The Alpha's Breeder

“I promise. I won’t be out long.” I try to convince my grandmother as she interlocks loops of wool that somehow produce a blanket, which we do not need anymore.

I watch her as she knits. It’s like a child learning to speak, wondering how strings and words come together so flawlessly and gain meaning. She rolls her eyes at me and continues to rock back and forth in her old, wooden rocking chair; one that my grandfather built before he passed away. She looks like some image of perfection.

The creaking noises crawl up my back and into my ears. My grandfather had a knack for woodwork and was often found working outside, though I was too young to remember the sight of it.

I inch closer to her as she acts like I didn’t ask a question.

My grandmother and I are different. There are two sides to us. One side is human, and the other is beastly. This animalistic half has been with me since birth. I had no say in the matter, as it remains entirely genetic. Like my grandmother, I can turn and shift into something wild. A creature coated with thick, rich fur and built with sharp, threatening teeth. A wolf. Specifically, a werewolf, were meaning man, which is silly because I am clearly not a man.

In our human form, we are just like anybody else, nothing special. We feel the cold bite into our skin. We get injured and bleed. We are just as vulnerable as everybody else. Just plain human. The other side of us though, the beastly side, is a different story. Once we shift and turn into wolves, our senses enhance. We become strong and hard to kill. We become animals.

My grandmother and I are not the only werewolves in existence. There are actually hundreds of our kind scattered around the world. I was born into a pack, though I do not remember much about it. It is a vague memory, as at that time, I had other things to worry about, other problems to distract me. Though in the pack, I lived with my mother and my father, and in the beginning, I remember all was well. The laughter and memories resurface now and then to torment me.

After an attack on the pack’s land, they sent me away to live with my grandmother.

“It is for safety,” they told me, yet I have not seen them since.

My grandmother has taken care of me since then, raising me for over a decade, and for all these years, the only reason I have is that of an attack. Details were not given to me, even after asking Grandmother. She does not seem to know much either.

“Grandma? Can I go?”

She seems to be somewhere else.

She sighs and sets down her knitting needles, the only ones she has ever used. There are a few scratches in the wood, but they are not impaired enough to make her toss them.

“Fine, but be back before dark, or at least before the canopy matches the sky, dear.”

I slip on my coat, one that I usually wear when the weather is on the cooler side.

“I’ll be back,” I call to her before fleeing out the door and into the crisp autumn breeze.

I suck in a deep breath of the relaxing aroma. It smells like fallen leaves, damp dirt, and my freedom. If freedom has a scent, it will surely smell like this.

I am wandering through the trees, gazing up their mile-long trunks, and watching their burnt orange and burgundy leaves sway like the rocking chair I saw only moments ago. The air and everything around me is damp from the rainfall earlier today.

I watched the rain from my bedroom window before being called down for lunch. The raindrops streamed down the glass, and I tried to find meaning in the drawing. Part of me was always looking for answers in everything, waiting for the universe to give me clarity with the fogged aspects of my life. After trying to decipher the squiggly lines for far too long, I gave up and tried to remember that they were just raindrops on my window.

The cool temperature of the season keeps the forest and my skin fresh. The forest is quite crisp tonight, but even now, even in the snow, the rain, or sunshine, I always feel uneasy. Just like what I currently feel. In my human form, there is always a weird feeling in my stomach. The animals watch me, and I think it is because they believe me to be trespassing. In my more untamed form, they do not seem to mind me.

I hop over a fallen tree and come up to a small stream. Weeds and grass grow out of the clear, cold water and dance like they do not have a care in the world. My fingertips dip into the stream, and the water chills them to the bone. My skin turns blue and purple from the inside out.

I have never crossed the stream. I always save it for later, but then I always forget. Everything that is roaming and singing in the forest steals my attention, pulling me away as if I have transformed into a simple-minded child. Grandmother tells me not to cross the stream, so I do not. But I want to. I really do. The curiosity burns my soul, and you may think I am dramatic, which I am, but I walk here almost every day and wonder what is on the other side. Maybe a castle with a prince like in my childhood fairytale books, but that is unlikely. Still, I will continue to pretend that there is a prince.

“You wish,” my wolf mutters to me.

“Oh, don’t you lie to me. I know that you want to find out what’s over there too.” I grumble inwardly, giving into the conversation that no one else can hear.

The act brings a new concept to talking with yourself.

“No, I don’t. We need to go home before dark, remember?”

“Okay, we’re going back,” I mumble to her and spin on my heels, facing the direction of the house.

One day I will cross over, and I will find out what is on the other side.

I trudge back to the house just before dark. I would still be exploring if it were not for my wild, judgmental wolf.