FSE

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"Citizens of our great country, as you are aware we have been attacked. Attacked by the dark forces that lived just out of our reach. 10 years ago, they introduced themselves to us, they wore innocent faces, they wielded sweet weapons to gain our trust, they hid their wicked fangs, disguised their satanic wands, and tucked away their lethal claws. We took them in, deceived by their lies we allowed these freaks into our homes, unbeknownst to us we had tied a noose around our own necks, oblivious as more kept bleeding from the crevasses of society. They lived among us hidden as our neighbours, our doctors, our daughters, and sons.

The society of supernatural beings took advantage of your kindness, my citizens they deceived you, they deceived us, using our acceptance and our gracious patience to their strange ways. These vile CREATURES managed to convince us that they were normal, that they meant us no harm, that we could live peacefully together. But our pure race saw through their sweet deceit, saw their lies and vapid ways. We rose as one, we took back our land, we took back our safety. We slaughtered those who meant us harm.

As you know a war was raged, the battle fought bravely. The sweet songs of sirens fell on our deaf ears, violent fanged beasts fell to the fires we set in their caves, we tore the winged blue bloods from the skies and ended the wolves with silver. They turned to Black magic wielding brethren, Satan their God to pray to. But we fought with the weapons of man, of humans, weapons given to us by our mighty and true God. They fell to smoke, they fell to gas, they fell, and their screams bathed our victory, your victory my great citizens.

We won the battle. Carnage, blood and death, many good humans lost their lives, but we took respite knowing that their ranks had been broken. We won the battle by sacrifice, with human strength, by slaughtering our neighbours with wings, our doctors with fangs, our daughters with fur, our sons with scales. But we have not yet won the war.

They are still here, they live among you fair citizens, they hunt your loved ones, they feast on your fear. The bombs may no longer fall, but they are not gone, keep your weapons sharp, keep your houses guarded, keep your doors locked."

The sky softly rumbles, a storm is lazily rolling in from the north carried on a current of artic wind. Clouds swirling overhead dipping and dark with due and a singular fat droplet falls from its swell, a warning sign for the nasty storm approaching. It tumbles through the air alone and lands on the stretch of glossy paper I am holding between my freezing fingers, the absurd speech I had just read now marred with a fat wet stain, smudging further as more fall.

'What a load of nonsense' I scoff out, talking the rats that scurry in the wreckage around me, in this lonesome existence they made excellent companions, fantastic listeners and they never interrupt me. I furrow my brow down at at the ridiculous print 'honestly, how could they twist history this much, it's not even close to the truth!" I give an exasperated gesture to punctuate my point, my hand being thrown into the air and landing heavily back down onto my hip, of course the only one to witness this is a small brown rat staring at me from behind a chunk of building, its blank little eyes my only audience. I roll my eyes and scrunch up the glossy paper, it was now damp with rain and fell with a satisfying wet slap as it hits the hard rubble pile, I had originally salvaged it from. Humans make everything sound so dramatic, not that I understand why. Who gave them the audacity to paint us as the villains, what gives them the right to play the victim when it was their inability to accept our mere existence that caused the war, they where not the victims here.

They were not the ones that had their covens infiltrated and murdered in cold blood, or their packs ripped apart simply for living their lives. When the war broke out, we acted only in self-defence we did not seek the human soldiers, we did not venture into their lands. They came to us, and we defended our lives, that was what we were taught to do, protect ourselves and our families, to not kill unless we had to. They did not follow such rules, they took our children, captured them in the night and used them to lure us to our deaths. They attacked our mothers, our sisters, and daughters, they attacked everyone who couldn't defend themselves, the weak, the old, the young. And slaughtered them. Without a second thought, without mercy, their soldiers were heartless and cruel. They did not see a child sobbing for his mother, they didn't see him clutching desperately to a tiny teddy, they did not see his brown eyes beg for safety or a warm embrace form the mother they butchered next to his crib. No. They saw a monster to be and rammed a bloody knife into his tiny body. And they have the gall to call us monsters.

'A load of fucking nonsense' I say turning my face away from the falling rain and back to my small furry companion, he doesn't look back at me, scrambling his way between large lumps of brick and wood looking for a morsel of food to eat. I narrow my eyes I know he is just a rat, but the sass is not amusing, he stops his rummaging around sitting up on his hind legs and rubbing his two teeny paws over his face. 'You know, you're lucky I don't eat you' I grumble out in annoyance, he stops briefly as if understanding what I had said and scrambles away, leaving me alone on the rubble pile I have been perched on.

