Fenrir

A terrifying shriek.

"Mother, help!"

No reply.

"MOTHER!"

The house behind him? Silent.

"F-father?"

He wonders, despite the torture he is being put through, if it is giving him the experience of such grief that he starts to imagine the death of his father has been undone.

"STOP IT!"

The lanky boy with ragged hair sobs and weeps uncontrollably, screaming from pain, with no idea what is going on, being too young to understand the cruelties of the world.

Pinning the boy down to the ground is a starving werewolf, though behind the blood-craving, ferocious eyes, there is slight guilt and sorrow. She is silently apologising to the boy, praying for his forgiveness, but as much as she tries to hold herself back from sentencing her victim to a life of pain, misery, judgement and cruelty, there is no way to do such a thing.

The werewolf - sensing there is no more life for her to take and replace with the one of suffering from lycanthropy - moves off the child. The light from the full moon shines down upon the body of her; scratches; cuts; scars; scabs, bruises. They are all shown, highlighted by the rays of the orb hanging in the pitch black sky.

She looks down upon the boy once more and the beast inside of her sneers and snarls.

The woman, however, wails with wishes that he will not make it through to the next morning.

After all, at least it would be better than remaining alive.

Her eyes move to the small, uncared-for home he inhabits. Is his mother in such a deep sleep she has not heard the screams and yells her son has been letting out into the night and echoing around the small village?

Would that be for the best?