He hurts. Deep in his gut, in empty, churning spasms, the acids and digestive fluids fight for sustenance, finally settling on the slow process of destroying his stomach from within. He is hungry. The days since he last ate seem to stretch behind him in fading monotones. He is a carnivore by nature, but never has he been a hunter as his brothers and sisters are. His clumsy paws and pale coat hold no promise of a warm blooded meal, caught unaware. His head aches as he pads through the trees, barely lifting his head to acknowledge the scurrying of forest animals he has no hope of catching. He is an anomaly in this world of stealth and instinct. He is a creature of the night, wandering through a sunlit wood with the rational thoughts of the humans he so longs to devour. There are stories in the pack, ancient tales of wolves who are different, wolves who are not wolves. They are dark memories of a bloodline older than memory, a strain of abnormality that birthed an animal within the animal. A mind that should not, but somehow can, understand the language of humans. A mouth that could not, but does, imitate and create their words. A darkness, deep within, that should never be wakened, never disturbed, lest it break free and the wolf become something even other wolves would fear. The pack had long since refused to tell these stories to their young; they wouldn't dare, not when this creature of old lived among them. Marked by his light fur at birth, feared since he first uttered the words that they cannot understand, he is not to be acknowledged as anything more than accepted, for fear that the beast within the beast be angered.
He starts at the echo of a low growl through the trees. A shiver sets his fur on edge as he realizes that it is only his stomach, pleading for meat. He swallows against the dryness beneath his tongue, and continues to roam. The times have changed. In the past, he had fed well. Where his awkward gate and creamy shade of fur had limited his hunting of animals, his ability to talk, to reason, and manipulate had only increased the odds of a human meal. The guilt of eating a human was enormous; more so than any fellow wolf could understand. The act of taking a human life, of comprehending their screams as their blood colors his teeth, touches a level of darkness that thrills his tainted soul, and pushes his empathetic mind toward the brink of insanity. He sighs, as only a wolf of his nature knows how to do. It has been weeks since he tasted human flesh. No matter the depth of torment, his cravings are stronger. The pack elders had decreed the local villagers as off limits; due to increasing unrest and retaliation on the part of the humans, the wolves' numbers had been steadily decreasing with every new kill. Better then to hunt the deer, the rabbits, and the smaller, defenseless creatures that lack the ability to gut you and use your skin to line their clothes. But he cannot hunt, and his hunger curls within him with the weight of heavy stones.
His head drops lower as he lopes onward, instincts and habit pulling him toward the village path. His nose twitches at a familiar smell. Blood, warmth, and light traces of sweat tingle through his senses as a little girl rounds the bend. His heard rate increases tenfold. His hunger swells within him like a river after the thaw, flooding his mouth with saliva and phantom tastes. He opens his mouth, despite the risks, despite his resolve. A voice deep within his soul, the voice of a creature who lives only to kill, whispers words to him gleefully. He opens his mouth to speak them.
"Hello little girl. Where are you going, all alone?"
The girl pauses mid skip, her dark hooded cloak swirling achingly delicious smells across his damp nose. She is suspicious, and wary, but heartbreakingly naïve as her open face studies him. She squints, he notices. Her tiny face is twisted around her button nose as she angles her head for a better view. He realizes quickly that her sight must be bad, and knows it will only serve to his advantage. His hunger growls within him, and he fights to control his urges. He must be sure she is alone before he acts. He must not frighten her away. His tongue lolls playfully. He pants softly, turns his head to the side in a curious gesture, and wags his full tale in a poor imitation of the pups in his pack.
"I'm going to my Grandmother's house." The girl replies as she looks at him more closely. "She lives all alone, and she's been sick, so my mother sent me to bring her mulled wine."
His mind races, a pale stream of logic beneath a tidal wave of ravenous impulse. There was an old woman, alone. He did not have to kill this child. An old woman lying sick was far from equal to the taste of youthful flesh; but the guilt would be less. An old woman who has lived her life, who is nearing the end of her natural days, would ease his conscience in the after light of his weakness. The pack will forgive him. They will be too afraid to rebuke his transgression. He drops to the ground, folding his paws beneath his scruffy chin and thumps his tail eagerly through the pine needles.
"Where does your Grandmother live, little girl?"
"At the end of this road." She turns her pretty face in imitation of his own. "Who taught you how to talk? None of the other dogs know how."
His hackles rise at the insulting comparison, and he fights the dark anger of his pride for a moment. The girl cannot see him clearly, he reminds himself. This girl is far too young and pure to know the danger she so casually converses with. This girl will live, he decides, if for no other reason than to look back and shudder at how close she had stood to death. He leaves her question unanswered as he rises to trot through the woods. It will be a nasty shock to the child, to arrive at the old woman's house and find it empty. He will keep the blood to a minimum. He will drag the body to the woods, to enjoy his stolen meal in secret pleasure. His speed increases as his hunger swells. He is running now, crashing through the brush to reach the house before the little girl in the dark red cloak can beat him there.
The house stands alone, a small building in the midst of a clearing. His large ears turn to catch the echo of a woodcutter's ax, somewhere in the distance. His stomach lurches in hunger pain. The window is open, and it is only the matter of one clumsy leap before he is crouched within the kitchen of the woman's home. His nails click against the hardwood floor as he pads his way toward the bedroom. His nose is assaulted with smells of sickness, of age and frailty. The voice within him snarls, and an image of the young girl, her tender belly splayed in a glorious burst of warmth and young blood is thrown across his inner eye. His head turns, his nose already seeking her fresh scent through the window, even as the red mist clears from his mind. He shudders, his coat rising in irritated spikes around his neck. The girl will live.
