Faith
#3 of White Death ~ A Werewolf's Journal
The third story featuring my werewolf huntress Talo, focusing on her returning to her masters after having been bitten.
Failure is something I have grown accustomed to. I failed to kill myself, I failed to stop her, I failed to not enjoy it. That was how she killed me, she killed that part of me that cared, the part of me that was human enough to be horrified. A happy family for her first meal, a priest for her second, it was like being deconstructed bit by bit, showing me the kind of monster I was.
A month out, I couldn't face my minders, not with what I knew I was. The hunters no more welcome of me than the wolves I sunk silver into. That morning after Winter took everything, I finally decided it was time I told them what happened. A merciful death would be better than facing myself in the mirror. At least they would have the god damned courage to kill me. The bloody images that filled my head hardly bothered me, as those things stop concerning you when you kill for a living. No, it was the utter pleasure I felt as I tore apart that family, or the gluttonous glee feasting on the holy man.
The twisted part of my soul knew without a single doubt that it came from me. The desire to see happy families broken like my own drove her to show me what I really am. Those smiling, laughing faces torn to shreds tasted of the sweetest liquor; the divine ambrosia found in other people's misery. I was fucked in the head, and deserved to be put down like a common animal.
"Kill me." The words soft in the air, hanging like creeping vines in the small dark chamber. The remains of that sound soon stained by a scream; pain and anguish married to torn burnt flesh. The silver-silver studded ends of a whip rend the bare flesh of the speaker's back; tiny rivulets of blood steaming and bubbling inside the crevasses created. A soft whimper following close behind while the scream still fills the room.
The whip, in the hand of a man, hair just showing the hint of grey has a grim expression on his face. Hands crossing, he proceeds to recite a prayer, blessing himself in sign of the holy father. The whip comes down again, pulling more sweet crimson from the girl's body. Scars litter her back like a mountainous crag, with new ones rising to the surface in time with the lashes.
A growl erupts, the prostrate woman clenching as if it will draw her emerging claws back in. Her eyes open, flecks of crimson scattered in her brown irises like rubies. A single word spoken, "Please," direction unspecified. Lifting a chain of silver, sliding her thin wrists inside, the flesh smoking hideously in contact. Cold blue eyes sharing little emotion in their gaze, watch the shifting blizzard of fur erupt from flesh. The beast howls out as it devours the girls body and heart, red fur-less welts along her back obscuring the black markings of a web. Saliva runs between sharp teeth, and red eyes meet blue.
Morality, we are told about it endlessly. There is good and there is evil, and there is no in between. Sin, and punishment go hand in hand. Mortals can only understand this through the guidance of a wiser man, one who truly knows god. I have never believed in that god, and if they did exist, they are one sick fuck who enjoys the pleasure of torment. I would prefer to believe that nature and life are simply cruel. Some people are just born monsters, while others are forged in the white fire of life.
However, I did truly believe that they would kill me. That the church would stand for what it was, and destroy a monster in its presence in the light of their belief in the greater power. Their judgement would be sound, and Winter's life would be snuffed out in its infancy. Hah, like all faith, it was shattered and the veil lifted like a husband seeing his new wife for the first time. Staring into her disgusting, rotten face as he was forced to bed her. Her veil was removed, and his mask slid into place.
The church's flock, crowding into the pews of this place, huddled together begging for forgiveness for being the monsters they were inside. They all knew there was no salvation to be found, only comfort in the inner knowledge that they were one of many. As if eating a tiny piece of Christ himself made them less a monster; I wonder how he would have actually tasted, certainly not like stale cardboard. Yet they came, their prayers and pockets emptied for the peace of mind that maybe, just maybe, there was an actual meaning to this cruel and heartless existence. Unfortunately, there isn't. I have stared into the black pit of the universe, and made friends with death. Death is the end, the only friend we have that will end all pain. Universal and swift in judgement it brings peace to even the darkest heart.
White and silver clashed, and then hissing and howling. The blue eyes continued to watch, holding the universe in their solemn gaze. Baby oil, and cinnamon wafted off his flesh, facial expression not budging from a stoic facade. Jaws snapped, claws rending the air while those eyes watched.
