Dancing Slowly In an Empty Room

by Branwe

The wall hurts her back. She faces his red eyes and holds her breath, her fingers move up and wander through his face, touching the small scar in form of a circle right beside his left eye. She let's her hand fall until it hits his mouth, her thumb moves his lower lip foward when it passes and stops in his chin. "What is an Alpha without a pack?", she asks. "Nothing", he answers.

1. Chapter 1

Scott McCall wakes up missing his mother, the pain in his chest almost too huge to supress, a ghost that hunts him every day no matter how much he fights it. He looks too much like her to forget her, his small and black eyes, his brown and straight hair and his warm color are a everyday remember burning in his mirror. He wants to break it but he can't, he can't, he can't.

He gets up and moves his fingers across the comber, he knows he has to leave this place now. He doesn't want to, he loves it. He loves the fact that it's far away from everything, that he can run in the woods at night and the wolves that sing at the twilight. There are no memories here, just smells. His house smells like girl whose names he can't recall, it's distant and weak but still feels dirty. He feels dity. He's done so many things and that's what makes him feel dirty, it's almost laughable.

Part of him wants to lay in bed and stay here forever, waiting for the cold hands of death to consume him, but he'll fight. He'll live. For everything he's sacrificed, he'll keep walking until his feet become useless. He opens the window and breath in cold air. It's time to pack now. He never takes much, he can't. He takes a little elephant made of marfin his father gave him when he was 3 years old, he's not sure how he remembers it, before he knew his father's hands were to feared like guns, an old picture of his first house, a shirt that smells like Allison, keys that only he knows what opens, an ipod full of musics that fills his heart when it's almost shuting down, some clothes and money. He spots a full bottle of vodka in the edge of his eyes and puts it inside the bag as well, he'll need something to blurry his senses. He always does.

He'll have to burn this house now. It's the worse part, knowing he'll never be able to go back to it. He almost gives it up, what would be the difference, anyway? Someone could track a bunch of destroyed houses. Someone could track his steps, his breaths, his thoughts. He stops and play attention to his breath and his claws going back to being nails. He can never let this allucinations drive him mad. There's so much fear in his brain he feels like that's his normal state, like being relaxed is wrong. Fear is his peace, his confort, his solid ground. Fear is everything he has ever known.

The fire behind him is relaxing. He did everything he could to garantee it wouldn't get to the florest, and he has to keep going now. He feels anxious about his choice of city, he usually chooses something small and isolated but he'd like to change his tatics. To hide in a full clowd seems smarter than being the only person in kilometers, but maybe he has exagerated a little bit. New York is as big as a country.