My life is split into five activities, all split between the people around me. It’s not hard to break them down really, and I’m omitting necessities such as sleep, eating, showering, etc.
The first activity, and I’m using the term loosely, would be for my mother. Helping her cook, clean, yard work, taking care of the pets. And again, I’m using the word ‘help’ loosely. I define help in this instant as ‘Come help me ____’ and I wind up doing it while she watches me, or the television which seems to be more interesting.
The second activity, would be for my friends, or … Friend, really. As I only have one that isn’t online. This consists of going to her house once a week, helping her make dinner, and sitting and watching whatever television show we happen to binge watch, bitching about work, or arguing about something stupid until we wind up getting pissed off at each other, and I give in. It’s always me giving in. She’s always right after all. What do I know?
The third activity is my writing. You could argue that this would be my ‘alone time’ but I absolutely would not. This is the time my mind could not be more occupied with other people, even if they are fictional. People taking form and identity in my mind, consuming every part of it until they make themselves known, become their own being, tell me what to write, what they want to do, and in times bullying me into submission. Making me do what they want to do, instead of what I planned on them doing. But this is okay.
The fourth activity is social media, which as much as we hate to admit it consumes every part of our life, showing us the highlight reel of perfection of other peoples lives, while making us think about all the negativity in ours and thinking ‘why isn’t my life like hers?’ Seeing the glamourous movie reel of someone elses life while simultaneously seeing the horror and disgust of others, the news stories, the shootings, the detention centres, people begging for help, for fresh water while we sit and can do little because we are too consumed by our own troubles which we know pale in comparison to others who suffer so much worst.
The fifth … The fifth… My precious alone time, that rare occasion when I can put down social media, push aside all technology friends and family, and sit outside by myself on a nice cool breezy day with a cold drink and read a book. To escape into a world, into a life, that isn’t mine and for once not have to think about the rot and disease going through my mind at every moment of every day.
This time in my life is so disgustingly rare … Because I do not have time for it and when I do it is so easily disrupted. The call for help so easily thrown at me and I am required, as taught by the people around me, that I have to do what they want, when they want, break my back, make myself sick to do what they need of me. To stand tall, and smile pretty, because I am not allowed to be angry, or sad, or annoyed, because it makes them feel bad, and if they feel bad they make me feel worse because after all … It’s my fault for feeling that way. To learn that even at thirty years old I do not hold the ability to say no, because if I do then I will be hated, judged, yelled at. I have learned over the years that it does not take much for people to walk away from me, to stop talking to me, and for what? My emotions? The fact that I am human? That I have a need to be loved? That I SHOULD be allowed to express the fact that I am not a service, but a friend? A daughter? A loved one?
My time is not my time, and it will never be my time. If I do, then I will be alone, live my life alone, die alone, because people are too consumed with their own lives and surrounding themselves with so many people who don’t actually care because in this day and age it’s all about quantity and not quality. About how many friends you have, how many followers you have, and it doesn’t really matter that they don’t even talk to you, because they’re ‘there’.
This is not the life I want, and while it terrifies me that I have no respect by anyone in my life, including my mother because by her view a mother doesn’t need to respect her child no matter the age, it terrifies me more to be alone.
My life is split into five activities all split between the people around me … My life is not my own!
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Alian walked quietly along the beach, tugging her thick coat around her, the ground covered in soft snow, blanketed over frozen sand. The snow near the water slowly turned into frost, before going further out into thin sheets of ice. A few more days, and this whole beach will be covered, the water frozen over, and in less than a month, the ice skaters would be out. But for now … The current cold temperature, too cold for beach swimmers, and too warm for ice skaters, there was no one there but her. She loved it here this time of year. Walking along the beach, no one but herself. No one to judge her … No one to tell her to seek professional help. She closed her eyes a moment, her mother’s words washing over her, colder than the breeze.
“You should be on medication.” She was wrong … There was nothing wrong with her. “Your friends aren’t real.” Her whole life her mother made out like she was sick when she wasn’t. Pushed her own illness onto her.
“You’re the one who isn’t real.” And that had been that. The door slammed in her face, and she was left to wander the beach. But it wouldn’t be long. Her hand lowered to her pocket, fingering the cellphone in her pocket, knowing that any moment it would ring. Her mother crying, begging her to come back … Apologizing for what she had said. Just as she always had. She took a deep breath and looked out over the water, pausing when she saw … A woman.
A woman standing on the water, staring at her, a hand on her pocket, just as Alian did. She looked confused, tilted her head, just as Alian did.
