Well, I've decided to take a break from "The Outlands" and embark on a new journey of literary endeavours (lol!). While listening to The Black Parade by My Chemical Romance, I was hit with a burst of inspiration. Hope you like!
* * * * * * * *
Bestia prowled through the forest, his eyes shut tight, his hands touching the floor, feeling the way. Every now and then he stopped, and rested his right ear against the ground, feeling the dead leaves crumble beneath his light touch. And then he was on the move again, weaving in and out of the trees like a snake, his hands guiding him.
After a while, he arrived at his destination: a log cabin, standing in the middle of the woods; an isolation that most men could barely believe existed. Bright yellow light beamed out of the windows and pierced his eyelids, but still he kept them shut. Crouching low, moving slower, he felt his way up to the door. Fallen leaves were heaped up against the wooden walls, like brown, gold and yellow snowdrifts.
Turning the handle, he quietly opened the door a crack, releasing some of the light and warmth that was desperate to escape. Squeezing through, he shut the door behind him, restraining the light once more. At last his eyelids flickered open, revealing a grey that appeared to have the ability to bore holes in the walls. He pulled two wooden plugs out of his ears, and withdrew a pistol from the inside of his fur jacket. Making his way over to a large settee, he set them down on a small table. A fire crackled in the grate in a corner of the room. Bestia sat down and sighed, closing his eyes again.
"Find anything?" Bestia jumped. He hadn't realised his father was sitting at the desk in another corner. He could see his back hunched over the table, and heard the scribble of pencil-lead on paper.
"No," Bestia replied, shutting his eyes once again. "Nothing. I searched for hours, but still nothing." A tone of bitterness was thick in his voice. "And what did you do all day while I was on my hands and knees, looking for something for us to eat?" he inquired. The bitter tone had shifted to one of an accusatory nature. His father didn't move from the desk.
"Better luck next time. And if you must know, I've been here all day." His voice was emotionless. Bestia stood, and stepped over to where his father was sitting. Their appearance was astonishingly similar: they had the same pointed nose, the same thin lips, and the same grey eyes. His father's hair was swept back out of his eyes, whereas Bestia preferred his fringe to conceal half his face. Drops of sweat crawled down his father's face, almost dripping off the end of his nose. A quick glance at the drawing his father was working on caused Bestia to resign himself to face the inevitable. He went back to the settee and lay down, closing his eyes and releasing his mind to sleep.
* * * *
Glowing dust spores floated lazily in the path of daylight shining through the window. Bestia lifted his heavy eyelids reluctantly, but, glancing over at the desk he realised his father must have finally gone to bed. Relieved, he let his mind wander, mulling over completely random subjects, pulling them into focus one by one. He was in a state of relaxation until the image of the drawing that, during his sleep, he had pushed into the farthest depths of his memory re-surfaced.
His disappointment in his father caused a wave of depression to numb his mind. He had thought that his father might have been able to control himself, to withhold the yearning he had to draw. Looking back on it, he realised he should have thought otherwise.
The overwhelming layers of emotion started to fog over all conscious thoughts, and he spurred himself into action, to occupy himself and keep the invasive feelings at bay. He noticed that the drawing had gone from the desk, but thought that another one would most likely be thriving beneath the hand of his father as soon as he awoke. 'I'll have to talk with him again,' Bestia thought.
For now, though, he had to continue hunting, having found nothing the day before. Aware that he would most likely be out until well after the moon had risen, he took the earplugs from the table. The pistol glinted maliciously at him, as though aware of his feelings. Many a time the sight of the barrel, the thought of a single bullet being able to give him a release from the world, had tempted him to put that gun to his own head. His father's voice had been the only thing that had stopped him. The voice he now only heard in his mind.
He contemplated for a moment, before taking the gun and concealing it inside his jacket. Quietly, he made his way outside, and started to walk into the forest. The silence was impenetrable. No rustle of leaves in the wind, no crack as an animal stepped on a twig. Nothing. Bestia stooped down and attempted to find a trail. ‘Anything will do,’ he thought to himself, although the possibility of finding something seemed remote. His hopes were raised, however, when he glanced at a thorn bush and saw a piece of brown fur caught in the brambles. He carefully got up and scurried along at a steady pace, using his senses to their limits.
All day he searched for his quarry. Gradually, as the sun rose high, and started to fall again, the trail became clearer. Finally, he heard the shallow breath of a wounded animal, until at last it came into sight. Dark brown, the deer’s thick winter coat had no gloss. It was drenched in sweat. Bestia’s heart wrenched as he saw that its left back leg was crippled: snapped in two, it simply dragged behind the poor animal, a burden in place of what was once a useful tool.
Not wanting to spook it, and ultimately cause it more pain, Bestia quietly took out the gun. The shot rang out through the air as the animal fell with a heavy thump to the ground. The sun balanced on the edge of the horizon, threatening to fall and relinquish its hold on the world. Bestia had to move quickly. He grabbed the animal’s legs, and started to drag it back towards the cabin. After he had gone a few paces, the sun sank beneath the earth.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he cursed. Quickly he searched for his earplugs. They were gone. “Damn it!” He closed his eyes and continued with his long toil. The next few hours were perilous. Bestia tried to ignore the sounds in his ears, of which there were now many, and all around. Owls hooting, rats scampering over leaves, to name but a few. Those noises, eerie as they were, were merely an annoyance to Bestia. The Howl was what he wanted to avoid at all costs. The thought of it sent shivers through his body, and his breath rasped in desperation to get home; or, at least, to the place he called ‘home.’