I kick a chunk of rock after the receding creature and it makes a satisfying clank when it strikes an old, rusted metal pipe, this use to belong to a human, a home where they would raise their young, feast with their family and live happy safe lives. But now it has been torn down, a horrible wreckage and broken promise. I make my way down off what remains of a tiles roof, a room splays exposed beneath me, it isn't fully intact, and I am not very familiar with how human homes looked or functioned, but there's large table broken and splintered in the middle and what looks to be the remains of chairs surrounding it.

I assume that before this hell, a happy family lived here, I give my head a shake, but I can't stop the burning hatred that boils behind my eyes, it is just so unfair, how can they make us out to be the monsters, how are we painted as the villains. Supernatural's where happy living in silence, content with the shadows that separated us from the extravagant lives of humans, comfortable to live happily in the thick woods, deep caves, and vast expanse of nature. But no, they captured a glimpse of our existence and that was all it took, dragging us into the light, promising us unity, safety, and trust. But I guess you can't trust creatures who were born to lie right? They bore witness to what we could do, they saw my kind shift into our beastly forms and dubbed us hell hounds, dogs for the slaughter, dangerous savage and rabid. They say that vampires did not breath, did not bleed and after hearing about their diet they panicked. Sirens sang for them, and they hailed for their vocal cords to be removed, fearing for their lives.

They wanted us to be subservient, they couldn't handle that we lived in blissful freedom. They wanted to control us, wanted us to follow all these disgusting and downright insulting rules. They wanted us to never transform again, to change our diets, they didn't like us in groups and wanted to tear apart our packs and covens and in some cases try and 'reverse' our supernatural effects. Yeah, explain that one to me. Our leaders refused to subject us to the life they demanded from us, fearing that they could not control us, the Humans declared war. So, you tell me, who's the victim here?

The rain falls heavier from the grim looking clouds above and I heave a sigh, one of the few upsides of living in a destroyed city is that there are plenty of places to hide from the rain, a good thing too, I hate it when my tail gets wet. Disgusting. Pattering loudly around me, the wet drops turn the concrete debris from a nice light grey to a broody dark charcoal, matching the already damp mood of the day. I slide down what used to be a door frame and land on the torn-up asphalt of an old road. I didn't know this city before the war, and honestly, I couldn't tell you what it was called even now, it must have been abandoned and hit early in the war because nature has already started to reclaim the land. Old gardens from the empty residential street are in bloom with beautiful wild bushes, rows of fragrant flowers and lush thick vines have begun to wind their way curiously into the dead, gaping eyes of the remaining structures. Moss grew on crumbling brick walls, some half standing, some a mass of dust and chunks on the ground, it spread like a spongey green blanket over what remained of wooden fences separating each garden from the smashed-up pathway. Trees had flourished with the absence of people, branches reaching hopefully into the sky, bending into beautiful shapes, and wrapping around their neighbours in a rough barky hug, the result a green tunnel of refreshing nature. Of course, there where gaps in the beautiful display, not every tree survived the bombs. Despite the torment they had seen bushes spread wildly across every green surface they could, coated in sharp thorns that I found out the hard way really gets stuck in your fur. But they bore big juicy ripe blackberries, a true gift from mother nature herself, they are not nearly enough to survive off, but damn are they good. I pick a handful as I walk past, skirting past the reaching thorns and avoiding the unripen red ones. They nasty.

Popping one into my mouth, my large canines pierced its soft black flesh and I muse at the sweet flavour exploding on my tongue. This place doesn't offer much love, it is cripplingly lonely and if it wasn't for the vegetation that grew hauntingly and beautifully through the wreckage it would be so barren and cold. I slip down what used to be an old street that led from the housing to a high street, the floor is fractured, uneven, with large craters caved into the surface from fallen rubble. Street signs rusted, missing letters and creaking in the soft wind, some of the stores still have fabric coverings over the shop windows but they have long rotted and my keen nose flinches at the rancid smell. This city was not a modern one I had seen in pictures, my tail drags numbly over what remains of the smooth cobblestone ground and the remains of stone statues can still be vaguely seen, once glorious monuments to Humans who mattered, now broken, and forgotten. Just like this place. Just like me.