Alian straightened, and watched the woman do just as she had. “This makes no sense.” Alian said, seeing the woman’s mouth move in sync as she talked. Alian shook her head and rubbed her eyes with the base of her palms before looking up to see the woman with her arms raised, just as Alian did.
“You can’t be real.” She said. Was she hallucinating? Was this what happened to her mother? Was she actually getting sick as she was? She shook her head again and decided to ignore it. It would go away. All she would have to do is walk away from it.
She wrapped her arms around herself again, pulling her jacket tighter closed, but she could see it out of the corner of her eye, walking along with her. She didn’t know what to do. It had to be a hallucination, how else would it be walking on water, it breaks the laws of physics.
“Physics is for amateurs.” Alian jumped and looked around, the voice whispered, like the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, but it had most definitely been a voice. She looked around the beach, wondering where the voice had come from, wondering if it had been the woman who had spoken, but she was too far out to be heard. Alian looked back out onto the water, the woman now much closer, and Alian jumped back slightly, the woman doing the exact same thing. How had she come so close so quickly, and without making any noise.
The woman on the water tilted her head, and for the first time, did something that Alian did not do. She reached her hands out towards Alian.
“Help us.” She said, her eyes wide and fearful. Alian looked down slightly, and realized that her own arms were outstretched, just as the woman on the waters … Why was she doing that? How had she not known she had done that?
She looked back up at the woman, movement near the water drawing her eyes downward, and she saw a hand grasp the woman’s ankle. Alian was dimly aware of pressure on her own ankle, but neither looked down, too afraid of what might be there. They simply stared at each other, a scream emitting from both of them, the sound cutting off abruptly, and the beach was left empty.
Prompt: A clock-maker was commissioned by a client to make a piece that is unusual because of ___. The client is very specific about the day and time they will come to collect the piece, but when the day comes, the client never shows up. Trying to get into contact with the client, the clock-maker discovers ___. Lines to use: “Yes, but what are you doing at the Eiffel Tower at this hour?” and “What have you done to my hat?” (Time Limit: 20 Minutes) Prompted by @amanda-writing
Gabriel sat at his workbench, reaching close to the end of his shift as he poured over a wristwatch, a small tool between his teeth as he pushed one of the magnifying lenses down to see the tiny mechanics inside better. He slipped a piece into place, and just like magic, the piece started ticking. He took his glasses off, and gently put them on the table, and packed up his bag to leave for the evening. He clicked the light off in his cluttered shop and was about to make his way to the door, his dog lazily getting up and following him when the shrill sound of his old phone rang through the shop.
Gabriel flicked the light back on and moved back over to his desk, picking up the receiver.
“Mason and Son’s.” Gabriel said. There was silence on the other end and for a moment, Gabriel thought it was a prank call. He was about hang up when a voice finally came through, distorted and crackling.
“Gabriel?” It was a man’s voice. “I would like to request a commission of your work. I had looked for your father but …”
“Yes … I’m open for commissions. What type of piece are you looking for?” Gabriel asked. His father had been dead for seven years now, it wasn’t strange that people still saw him as an ill replacement, and with no siblings to assist him, he was the sole owner of Mason and Son’s. “Would you be able to come by the shop tomorrow? We can discuss it then.”
“I’m afraid I am unable to make it. I am in Paris, in my present Eiffel Tower.” The man said making Gabriel tilt his head in confusion. The man spoke strangely. He glanced at the clock. 7:13 PM …. It was 2:13 AM in Paris … “Would I be able to email you the information?”
“Yes, but what are you doing at the Eiffel Tower at this hour?” He asked.
“I will email you the information then … And when you are finished, I will pick it up on Friday, at 3:07PM, no sooner, no later.” Gabriel again looked confused. That was oddly a very specific time.
“Okay … I’ll-” Gabriel stopped when the line abruptly went dead and he realized for the first time that he didn’t even know the man’s name. He supposed he would include that in the email. Though he hadn’t provided him with his email, which he also found curious.
Gabriel shook his head, it wasn’t as if he had a phone number to call him back at. “Come on Dino.” Gabriel said reaching for his hat on the coat rack, before he paused, realizing it wasn’t there. He looked down at his hat which was on the ground and covered in drool. “Dino.” He said annoyed as he picked it up. “What have you done to my hat?” He asked, shaking it off before quietly leaving the store.
The next morning Gabriel had arrived at the shop at seven AM as he always had, made himself a cup of coffee, and upon remembering the man from last night, he checked his email. Sure enough, there was an email. A very generic email.
