets, many were much nicer to me, I was eight years old, small, alone, sad. But the dirtier I got, the more sickening people became of me, and the kind people from before were fewer and far between. Now if anyone approaches me in the daylight, it’s a small child that does not yet know any better to stay away, but as soon as the mother catches them, they are ripped away, scolded for talking to a vagrant like me.
Days are easier spent in the woods, where I belong, animal that I am. My parents saw it; that night so long ago, when I almost killed them all. That night changed everything, it was the night they threw me out into the fields of our home, their home.
For a long time I stayed close, I was eight, I knew nothing else; but when the next moon came, and I felt its call, I left. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, hurt them again.
Now, the only time I ever see that place is on my sister’s birthday. I always leave her something in our place. The place we used to play together.
The first year, when people were still willing to help me, I gave her a toy spyglass, then a bracelet I had found, and an empty perfume bottle, now it is flowers or unbroken things I find in the trash.
I leave them on the break of morning, and they are always gone when I return at night. Whether or not she’s actually getting them or my father is throwing them out, I do not know, but it gives me some peace to think that she’s out there and knows I still love her, even if I can’t be there.
I have only met one other like me, it was an older man, he gave me a name, he helped me to understand. Werewolves were real and not some scary monster from story books. He also helped me understand that there are many more like me, and not all of them are nice. Some thrive on hurting others, making others like us. He was one of them.
We fought, he wanted me to help, but I refused. All I could see in that bright daylight air, as he tried to persuade me, was my little Virginia, my baby sister, turning into what I did every month. I couldn’t even fathom. It made me sick, and he left when I nearly retched on him.
It made me remember the animal, the man, as I now know, that had bit me. The dark had made me believe it was a big dog. I had liked dogs, don’t really anymore, they smell horrible-hadn’t ever noticed the smell until now-and all I had wanted was to play. But he didn’t want to play; he wanted to bite, to rip, to kill. I feel that every moon, every full moon, I always wake up vomiting, fearing what I could have done. I don’t remember, I just remember the need.
I should have backed off, left him alone, but I was eight, and wanted to play with the doggy, even after he growled. Afterwards my parents had been so happy I was still alive, that I managed to get away from this feral animal with only a bite on my arm. Of course, when that bite was gone within hours they were worried, but they still loved me.
No, they didn’t stop loving me until that night. The night I burned in my bed, the night I almost killed all of them.
That next day had been the worst of my life (even now) I awoke naked, alone, and I had no recollection of what I’d done. All I knew was they were screaming at me, crying and yelling, and then I was thrown out. Even now I hate the days right after, more so then the days right before. They are a constant reminder of why I no longer have a home, why I can’t see my sister, why I can’t be loved.
Days. Days are the hardest to live through.
Characters/Pairings: OMC, Lyall Woolfe
Word Count: 877
Prompt: #41 Days
Rating: PG
Warnings: Depressing, beyond that, none.
Summary: A young werewolf muses on the daylight.
Author’s Note: Lyall is the same little boy from me Simple in the Moonlight series. He’ll be showing up a little more frequently, I’ve fallen in love with this boy I’ve made up, so I hope you learn to enjoy him as well.
During the night things are easier, I don’t have to hide as much, there are darker places to be, places humans don’t normally go at night. Alleyways, sewers, rooftops. And other’s like me, but not like me, are out; they sympathize with me; they understand living on the streets, scrounging for food, for shelter, for heat.
It’s during the day that I have problems, normal people are out. They are not so accepting of me, they see me for what I am. No dark to cover the physical or the internal grime and filth that is clearly visible in the light of day.
Of course baths are few and far between; but since I was eight years old dirt and blood and excrement have been a stable in my life. It is about the only stable in my life anymore.
I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be clean. Much like I’ve forgotten what fresh, warm food tastes like. I find scraps and trash to eat, it’s all I can afford, all I can get, and it’s better then starving.
When I first came to be on the streets, many were much nicer to me, I was eight years old, small, alone, sad. But the dirtier I got, the more sickening people became of me, and the kind people from before were fewer and far between. Now if anyone approaches me in the daylight, it’s a small child that does not yet know any better to stay away, but as soon as the mother catches them, they are ripped away, scolded for talking to a vagrant like me.
Days are easier spent in the woods, where I belong, animal that I am. My parents saw it; that night so long ago, when I almost killed them all. That night changed everything, it was the night they threw me out into the fields of our home, their home.
For a long time I stayed close, I was eight, I knew nothing else; but when the next moon came, and I felt its call, I left. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, hurt them again.
Now, the only time I ever see that place is on my sister’s birthday. I always leave her something in our place. The place we used to play together.
The first year, when people were still willing to help me, I gave her a toy spyglass, then a bracelet I had found, and an empty perfume bottle, now it is flowers or unbroken things I find in the trash.
I leave them on the break of morning, and they are always gone when I return at night. Whether or not she’s actually getting them or my father is throwing them out, I do not know, but it gives me some peace to think that she’s out there and knows I still love her, even if I can’t be there.
I have only met one other like me, it was an older man, he gave me a name, he helped me to understand. Werewolves were real and not some scary monster from story books. He also helped me understand that there are many more like me, and not all of them are nice. Some thrive on hurting others, making others like us. He was one of them.
We fought, he wanted me to help, but I refused. All I could see in that bright daylight air, as he tried to persuade me, was my little Virginia, my baby sister, turning into what I did every month. I couldn’t even fathom. It made me sick, and he left when I nearly retched on him.
It made me remember the animal, the man, as I now know, that had bit me. The dark had made me believe it was a big dog. I had liked dogs, don’t really anymore, they smell horrible-hadn’t ever noticed the smell until now-and all I had wanted was to play. But he didn’t want to play; he wanted to bite, to rip, to kill. I feel that every moon, every full moon, I always wake up vomiting, fearing what I could have done. I don’t remember, I just remember the need.
I should have backed off, left him alone, but I was eight, and wanted to play with the doggy, even after he growled. Afterwards my parents had been so happy I was still alive, that I managed to get away from this feral animal with only a bite on my arm. Of course, when that bite was gone within hours they were worried, but they still loved me.
No, they didn’t stop loving me until that night. The night I burned in my bed, the night I almost killed all of them.
That next day had been the worst of my life (even now) I awoke naked, alone, and I had no recollection of what I’d done. All I knew was they were screaming at me, crying and yelling, and then I was thrown out. Even now I hate the days right after, more so then the days right before. They are a constant reminder of why I no longer have a home, why I can’t see my sister, why I can’t be loved.
Days. Days are the hardest to live through.