Finally, he could see the lights of the windows through his eyelids. He dragged the body up to the door, opened it, and made his way in. The animal he left by the door, and he made his way to the settee once again, leaving his pistol on the table. Glancing in the corner of the room, he saw the familiar sight of his father scratching a pencil across a blank sheet of paper. Anger welled up inside Bestia, but he decided to ignore it, and again he lay down on the settee, relieved that he would not have to go out again for a few days. He attempted to ignore the scratch of pencil on paper, and his heavy eyelids concealed his eyes, as he drifted into a disturbed sleep.
* * * *
The thought of waking again haunted Bestia in his dreams. Alas, that moment had to come sometime, and it was with a lurch that opened his eyes in the morning. Glancing at the window he was even more pleased that he didn’t have to leave the cabin: rain was pouring down in sheets, blurring the forest outside.
Deciding to ignore the world for a few more hours, Bestia lay down and closed his eyes, but the blissful release of sleep was far out of reach. Having nothing else to do, he decided to collect some firewood. There were plenty of trees around, after all, and he took himself outside, carrying an axe.
It felt good to swing it into a thick tree. He was doing something constructive, at least more so than wandering in the woods for days on end. He delivered the final blow, and as a branch crashed to the ground the sound of muffled hooves reached his ears. A horse and rider trotted along the road, which was only recognisable as such because there were a few less trees in that straight line than every where else in the forest. Curious, Bestia leaned on his axe.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” he asked, cautious of anyone who felt the need to ride this deep in the forest.
“I’m from the City,” the rider answered. “I have a letter for a Master Bestia Diabolus.” Bestia was stunned at this, but he recovered fairly quickly.
“Uh, that’s me,” he said reaching for the letter, before quickly asking, “What’s it like in the City?” It was something his father had forbade discussing, before he had… changed.
“The City? A damn sight less creepy than this place.” With that he turned his horse around and spurred it into a gallop, getting away from the cabin as fast as possible. Bestia stood with the envelope clutched in his hand, looking wistfully aster the rider. He had always wished he had been brought up in the city, despite his lack of knowledge of it. Finally, he looked down at the envelope, seeing his name written clearly on the front. Tearing it open, he unfolded the paper and read:
Dear Bestia,
I do not believe we have been in contact before. I am Famille Diabolus, your cousin from the City. I am aware that your father has ‘changed’ in recent times, as travellers through the forest who have lodged at your home have come here with stories of… well, I will leave those for when we meet. I will be at your home within the week, most likely a couple of days after this letter arrives. I am taking you both to my house in the City, we have people your father can see here.
I hope to be seeing you soon,
Yours most sincerely,
Famille Diabolus.
Bestia’s heart leapt. Taken to the city! It was like his dream come true. At last he could leave the sordid loneliness of the forest. As beautiful as it was, it had haunted him for his entire life. Now he could finally be at peace.
* * * *
Two days after the letter had arrived, Bestia felt sure that his cousin would arrive. He knew it, felt it. He waited all day, chopping more wood, not to use, but just as a means of keeping his mind occupied. Dusk came, and he was about to go inside, when it happened.
The day had been quiet, no wind, no rain, although it had been overcast. Bestia was just finishing with the wood, when over the trees came the Howl. Terror seeped through him, running through his veins, poisoning his mind and heart. The call was agonisingly beautiful. It rang in his ears, and he was frozen where he stood. Then the Howl sounded again, closer this time. Bestia’s mind fogged up, blurring his vision, and dizziness took over him. Finally the Howl sounded for the last time, this time further away. Bestia unfroze, and he fell over, before thrashing about in the leaves. As the terror slowly left him it was replaced by a cold sensation, and he sat and shivered for what seemed like an age.
He was about to stand up when he heard the sounds of hooves again, this time accompanied by the creaking of wheels. A brown horse came quickly into sight, dragging behind it a small carriage. It was galloping far too fast, the carriage bouncing up and down behind it. As it came up to Bestia, he grabbed the long reins, and attempted to calm it. It bounced up and down though, so he simply took out his pocketknife, and cut the traces and the bridle off the sweaty animal. It gave Bestia a wild look, before galloping off into the forest and the night.
Now all that stood before Bestia was the carriage. His heart beat wildly as he walked around it. One of the doors was missing, apparently torn off, according to the fact that the hinges were still there. Bestia peered inside, and the terror from before came flooding back, seeping through him once again. The soft red seat was ripped and torn, and there were bite marks in the walls. There was a darker stain of red in the seat material, which Bestia realised, looking closer, was blood. Retching, he turned and ran inside the cabin, shutting and locking the door behind him.
His father appeared not to be aware of the events that had occurred outside, although he was drawing considerably quicker than before. Bestia collapsed on the settee, and tried to shut the sights and sounds of the night out of his mind.