[email protected]. This had to be a scam. As he read through the request, he absolutely knew it was a scam. This made no sense. Everything was very specifically sized to half the size of a standard pocket watch … Where would he get the parts for it? And he wanted it in only three days? This was insane. Reaching the bottom of the email … It got even more strange.
Requested in the piece, was a ‘liathem gem’ to be placed into the front plating of the watch. A what? At first he thought perhaps he meant lithium but that still wouldn’t have made sense. A quick google search showed that no such a gem existed.
He shook his head, and moved away from the computer to work on another project, leaving this scam behind him.
Almost as soon as he picked up his present piece, he heard the computer bing. Another email.
“You are wasting time on that. You have only three days.” Gabriel looked around the room, and glanced out the window at the empty street. Was someone watching him? He closed the curtains quickly, and moved back to the desk. Picking up the old cuckoo clock again, there was another ping from his computer.
“You are not listening to me.” The email stated simply. This had to be coincidence. Someone playing a prank on him, knowing he would not actually do the job. He closed his computer, and went back to the bench. He’d deal with that later, perhaps go to the police if it persists.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket, and knowing he did not have access to the internet on his phone, assumed it was his mother checking in on him as usual. He pulled out his phone, flipped it open and paused.
The phone number it came from was blocked, but the text message simply read “The police cannot help you.”
Gabriel felt numb as he looked around his shop. There was no way this person would have known he’d thought that. He hadn’t said it out loud … He had no idea what was going on, but a sense of unnaturalness came to him. He slammed his phone down on the table. No …. No he’d just leave the shop, he’d go for a walk … Take a breath … This had to be a dream …
His phone buzzed again and Gabriel shook his head. He wouldn’t answer it … He wouldn’t. But he was drawn to the sound as if he had no choice. He picked up his phone again and slowly flipped it open.
“You must not waste time Gabriel … Our father’s life depends on it.”
‘I will be back.’ That promise rang through his head every day for the past four months he’d been in this hell hole. That promise rang through his head every day … Keeping him alive. He lay back against the dirt wall of the trench, his gun against his chest as explosions rang around them. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing, trying to calm his mind. He imagined he was anywhere but here right now. Back home with Thomas … Lying in bed, staring at Thomas’s amazingly green eyes. He imagined what it would be like to come home to him, to reach the airport and run into his arms, social acceptance be damned.
But the explosions were too damn loud, the screams around him ringing in his head as if they came from within and Edward couldn’t imagine Thomas anymore. Not the way he wanted to. Still …. ‘I will be back.’ That promise kept him alive. That promise kept him going. He waited for the last explosion to die down and jumped up from the trench right next to one of his comrades and ran, his gear weighing him down, and he wondered for the millionth time what the point was. Against the bombs, against the grenades against the bullets flying from the airplane above and the men in front of him … What little protection they had would do nothing.
Edward was terrified as bullets tore through the ground in a line next to him and he dove to the side, landing on his stomach before jumping back up again and kept running. Despite the pounding of his heart in his chest, so rapid he was amazed it didn’t give out, he kept pushing forward. He knew if he went back he would be shot by his own men … He couldn’t be a coward.
He knew his comrade …. What was his name? John? James? He thinks it’s James … He knew James was screaming something at him, but over the noise and the ringing in his ears he couldn’t hear anything. And then everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
He felt the ground below him give out, felt pain in his leg, was dimly aware of James falling after him, but they were falling. It felt like he fell a lot longer than he had but he hit the bottom within mere seconds, James nearly landing on top of them. Edward cried out in pain, the noise barely audible over the noise as James stood up, the top of the hole they’d fallen in a good four feet above James’s head. Way too high to reach the top.
“Are you okay?” James yelled over the noise. Edward nodded, but he knew his leg was bad. He could see red blood in the muddy water around his leg and he moved up into a sitting positon against the dirt wall. He nodded as he looked around. The walls were steep, and wet, the dirt lining the edges no use to hold, and still, James attempted. After a few moments James ducked, dibis flying over the hole.
“We’re going to get buried in here!” Edward said, his voice actually audible in a brief lull in the noise.
“If we’re not found and shot first.” James said looking around trying to find a way out. ‘I will be back.’ Edward closed his eyes. Edward had always kept his promises to Thomas … But right now … He felt like he couldn’t keep this one.
