The Future Wolf

They said make it cold and you’ll start breathing, if that’s what you want to do.
They asked me if I was certain when I said yes, yes, I would like to start breathing.
They told me that it’s not good, not good to be a breathing wolf in a blue cradle.
By now I was breathing and went straight for their throats, three heads at once worrying and tearing and the sanguine ruin of the nursery screamed.
Everything reeked of terror: piss and shit and copper, burning hot engines rumbling in my gut.
The afternoon daggered my eyes while I loped from shade to shade.
I wondered if they would follow me come nightfall.
Long day, a very long day and the hills frowned about the lazy sunset, slow at it’s work, chuckling purple and orange, teasing the moon.
Headed to the river.
The rapids were rough, the drowned spirits playful and drunk on spite.
I kicked and bit and growled.
Showed tooth and claw.
On a muddy bank I found a hollow, a giant sow and six piglets.
She squealed as her neck snapped and her udders tasted of secrets.
I drowned the children.
I opened up the mother and slept.
Dreamt of home.
That night, the dead men found me, sleeping in the sow skin.
They said that they were dead and could not die.
I pulled off their hands with my teeth and tasted the future.
They said they knew me.
They said I could lead, or they would stop my breathing.
Tough choices made in the creaking darkness, witnessed by crickets and spooks.
We left before dawn and gathered the piglets about us, sad, dripping ghosts.
Their mother would not come willingly so I wore her as a cloak, shameful and heavy.
Somewhere cold and quiet, they said.
I asked them if they wanted to start breathing and they clapped their hands, laughed.
There was howling in the trees and it was not me.
These nights, they last forever and the years whirl like drunks.
At dawn, we chanced upon a dieing camp fire.
Tethered to a vast willow was a pale horse, so gaunt as to not be worth the killing.
A young woman, mayhap eighteen years old lay by the embers, covered in soot with a pair of crows suckling from her ashen breasts.
They said do it.
She tasted much as the sow and the crows corked murder at me from the eves.
They will have your eyes, said the dead men.
I bit at their cocks and bellies and spat future in the dirt.
The horse stood on it’s hind legs, ribs cracking under skin and a tremendous serpent spilled forth.
They said listen.
We talked long into the morning and the snake bit me thrice, each time letting me kiss it’s privates afterwards.
That afternoon, I slept.
I haven’t woken.


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