It isn’t like I blame wolves for this predicament. After all, the wolves are doing what wolves do. Satisfying their ‘wolfness’, it would seem, in exquisite fashion. No, my resentment stems from an inability to run faster and farther than they. Wolves are quite good at running down the objects of their appetite.
Dear lord, my heels are bloody.
Ha. A bit of joke that I say run. Run I would, if I had the energy, or the nerve, to arise and open the door. Running is what brought me here, exhausted and curled around myself while shivering in the dark. The door slammed shut behind me, deadbolt turned in a burst of adrenaline panic. The thought raced through my mind that I had actually made it, to home and safety. My own panting sounded horrifically loud even over the roaring of blood in my ears. Looking down I could see my chest vibrating as the heart threatened to pound its way out.
There is a wheezing squeak in the air. I am startled to realize it is me, the breath scouring my lungs as I struggle to slow down my heaving lungs. Shit, dammit all…quiet, I say to myself, you must be quiet or they will find you, again.
(Bitter laugh)
Quite the comedian, I am. They will find you rings in my mind with the power and clarity of a blacksmith’s hammer on red-hot steel. Clang(they)Clang(will)Clang(find)Clang(you). I laugh, whistling through clenched teeth, at my own folly. Of course they will find me.
They always do. They are wolves.
Still, I entertain the notion that once, maybe, I will be able to slip away and find permanent shelter. If not permanent, then at least long enough away from them that I could get some sleep. Deep, sound sleep, oh my god that sounds delicious…like opium to the addict. Addicts, I think in a fit of pique, which have the luxury of dreams. I don’t need to dream. I merely wish to sleep long enough that when I wake I feel part of the human race again. I grow weary of being an animal.
Sorry. That is a bit unfair to animals.
Perhaps what I really meant to say was, I grow weary of being a brute, dull of mind, irritable and easily frightened. It is arrogant of me to think that I am not in kinship with animals. On certain days I cannot escape the notion that I am an animal. A smart, upright being with the ability to curse and write poetry…but an animal just the same. I may have more polish, yes; but they have better clarity of purpose.
How grand that would be, to spend your waking days satisfying the simple needs of stomach and sinews! To howl with your mates, roll in the grass and gift your belly to the sun: surely, there is no better goal in this life. Who could argue with fulfilling ones purpose with a mind free of guilt, shame or fear?
Clang. The hammer falls again, and I laugh like a faint death rattle.
Fulfill one’s purpose with a mind free of guilt, shame or fear.
Would that I was Galahad, and a life free of fear my Holy Grail. It is fear that prompts me to run from the wolves, because who wants to be eaten alive? Especially by creatures who have no conscience on the matter?
Sorry, I am being unfair again. I have no idea whether wolves care for those whom they are about to devour. Does it cross their minds, do you think, to feel guilty as their jaws close on the flesh, teeth crush the bones?
Ha. I am a silly man. I have seen the look in their eyes, hurriedly glancing back at them as I plead for my aching legs to go faster. The look of pure concentration. The focus and certainty of being at ease in your world while fulfilling the impulse that created you.
The wolf, the animal, as soft tool in the hands of the Maker.
My breathing finally slowed to the point of measured sips, my throat protests in a fit of dryness. I am thirsty. Hot pursuit, especially if one is the pursued rather than pursuer, is thirst-making work. I open the freezer and scoop ice into the glass waiting for me on the counter. The metallic tinkling of solid water striking supercooled fluid is comfort to my ears. It sounds simple, domestic. The cubes crackle as I pour tea into the glass. It reminds me of a Christmastime hand bell chorus, except wildly out of tune. I drink.
It is quiet in the room, finally, disturbed only by my noisy swallows as I pad over to the door to listen. I put an ear to the cool painted metal. I hold my breath. One heartbeat, two…nothing. A tiny sigh of relief escapes my cracked lips. The knots inside loosen slightly. Another big swallow of tea in toast to small victories. Ice cubes smack into my mouth as I upend the chunky glass. As my arm swings downward, they land in the bottom of the glass with a tickticktick.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound continues for too long after the glass is upright. I blink, staring into the frozen water, and the ticking continues. It grows louder. My stomach lurches when I realize the ticking noise is coming from outside the door. It has the cadence of someone, or some thing walking stealthily but assuredly across a hardwood floor. Something on all fours.
I freeze in place, not daring to move. The ticking grows louder, stopping at the door. I hold my breath in an attempt to make no sound at all. The door creaks, there are scratching noises, and the door moves ever so slightly inward. I stifle a scream. There is a shadow tracking along the threshold, blocking the small light trickling in at the bottom. Faint chuffing noises, like a lover breathing into the back of one’s neck, drift through the door.
A lover or a predator, each to deliver a kiss, to devour, but with wildly different intent.