Edward was unsure of the time, his watch long since damaged in the last battle, and James did not have one either. It must have been hours as it was getting dark now, and the battle had quieted to a dull roar, sounding as if it had moved on. His leg was aching even worse than when they fell. James had stopped trying to climb out on his own a while ago. He’d gotten close, but gun fire had made him draw back before he’d made it out.
“It’s quiet.” Edward whispered. So quiet that his voice felt too loud in the hole. Neither of them called for help for fear that it would not be their own men to find them.
“It is …” James said staring down at the murky water that had been slowly rising since they’d fallen in. It was now up to their waist where they sat. Edward held his hand out to James.
“Help me up onto my knee …. You can climb up onto my shoulders … Get out.” Edward said. James looked at Edward, uncertainly. But they had to do something.
“I’ll find something out there to get you out.” James said grabbing onto Edward’s wrist and helping him up. They both knew that there would be nothing up there. Nothing but barbed wire, metal and dirt. Edward held all of his weight on his good knee and braced his hands on the wet muddy wall. This was it then … This is where he would die ... alone.
He closed his eyes as he heard the water moving behind him. He knew James was watching him, uncertain. “James, just do it. You have a wife and child at home.”
“And you have someone who loves you too.” James said, knowing about the hundreds of letters that Edward had sent home.
“He’ll …” Edward paused, blinking away tears. “He’ll be fine without me.” He said. “Now go …” He said. James hesitated another moment before he nodded.
“It was an honour serving with you.” James said moving towards him. “I will send help as soon as I find someone.” He said, though they both know the chances of anyone getting there, let alone getting there before Edward passed, was slim to none. Edward said nothing as James climbed up onto his shoulders and Edward groaned in pain as some of the weight went onto his bad leg. James was hesitating on his shoulders, and Edward knew he was scouting the area to see if it was clear. It must have been as James jumped off his shoulders, pushing himself up onto solid land and without looking back ran back across the battlefield.
Edward fell back into the water, laying back on the muddy wall, barely able to see anything. His only source of light was the stars above him, and he was grateful that it was a clear night.
He wondered, as he stared up at the stars if Thomas was staring up at them too. Looking out from the balcony of their apartment, watching the same stars he was. The only thing currently connecting them … The only thing they could feasibly do together while so far away. The last thing they would ever do together.
Edward hissed as he lifted his leg, bending it at the knee so that it was out of the water. He pulled a small notepad out of the front of his jacket pocket, luckily still mostly dry. He pulled the small pencil out of the coiled top and began to write as best as he could with what little light he had.
Dear Thomas,
I know I made you a promise, and I did everything I could to keep it. But-
Edward paused in his writing. What could he possibly say. There was nothing he could say and nothing he could do. He was going to break his promise and it was entirely out of his control. Even if James had managed to help him out, he wouldn’t have made it back on his leg … He would have just slowed James down, increased their risk of capture. Or worse.
No … This was for the best.
I’m sorry … I’m so sorry. I can’t even express in words. Please be assured that despite what happens to me, I am at peace knowing that you are safe. That you are at home, in no danger, and not here with me. I promise you I am not in any pain …
That part was a lie … God it hurt so much. But anything he could do to help ease Thomas’ mind … Keep his pain to a minimum … Even if it meant lying, he would give him that.
And I am not afraid.
Another lie. He was terrified, and in a way, he knew Thomas would know that ...
If you get this, and I pray that you do, I love you. I always have, and I always will. And I know you Thomas … I know you will cling to the memory of me but … I don’t want that. I want you to be happy. I want you to find someone who will be there for you … When you’re ready.
Edward angrily threw his glasses across the hole he was trapped in, and furiously wiped the tears from his face. This wasn’t fair. This wasn’t right. He didn’t ask for this … He didn’t want this. He never wanted to serve his country, he wasn’t like James. James had volunteered … James wanted this. James was a soldier … Edward hadn’t had a choice.
He took a deep shuddering breath, tears dripping off of his chin as he started to panic.
I love you, so much.
-Ed.
The pencil dropped from his shaking hands, splashing into the murky water and sinking to the bottom as he shoved the paper back into his front pocket, as high out of the water as possible.
He leaned back against the wall again, the pain in his leg getting worse and he wished he could block it all out. Wish he would fall unconscious … Wish this wasn’t so slow.
He shivered as he stared up at the stars again, wondering if he was actually cold from the temperature outside and the water around him, or if it was from blood loss. He couldn’t tell. All he knew was that his teeth were chattering, he was shaking, and he was scared.
