#ink scan

searching for comforting words as someone who has nothing. no one is coming to save you, so pick yourself up or die trying to live

you're 17 and you just got bit. or maybe you didn't. maybe it was old and just woke up. no one likes a lycanthrope. here you are, no school, no home. you try to go out and you get your ribs kicked in. you walk to the drive through because there aren't many in town. farther than you thought it was. somewhere between 20 and 30. you cant tell the time. its the sort of drive through that sells you liquor that your aunt used to take you to. the slushy part of winter. cold and wet and you don't want your new fur to mat. can't fit your feet in shoes anymore. not that it matters. you want them to recognize you. you hope youre unrecognizable. you hope the old wolf that worked when you were a kid is still there, that she calls you honey, gives you a caramel, lets you sit out of the snow. maybe its warm. maybe she sees you and says baby in a pitiful way and tells you you're home, you look like me, and i remembered you before you were even a pup, little hands, pawless and too small for the passenger seat of the car. will someone save me? can someone save me? the sky is as white as the ground and the air is still and when you get to the drive through that sells liquor, and you walk through, it's just as cold under the roof as it was outside. and the old wolf is still there. she doesnt recognize you. maw pulled into a permanent sneer. but she offers you a cigarette, and tells you to get out of here before the storm is over. you take the cigarette and you take her advice. you hope your fur doesnt mat.