I was very young when the war broke out, and I had spent my childhood being raised in the pack village, located deep in the forest. I was just maturing from my teens, a young warrior wolf when they attacked. When they destroyed everything. I had gotten pinned under a fallen tree, knocked out cold and hidden from their searching eyes, when I came too, I was alone. In my schooling years were taught about humans, taught their history, their cultures, everything we would need to know if we decided to move away from the pack and integrate ourselves into their world. The thought still feels like poison.

I reach a broken building, I'm pretty sure it used to be a convenience store judging by the deteriorated rated sign and what remained of the produce inside. This is one of the few buildings left that still has a functioning doorway, I swing it open and a bell hanging above gives a blunt chime, its joints stiffened by age and disuse. Pungent odour of rot and time assaults my sensitive nose, I prefer the crisp smell of rain from outside, but the raid has grown thick causing my exposed fur to be saturated with heavy moisture, a tail is convenient for balance, my ear allow me to hear even the smallest of rustling from the rats. But when wet the tail drags against the floor in a sloppy mess and my ears wilt, pulling on my head with enough weight to cause a light headache.

With a groan I shake the water free in the fashion of a common house pet, if my packmates saw me do this they would no doubt take the piss. Taking a glance around this is not one of the stores I had already explored, this one has two great big boxes at the front, where the tills still sit untouched. I make my way to peer inside, but the stench of rot makes me gag, flies buzz around the mouth and if I was to hazard a guess, I would say they used to contain fresh produce. My stomach lurches again at the smell so I walk further into the small building. A lot of the food in these places are rotted, mouldy and foul, the only thing I have been able to consistently trust is the tinned food, a glorious isle stocked with tomatoes, beans, pasta, and sauces. If I was lucky, truly lucky, I would find meat in these life saving tins. Its far better than rat meat and no other animals come near the heart of this city.

I gather supplies and place them in my soggy backpack, rice, pasta and a few jars of sauces, tins of fruit and even some hotdogs! Despite the desolation of this place and the complete isolation of which I have spent five years of my life, these stores where wiped when the humans fled it, they took as much as they could carry. Food was not the easiest to come by delightful treats like fruit and meat scarce, I could venture out of this place, but I fear who my find me. I am safe in here, these broken walls keep me safe from roaming eyes and the cruel nets of hunters, despite my lessons I do not have the confidence to blend in with human society, nor was I ever taught how to shift into a complete human form. But roaming here in the ruins of civilisation, talking to myself and the rats keep me sane enough I don't turn feral. Many a wolf turned to their beast form to flee the hunters, but their rage and being cut off from their packs sent them crazy, sent them feral. Most of them no longer have a lick of their humanity, a full beast, unable to turn back.

Once my bag is full, I swing it onto my back and exit the shop, giving one last gag as I pass the boxes of pure rot, the little bell groans out another chime as I exit, and the door swings shut with a bang behind me. The sound echoes into the nothing, bouncing again off the cracked and broken walls making me flinch. The journey back to where I call home is a short one, just as well the weather has only gotten worse, rain beating down relentlessly as thunder rumbles above. I used to love this weather, I would run with my fellow packmates chasing the storm through the woods, soaking wet but pumped full of adrenaline, we'd howl with mother natures drums, shed drown out our voices and our lungs would burn. We would return home caked in mud and exhausted, but the experience was raw, it was natural, it was us and we loved it. Seeing the lighting crack above me, watching it tear into the sky like a rabid wild animal makes me itch to turn into my beast form. I feel the voices of my kin luring me to the woods, becoming me to run with them and be free, to chase the storm like we did in our youth.

I hang my head low, the fur on my ears dripping and my tail dragging through the mud. I give one last longing glace to the sky, I know I can't rum, I haven't shifted for five years, my body quakes with need. Joints crack the pressure, and my beast whines out, calling for me to let go, but I bite down and supress the change, my skin rippling as fur threatens to break the surface, but I don't let it, I can't. if I let go, I don't think I will ever be able to change back, I need to keep going, I need to keep living, I need to keep remembering them, living for them. I can't give up, so I throw my body through the heavy doorway of the farmhouse I have been taking refuge in, out of the storm and out of temptation.