He closed his eyes as exhaustion started to pull at him. He knew he should try to stay awake … Try to fight the lure of sleep. Sleep was bad … This sleep would be permanent. ‘I will be back’ Edward couldn’t fight it anymore … At least if he was asleep … He could dream of being with Thomas again … If he was asleep … He wouldn’t feel the pain anymore.
The young girl ran downstairs as quickly as she could, her white knit sweater covering her face as she tried to tug it over her head.
“Pengu! Come on!” she yelled excitedly as her little brown dog ran past her, her sweater now in place. She ran to the window, jumped up onto the armrest of the couch as Pengu jumped up beside her, curious as to what she was looking at. The little girl seemed happy. Happier than she had in a long time.
“What are you doing?”
The little girl looked back at her mother, still in her pajamas and rubbing her eyes tiredly, her messy hair done up in a lazy ponytail.
“It’s Christmas!” she said looking back out the window, watching the yard where the snow was melting from the hot rays of sun outside. It had been a miracle it had snowed at all, and even as young as she was, she knew it wouldn’t stay.
“Christmas isn’t until tomorrow, dear,” her mother said padding into the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee.
The girl’s eyes never left the window. Her mother was right … Christmas wasn’t until tomorrow.
“I know,” she said, in a tone that clearly meant she knew something her mother didn’t.
Her mother returned with her cup of coffee and sat behind her on the couch looking out the window.
“What are we looking at?” she asked and the little girl looked back at her smiling.
“You’ll see,” she said turning back to the window.
It was such a pretty image, her daughter sitting there, Pengu sitting stock still next to her as if he found the outside just as interesting as she did. She pulled out her phone and snapped a quick photo to send to her husband later tonight. She smiled sadly as she viewed the image and thought of all the ones she would take tonight at the Christmas Eve party, and tomorrow opening presents from santa. All sent to her husband electronically. She wiped a tear from her eye as the little girl jumped up from the couch.
“DADDY!!!!” she screamed running towards the front door.
Her mother was confused as she looked out the front window.
A man in a military uniform walked up the driveway and the phone fell from her hands, the screen cracking on the floor. She watched as the man scooped up his daughter, held her tightly in his arms, both crying and it took her a moment to find her feet.
She ran from the house and joined them outside, uncaring of the snow freezing her bare feet as she hugged the two most important people in her life, the dog barking and jumping around them.
“How did you know daddy was coming home?” She asked the girl who looked up at her with a smile.
“Daddy told me … Last week on the computer,” she said smugly, proud that she’d been able to keep the secret for almost a whole week. “Merry Christmas Mommy and Daddy!”
“Merry Christmas love,” her father said to her kissing her head, and ushered them all inside.
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The sound of the wind rushing past the windows echoed through the small house, the rain drops beating down on the window as if trying to break through. The flashes of lightning lit up the room for seconds at a time, engulfing the otherwise dark room in a blinding white light. An elderly man, perhaps in his sixties, sat at the window looking out at the horrid weather, a look of concern on his face. He closed his eyes as the sound of a child's coughing reached his ears.
"Father?" The man turned and looked at the boy in the small bed, the boy he had come to know as a son.
"Yes Marcus?" He asked standing up and moving towards the bed. It took him mere seconds. The room was so small and so bare that the only thing that remained in it was the small bed, the stool he had been sitting on previously, and a small side dresser with a bowl of cool water.
"Father. I'm tired." Marcus said, his voice hoarse and weak from coughing. The boy lay with the covers pulled up to his chin, his entire face red and covered with sweat from his high fever.
"I know my boy. But you must remain awake." He said sadly, trying to force a comforting smile onto his face. But he knew the attempt had failed. "It is almost time." His father sat down on the bed next to him, a few tears running down his cheeks.
"Father." Marcus said again, his eyes drooping just slightly as he fought to keep them open. Exhaustion coming over his already frail body. "I know it is weak to ... to admit ... but ..." He stopped and started coughing violently once again, his black hair falling over his face and covering his blue eyes.
"Shhh ... it's okay Marcus." He said putting his hand on his cheek. "It's okay. Say what ever you'd like. I know better than anyone you are far from weak." He said running his finger idly along the steal metal collar that was around the boys pale neck. A large thick chain ran from the collar to the wall.
"I'm afraid father." Marcus said, his voice breaking. The boy was no older than eight, maybe nine years old. His black hair matted to his head, his bright blue eyes staring up at his foster father. "I'm afraid." The old man bit his lip trying to keep himself from crying. It wouldn't be long before he'd have to leave his boy. But he didn't want to.