The shadow moves away from the door, I see. There is the soft sound of fur meeting the floor. Concentrating, I can just barely hear breathing in the hall. I struggle not to faint. The wolves, they wait.
Dear lord, my heels are bloody.
Ha. A bit of joke that I say run. Run I would, if I had the energy, or the nerve, to arise and open the door. Running is what brought me here, exhausted and curled around myself while shivering in the dark. The door slammed shut behind me, deadbolt turned in a burst of adrenaline panic. The thought raced through my mind that I had actually made it, to home and safety. My own panting sounded horrifically loud even over the roaring of blood in my ears. Looking down I could see my chest vibrating as the heart threatened to pound its way out.
There is a wheezing squeak in the air. I am startled to realize it is me, the breath scouring my lungs as I struggle to slow down my heaving lungs. Shit, dammit all…quiet, I say to myself, you must be quiet or they will find you, again.
(Bitter laugh)
Quite the comedian, I am. They will find you rings in my mind with the power and clarity of a blacksmith’s hammer on red-hot steel. Clang(they)Clang(will)Clang(find)Clang(you). I laugh, whistling through clenched teeth, at my own folly. Of course they will find me.
They always do. They are wolves.
Still, I entertain the notion that once, maybe, I will be able to slip away and find permanent shelter. If not permanent, then at least long enough away from them that I could get some sleep. Deep, sound sleep, oh my god that sounds delicious…like opium to the addict. Addicts, I think in a fit of pique, which have the luxury of dreams. I don’t need to dream. I merely wish to sleep long enough that when I wake I feel part of the human race again. I grow weary of being an animal.
Sorry. That is a bit unfair to animals.
Perhaps what I really meant to say was, I grow weary of being a brute, dull of mind, irritable and easily frightened. It is arrogant of me to think that I am not in kinship with animals. On certain days I cannot escape the notion that I am an animal. A smart, upright being with the ability to curse and write poetry…but an animal just the same. I may have more polish, yes; but they have better clarity of purpose.
How grand that would be, to spend your waking days satisfying the simple needs of stomach and sinews! To howl with your mates, roll in the grass and gift your belly to the sun: surely, there is no better goal in this life. Who could argue with fulfilling ones purpose with a mind free of guilt, shame or fear?
Clang. The hammer falls again, and I laugh like a faint death rattle.
Fulfill one’s purpose with a mind free of guilt, shame or fear.
Would that I was Galahad, and a life free of fear my Holy Grail. It is fear that prompts me to run from the wolves, because who wants to be eaten alive? Especially by creatures who have no conscience on the matter?
Sorry, I am being unfair again. I have no idea whether wolves care for those whom they are about to devour. Does it cross their minds, do you think, to feel guilty as their jaws close on the flesh, teeth crush the bones?
Ha. I am a silly man. I have seen the look in their eyes, hurriedly glancing back at them as I plead for my aching legs to go faster. The look of pure concentration. The focus and certainty of being at ease in your world while fulfilling the impulse that created you.
The wolf, the animal, as soft tool in the hands of the Maker.
My breathing finally slowed to the point of measured sips, my throat protests in a fit of dryness. I am thirsty. Hot pursuit, especially if one is the pursued rather than pursuer, is thirst-making work. I open the freezer and scoop ice into the glass waiting for me on the counter. The metallic tinkling of solid water striking supercooled fluid is comfort to my ears. It sounds simple, domestic. The cubes crackle as I pour tea into the glass. It reminds me of a Christmastime hand bell chorus, except wildly out of tune. I drink.
It is quiet in the room, finally, disturbed only by my noisy swallows as I pad over to the door to listen. I put an ear to the cool painted metal. I hold my breath. One heartbeat, two…nothing. A tiny sigh of relief escapes my cracked lips. The knots inside loosen slightly. Another big swallow of tea in toast to small victories. Ice cubes smack into my mouth as I upend the chunky glass. As my arm swings downward, they land in the bottom of the glass with a tickticktick.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound continues for too long after the glass is upright. I blink, staring into the frozen water, and the ticking continues. It grows louder. My stomach lurches when I realize the ticking noise is coming from outside the door. It has the cadence of someone, or some thing walking stealthily but assuredly across a hardwood floor. Something on all fours.
I freeze in place, not daring to move. The ticking grows louder, stopping at the door. I hold my breath in an attempt to make no sound at all. The door creaks, there are scratching noises, and the door moves ever so slightly inward. I stifle a scream. There is a shadow tracking along the threshold, blocking the small light trickling in at the bottom. Faint chuffing noises, like a lover breathing into the back of one’s neck, drift through the door.
A lover or a predator, each to deliver a kiss, to devour, but with wildly different intent.
The shadow moves away from the door, I see. There is the soft sound of fur meeting the floor. Concentrating, I can just barely hear breathing in the hall. I struggle not to faint. The wolves, they wait.
I slowly back away from the door, praying they have not yet found the windows.
.JPG)
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