* * * *
The next few days were not good. Bestia refused to leave the cabin, and his father was becoming more and more intolerable. He had gotten into the habit of screaming obscenities at Bestia several times a day, for no reason, and lapsing into silences for the rest of the time. Bestia constantly tried to keep the thought of leaving the cabin out of his mind, yet the deer he had slaughtered the week before was almost gone. Soon there would be no food left.
The conditions became more and more extreme, and one night his father was behaving exceptionally oddly. He was quiet for the duration of the day, ignoring Bestia. Bestia considered this an improvement, though he was not used to his father saying absolutely nothing all day either. Night fell, and Bestia was getting ready for sleep, when his father exploded. He suddenly shouted the most absurd atrocities at Bestia, and stormed through the cabin and out of the door. Bestia, scared, followed. His father picked up a thick log, with unnatural strength, and strode back to Bestia, who was standing just outside the door. Before Bestia had a chance to shield himself, his father swung the log at his head, with such force that the crack rang through the night sky, and Bestia was knocked off his feet.
The crazy man then turned to look into the forest, and dropped to his knees, screaming sentences that he had told Bestia when he was young, though Bestia had never understood them properly:
“The Howl means death is approaching! The Teeth mean death is close! The Eyes mean death is here!”
He repeated this three times, and Bestia was suddenly afraid that he would provoke the Howl into calling. He saw the carriage in the distance, and remembered what happened as a result of that agonisingly beautiful sound.
“STOP!” he shouted in desperation. His father stood up, and turned around, a mad look in his eye. He suddenly started to stride towards Bestia, who hurriedly scrambled through the front door, grabbing the pistol as he went. Bestia backed into a corner, and pointed the gun at his father, who stopped, stared at him, a mad look in his eyes.
“I’m only doing this for your own good,” he said. “Don’t worry. I know you won’t shoot me.” He reached out with his hand towards Bestia’s neck, and Bestia pulled the trigger. The shot resounded through the house, and could be heard echoing in the woods. His father fell to the ground; the bullet had pierced his skull.
Bestia sank to the floor, stunned at his own murder. The gun dropped from his hand. Thoughts rushed through his head. No one would ever know. He was too far away from the City for people to find out. He dragged the body outside, and, grabbing a shovel, started to dig a grave. He worked for several hours, until finally he dumped the body into the hole. It took considerably less time to fill it in. Tired, Bestia dropped the shovel, and made his way into the house, half-heartedly closing the door behind him. He dropped onto the settee, and let sleep take him once more.
* * * *
He had only been asleep for a few hours, and the night was as black as ever, when Bestia was woken by the Howl. He was no longer scared. In a dumb stupor he got up and picked up his gun. Suddenly the thought came to him to look in his father’s bedroom. He had never been allowed in there, and this was the place his father took his drawings; Bestia wanted to see what was done with them.
He stepped over to the bedroom door, and slowly twisted the handle. He stepped into the room, and lit a candle on a table just inside the door. The light illuminated the many pictures on the walls. They brought tears to his eyes.
Wolves. Every single pencil drawing was of a wolf. Some were packs of wolves, others were just one or two, and from all around their eyes stared down. They were beautiful drawings, incredibly detailed, but to Bestia they were disgusting. They didn’t belong here. To him, they were pieces of his father’s soul, a part of which he had put into every drawing. They had murdered his father. Bestia left the room, and made his way outside, not caring for himself any more. He was an orphan, a child, and now a murderer.
He stood in the middle of the clearing, waiting. The Howl came again, clear and beautiful, from over the tree tops. Bestia shivered, but remained calm. Once again, the Howl sounded, even louder and clearer, this time coming through the trees.
Bestia heard a rustle, and a cracking of snapping twigs. He saw dark shapes, shapes of creatures on all fours. They slowly came into vision. Bestia saw their teeth first, bone white, glinting in the moonlight. And then they came out of the shadows. The wolves surrounded him. Their glossy fur rippled over their muscles, there black pads crushing the dry leaves. Bestia looked into the eyes of the wolf immediately ahead of him, and fear erupted inside his chest as he finally understood what his father had said.
“Piss off, you bastards!” he yelled, waving the gun at each of them. They stood and watched, licking their lips hungrily. There was only one bullet left in the gun, and they appeared to know it. He tried to think of a way out of this, but then realised that the only way to deprive them of the pleasure of ripping the life out of him was to do it himself. He put the gun to his head.
“You won’t take me,” he whispered, and a single tear ran down his face as he pulled the trigger.
* * * *
Years passed by, and the cabin fell into ruin. The seasonal fall of leaves heaped up against the sides, and moss crept over the roof. The empty carriage that still stood outside was half hidden under the decaying foliage. The pictures on the walls of the cabin remained, faded over time. They, and only they, were aware of the tragedy that had happened, in this house of wolves.
I thought that it was well written and I didn't see any gramatical errors. Thanks for critiquing my story! 
It really helps. One thing that wasn't clear to me in your story was the plot. I suppose it kind of makes sense, but not really. Still, well done. Writergirl
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