The-Howling

Jordi Hamilton

He trudged through the dark. Rain attacked the ground, screaming a steady “hush” that suppressed any other sounds. The air was cold. The color was drowned from the world, leaving only shades of a blue and black. He walked towards a small wooden house, the grass and dirt of the ground around him, the air and the sky were all a dark faded blue. Not a star shone past the black mass of clouds that loomed above. He licked his lips, already tasting the one he sought. The one who made him what he was. Fate was a circle – the world always came full circle; the one who made him who he was would be the first to feel his sting. He soon reached the door and wrapped his long, thin, hairy fingers around the wooden handle. Without effort, he tore it from its hinge, wood squealing as it splintered and cracked apart. He tossed it behind him, letting the shadows of night envelop it. It landed with a splash in the drowning grass. But he could detect none within the walls; not a soul. He could smell nothing with his long snout, sniffing at the air. Rain, mud and dying plants obscured any scents. He could hear not a breath with his pointed ears, everything under assault of rain. He could not rely on his senses to find the one he sought. He entered the dark room… “I expected you to come…” He looked at the shadow, sitting upon a rocking chair, the only thing in the empty, dull wooden room. “You have control as long as the clouds cover the moon. Is that right?” He said not a word to his creator. He looked to the shadow with a sudden fondness. “You have come, with your newfound freedom, to kill me. I expected more from you… What was your plan? To kill me, before you’re taken by moonlight? Then forget again why you were ever here?” He approached the shadow, remembering an odd sort of laugh. One that both made him smile and cringe at different times. He crouched, level with the shadow, whose features were hardly visible in the blackness. “I see. Well I suppose we’re done here?” He growled, anticipating a plan. His creator always had a plan. His creator always hurt him. He stood with rage, letting out a loud roar. He drew his claws back and then … paused. He hesitated and then, after a moment, lowered his arm carefully and reached out for the old one, trying to understand his own intentions. Nothing ever seems as complicated, before the moment. The old one reached out and took his hand, with a smirk. “Do you want me to forgive you?” The shadow spoke again. Then something changed. He felt it in him. Simplicity. No longer so complicated by emotions or thought. Simple hunger that he had no desire to ignore. He struck down his master with claws like blades, painting the walls in the first color of the night that wasn’t blue or black or grey… Red… Red was a color that did not hide away or blend in. Red knew was it was and never hid that. His last image of the night was red, a satisfying horror, seeing only the red of the walls and the red on his hands before the-howling took him. In the morning, the green grass woke him, dancing on his face in the wind. He rose to see that the dew drops had washed the red away. But the taste still bit his tongue. He looked to the sky, a free ma-… beast. He had crawled out of hell. But hell had made him. As he gazed into the clear sky, he saw only the empty expanse of an answerless world. Sometimes problems don’t have answers. And he knew that if he didn’t walk away, we would be forever trapped under that sky, searching for answers in the clouds that just weren’t there anymore.