There was something wrong with her. It was obvious. But still she could not find what it was. Was it the way she looked? The way her hair fell heavily passed her shoulders, or could it have been her height. No, as much as she disliked how large she had become Mati was sure that it was something inside that was wrong. She felt different, off since coming home from the nights in the city. But before then she had been happy, and had the prospect of a content future. And now, as she pulled at the bandages that were wrapped tightly around her arms, she wasn’t so sure about that.
The knowledge that her brother would no longer call Crimson Dreams home was heart breaking. She knew that he needed something more, he needed something different in order to find himself, but she had hoped to be part of that discovery. They had always been best friends, and now they were not even pack mates. It was a harsh reality to live with, and as hard as she tried she could not make it disappear as she had all of those other things that she ignored. Her mother’s break up, the attack by the wolf on the boarder, her father’s history and what he had done to her birth mother. All of that could be pushed deep into her mind, forgotten, even the attack that left evidence all up and down her arms could be looked over, even if it was for the briefest of moments.
The black wolf, whose white collar shone in her memory like a fallen halo, haunted the recesses of her mind. He plagued her dreams, and she would wake unable to breath. The attack on her lungs was just another reminder of the pain and trauma inflicted. It was what kept her up, sitting in the middle of the large front room of the mansion. A few candle flickered, keeping the dark and the nightmares at bay. The girl held her sketchpad, and the picture she drew was one that depicted a scene that was completely opposite her feelings. It was lightly sketched, featuring a tree, and a pair of her favored prey. Their delicate legs flowing and melting with the whisking blades grass they stood among. She prayed and wished for the tranquility of the picture to flow up through hand and into the battered arm that held her pencil.
table by Syd
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