"I know my boy." He said. "I know. But you have to be brave. You are strong Marcus. You are my son. No other mans. You are mine. My boy, whether by blood or not, you are my son. No matter what. I will always love you." He said, a few more tears falling. He knew he must leave. He knew he was running out of time. But he found that he could not find the strength to leave his son.
"Father ..." Marcus said quietly. "Thank you ..."
"For what my boy?" He asked confused.
"For ... for taking me in. When no one else would." Marcus smiled weakly at him. "After my father aba..." He was once again wracked with another coughing fit. "abandoned me. I felt like I didn't belong anywhere ... anywhere else in the world." Marcus struggled to breath as he talked. "Thank you for giving me a home."
"No." He said, his voice barely a whisper. "Don't talk like that. Don't say your good-byes." John said running his fingers along his sons cheek. "You will make it through this. We both will. Together." Marcus looked up at his father.
"No ... you ... you have to ... to go." He said shifting slightly as his body began to hurt. "You have to leave. You can't ... you ..." He groaned a bit as the pain started to increase. "have to leave." He said before his body thrashed back against the bed. The boy screamed in pain as he pulled at the collar around his neck. He thrashed on the bed a few moments, John trying to sooth him through the pain, moments before Marcus seemed to calm ...
Still ...
... and Marcus moved no more.
"Marcus?" John looked down at his young son. The boy had stopped moving, his breathing stilled. "No ..." John said quietly. Denial setting in. The first stage of grief. "No!" He yelled throwing himself over his son, as if trying to sheild him from the reality of his own shortened life. His tears came freely now as he openly wept over his son. He hugged his son to him, clung to him for dear life. The boys head tipped back, his black hair hanging behind him as the man cried into his chest.
After what seemed like a lifetime, but couldn't be more than mere moments, the boy's blue eyes snapped open, a large intake of breath filling his lungs. John looked up at his son and smiled with joy that his son lived. "Marcus!" He said as the boy began gasping for air.
Marcus couldn't even speak as he gasped for air. The pain his body felt was impeccable. Almost unexplainable. It felt like every muscle, every fiber was on fire. His skin felt like it was crawling, his bones felt like they where breaking. He was barely aware of the sound of popping as his father let him go and fell to the floor. The wound on his left leg started to bleed more profusely. He could feel his body changing. Could feel every muscle, every bone, every organ, shifting itself. He could feel his ears elongate, feel his teeth sharpen, his nose and mouth become longer until it formed into a snout. He was dimly aware of screaming in the room but the pain was so immense that he wasn't aware it was his own. He was barely aware of much other than the pain. Wasn't aware of the hair growing on his body, which more than likely accounted for the crawling feeling on his skin. Wasn't aware of John frozen in the middle of the floor. Not at least until ...
Marcus' screams slowly turned into a loud, almost child like, howl that ripped through the air, causing John to have to cover his own ears. The boy, or more per se ... the small werewolf, stood on the bed and stared at Marcus whimpering as the pain in it's body still caused it to tremble. But the pain was fading fast. It was a shock that it's long thin legs could hold up it's own body. The wolf looked scrawny, much as Marcus was. Looked almost starved and ... clearly hungry.
"Marcus?" John asked. Marcus took a step forward, his paw like hand gripping the side edge of the wood frame of the bed. "Marcus? My boy?" He asked, hoping that he would be able to get through to the boy. The wolf stared at John, as the whines died down, the wolf slowly snarled before roaring rather loudly at the man. The wolf hunched itself down on the bed, ready to spring. John didn't even have time to move as the wolf jumped at him. He closed his eyes waiting for the attack but all he heard was the sound of a loud yelp. He opened his eyes and the wolf laid sprawled on the floor. John was confused a moment before he realized what had happened. The chain he was attached to had held him back and more than likely had caused himself to whip against the chain from the force of his lunge.
As the wolf fought against the chain, John didn't hesitate. He stood up and ran from the room and slammed the large metal door shut. He slipped the dead bolt in place before slipping a large thick piece of wood into the slots to keep it locked further still. He knew that the bars on the window would keep him inside the room well enough. He was told werewolves didn't like silver, it burned them something nasty so they tended to avoid it. He hoped it would be the case as both the bars and the door where made of pure silver.
John could hear his own heart pounding in his ears as the sounds of his struggling son came from the room. As much as he had grieved for his sons death. He was starting to think that perhaps, it would have been significantly better than this.