The beast quaked, boundaries clashing. The cage encircling the creature like a knowing friend. No pleasure found, disagreeing with the assessment violently. Its crimson eyes met the blue once again. Silence found, the monsoon halted. Time met as understanding was found. Hearts entwining, and the only sound was that of metal snapping like a twig.
When I first returned, I was choking on emotion and guilt. I had not been away for so long, returning to the church like a ghost haunting it. I found my way to the familiar presence of a confession booth curling up inside like the lost child I was. I am not sure how long I occupied the space alone, the protective walls grasping me and comforting me like my mother never had.
Reality stepped back in with the sound of Father Cambert's voice. I never liked him, something about the man's presence and attitude bothered me, long before I could smell the scent of altar boy on the man's flesh. His sins overlooked in the duplicitous manner all the faithful must for the cognitive dissonance to not gobble their faith like a ravenous beggar handed a loaf of bread.
I felt like biting his throat out. He told me about being worried about this lamb of god, that he was overjoyed that his little lamb had found its way back to the flock, not mentioning the wolf wrapped within. "Black's dead." I said to myself more than him. Every day, like the rosary beads in a priest's hand, I repeated that. I screamed it while she ate that family. Again, my teeth and fingers itched, as the fat boyish man told me that he knew, and that I was forgiven for the sins I had committed.
I openly stated I doubted what I had done could be forgiven, that he had no idea of the gravity of my sins. I opened and bared my heart in that little box, letting a stranger see that weakness inside for one of the rare moments in my life. I begged and pleaded for him to agree that I was a monster, knowing it could be the only truth, and that in here of all places, the believers would strike me down.
"Eating a priest, and a pregnant woman. You made this one hard to clean up, dear child." the words stuck in the small chamber and my head with the smell of Cambert's last lover.
Claws wrapped around throat, entwining and threatening to pierce into flesh. Corded muscles straining in opposition. A whip scattered on the floor across the room. Hatred and pity exchanged in equal measure. Maw hovering inches away from soft flesh below.
Another quick exchange, crimson eyes finding their azure partners in a dance of will. The gray wolf grinning wickedly before sinking his jaws into the neck of the female below.
I was wrong, so very wrong. Why ever, would they destroy a monster when they have a chance to tame it? The fuckers knew what I had done, knew what I was. But what they saw instead of a creature worthy of destruction, they saw a tool. I had played the part of a believer for far too long, I had even convinced myself sometimes that I belonged there. They had a devil's instrument in their hands and chose to wield it, and I was not alone.
I felt violated, and betrayed, but not surprised. The fuckers will tell you to your face that you are doing god's work, ridding the world of the blight of lycanthropy, when they house and protect an entire group of them. They called themselves "Cinophali", as if giving themselves a name would excuse the ridiculousness of their position. Many of them too weak to kill themselves, coming for forgiveness for their acts. I didn't seek forgiveness, I knew there was none to be found. I wanted death.
White snapped at gray, and the two dance. The inexperienced child, limping, hamstrings open and blood dripping from a useless leg. The dominant gray, toying with the other, snapping at her, driving her into the corner like a fallen deer. Flesh meets maw, claws strike and fangs jeer as exhaustion finds the winter wolf.
Her movements slow, her ears press low but her heart remains proud, her freedom will follow with the gray's sinews in her throat. Barking out a warning, she memorizes the creatures scent, the strong aroma of another were something unfamiliar to the fledgling. The musky scent something completely new, but the posture worrying. White fur hardly seen, the creature moving her bulk at the door. Her head and body colliding together, and metal grinds and holds true. There's a sudden weight on her back, and fangs sink into her neck before something else sinks into her flesh.
Winter dominated, and broken. I watched with glee as she was put in her place. She seethed and fought, but at her core she enjoyed it. I watched her heart and freedom destroyed in the same way she took mine. Body betraying heart, heart betraying heart, it all becomes too much to bear and you just give up. You accept what you have become.
I found peace in this odd, twisted vengeance, and find my job and focus returned to me and my world widened as I was welcomed into my new clan. I am Cinophali.