He turns his mind to the task, pressing forward into the bedroom. A strong leap and he is upon the woman, his teeth pressing against her throat until the feeble cries fade. His victim has fainted, her watery eyes rolling up into her head and her trembling hands falling limply to her sides. Small trickles of blood trail from her neck, and he presses his nose, and then his tongue, greedily against the warmth. His mind wanders dreamily as he folds his paws beneath him and continues to suckle. His hunger is a rolling strength, building in sweet agony as he prolongs the blissful inevitable. He nudges the woman's wrinkled face as he licks the blood up, and across her ear. This is what separates him from his mindless brethren, from those who snap, and tear and destroy without the awareness of any pleasure beyond their full bellies. They will never know this joyful suffering, the teasing taste of blood mixed with guilt and fear. He rises on his haunches, his teeth latching onto the woman's shoulder, and pulls her slight frame to the floor.
A melody drifts by the window. The girl in the dark cloak has arrived. His mind flies into confusion, his resolve suddenly at war with the natural wolf he cannot be, the mind he cannot ignore, and the beast within them all. His soul is screaming for blood, his cravings pleading for him to kill the woman now and eat until his stomach rejects her remains. His mind cries out for the child quickly approaching, mourning her innocence, already regretting her loss as the animal he can barely control snarls viciously behind his mental shields. He is panting, growling, his head ducked and his hackles bristling. He is so hungry. The girl will live, he had said. The girl will live.
He presses the flat of his head against the woman's still form, sliding his paws against the floor as he pushes her scarce weight beneath the bed. He scrambles beneath the edge of the quilt, burrowing his weight deep within the mattress, and his terror even deeper.
"Grandma, it's me! Mum sent you some wine to make you feel better." The child's voice is as bright as sunlight from across the room. The hunger within him begins to whisper of young blood.
"I met the most amazing dog on the way here." The girl continues, draping her cloak across a chair and bending to remove her fur lined boots. The darkness within him begins to snarl, sending vibrations of anger down his spine.
"I know you'll think I'm telling tales, but Grandma
– he talked to me!" Her little toes wiggle as she frees them from her stockings. The sanity within him is quickly fading. She has to leave. He has to make her go. He is so hungry.
"That's nice dear." He croaks in falsetto, his fear and hatred rising to aid the shaky tone.
"Grandma! You sound so different." The little girl climbs up the foot of the bed and nestles herself against the warmth of his legs. "You must still be sick then. Mum said to not stay too near, or too long, if you were." Her pale head drops to rest along his quilt covered haunch with a sigh. "But I wish I could stay."
He is hungry. There is a red mist, the only color he knows, blurring the edge of his sight as he crouches beneath her suddenly curious squint.
"You look different I think. Your eyes are big and dark today." He leans away as she inches forward, his lip curling in a barely controlled growl.
"It is enough that I can see you, dear heart."
Her eyes narrow, and the scent of suspicion fouls the air around her. His insides quiver with desire; his teeth ache to snatch her pretty frown from her face. He is hungry.
"Are those ears? Atop your head?" She whispers, and the first hint of fear adds a wistful tone to her words.
"It is only so I may hear you, my sweet." He all but whines the final word, drags it out until it ends in a whimper of longing. His mind is spinning. He can strongly smell the rust of blood, slowly seeping from the wounded body hidden beneath them both. His eyes roll once in his head and he growls softly. He is hungry.
"Are you still my grandmother?" The child whispers, her voice icy now with unknown fears. She reaches a hesitant hand, laying it softly atop his paw only to gasp and reel in horror. "The dog!" She squeals, turning her skirts upward in an attempt to roll away. His control snaps powerlessly after his instincts, moments after his teeth snap for, and miss, her slender arm. His vision is saturated with the rich promise of blood, his hunger a constant roar within his very bones. He springs forward, the weight of his paws bruising the small girl against the floor. He slides his rolling tongue across her tearful face, and the beast within him howls in delight as she screams. He is hungry. Oh, he is so hungry. There is no rationality now. There is no manipulation, no logic, and no linguistics. There is only the hunger, and the screaming within him to sate it. The girl turns her head in a moment; her eyes widen and her mouth begins to bawl as she stares into the bleeding face of her grandmother beside her.
"The teeth." She sobs, closing her eyes to the dripping necklace that adorns her grandmother's neck. "No. No. No." She whimpers, her entire frame a quivering bundle of shock. Her terror is a physical hand, reaching deep within him to entice the inner darkness of his heritage. He is hunger.
"All the more useful for eating you."
His eyes roll to the ceiling, the whites glaring hatefully as his mouth extends, his jaw unhinges and he pulls the child's head into his throat. Those are the last memories he held within his shattered mind; those of the natural laws he had broken, of the odd sensation of swallowing a seven year old child in one piece; of feeling her kick and struggle even from within the darkness of his gleeful belly. Her screams seemed to vibrate against his ribs as the beast within him danced. His last sight in this world was that of a tall woodsman, stepping in from the edge of the red mist, and quickly turning it black.