I gaped at the slow, crawling pool of blood that inched slowly toward my claws. His small human corpse lay stiffly in front of me. His pale brown hair was thin and sticky with the rouge liquid, the grey snow dusting it as it continued to fall from the heartless sky.
I could scarcely believe what I had just done. In my rage, in my hatred, my eyes had been misted with the tempting veil of blood; I had not been in my right senses. It had been just one thing, one monstrous thing, and I hadn't been able to control my wrath. And now, because of my own doing, I was left with nothing. This person who had once been so kind, so caring, so warm.
Maybe I really was just the horror, the frozen disaster that the rest of the cold world saw me as. A thing, only to despise and to fear and to avoid.
---
I remember that freezing December day as a tiny cub, lying in the cheerless, biting snow; shivering pathetically and feeling sorry for myself. My mother had abandoned me, the weakest of her litter, leaving behind her no remorse to comfort me. I was on the edge of life, neither living but not yet dead.
And then he had found me, and scooped me up in his small, gentle hands. I didn't think I deserved to be saved, but I was too limp and too cold to take any sort of action, so I let his warmth lull me to sleep as he brought me to his small cottage.
---
As the days wandered by, the boy took care of me, and I began to walk on my own four paws. Often he would take me out, show me the world; even let me take part in playful battles. We grew stronger, and under his thoughtful command, I became quite a skilled and powerful fighter. My claws and my mind grew sharper by the day. We had a bond, he and I. Our friendship was intense, connected by a nearly insuperable link. He had seen me for the feeling, intelligent creature that I was.
---
But then one slippery, awkward winter, years from the day we first met, something changed. The boy began to become more reserved towards me. He was withdrawing from me. The once high frequency of thrilling battles, and picnics, and long discussions down autumn roads dwindled. A strange figure often came to his house, tall and broad-shouldered, and dark. And I would watch solemnly through his frost-edged window into the hearth-lit room (where I had once been welcome for a chat, or story, or a song). Strange things occurred there. The dark figure would talk to the boy with intense ardency, holding out his hand and shaking it wildly. More often than not the boy, my boy, would be shaking, sobbing. And the angry figure would continue on speaking. I would never know what they were saying; never hear the words spoken on those deathly nights, for the boy's window was always closed.
I was both angry and spiteful and sorrowful and rueful towards him, all at once.
---
He had always been a rather timid boy. He had a girlish look about him; his hair was kept somewhat long, his eyes were big and long-lashed; his features delicate and fragile. Which is why I always thought it so noble of him to choose a friend like me.
But as the calls with the Visitor increased, he became…odd. He never explained anything in the little time he now spent talking to me. He was moody and quiet. As time trekked on, I grew to dislike the boy I once loved. Not, necessarily, to hate him, just become and irritated and soured by his presence, even in the precious little time he now chose to grace me with it.
---
Then one day, as I trotted over to the frosty window, I noticed that the room was unlit. Not even the tiny hearth offered an ember of light. The boy was gone.
He had been my only friend, my only saviour, my only reason to take each breath. And at last, he had gone out completely, just like fire that once, long ago, blazed merrily in the hearth of the small cottage.
It was then that a sudden rage, a passionate hatred, settled upon me like fire. I grew hot and fiery, even in the grey snow. My claws burned like steaming charcoals in the cold, and as resentment coursed through my body in a torrent, I bolted, following the boy's scent. He had left not too long ago, so I found him easily. He was walking alone, with a stare of nothing on his stoic face.
He did not notice me coming. Not that this fact surprised me. My claws and my torn heart spurted a liquid, metallic flame. At the last second he whipped around wildly, his eyes, in an instant, filled with horror and shock and disbelief and…something else; but it was all at once, and everything was fast-moving, and the world was a spin of raging black and deep red and sorrowful grey and then it was over.
Fin
A/N: This story really surprised me. It didn't turn out quite like I thought it would, and I wrote it in a hurry and a flurry, and it startled me. It sort of took its own course. Well I hope you liked it even though it was horrible and depressing and angsty.