Red

It is the colour of roses and blood.
It screams of fury and unyielding passion.
But to her, it is the bringer of change.

Perhaps you should know that she was once human, like you and I.
Her story may have changed from time to time, like the many phases of the moon. Nevertheless, it has always preserved something that is pure and true.
For her story is as dark as the night itself.

If only you could see through her masquerade, then you would know that her life is not all fairy tales and happily ever after as it seems.
To begin with, she is the slave of her own life. Her only living relative is her grandmother, who takes the simplest of pleasures in ordering her around. You would think that any wicked stepmother would look smaller compared to this, but every chore has become a burden.
Leave a parasite to be for far too long, and it becomes almost impossible to remove it from its place. Sometimes, it is wishful thinking that one does not have a family.
She has lost count of the number of times that she has wished the senile hag would just give in to her old age. At best, her dear grandmother could simply burst a blood vessel and die on the spot.
But that is not the reason why she is afraid.
The truth is this. She cannot bear to look the old woman in the face; for fear that her own reflection will stare back through those dense and cloudy eyes.
She wonders; will she lose her beauty someday?
Eventually, she knows that she will age with time; become as hideous and decrepit as the crone who waits for Death to come and wrest her eternal soul.

There comes that time of the year when she bleeds; a sign of her maturity. Only, it has become a painful reminder to her that she still exists. The other option was in fact decent, if not insane. Her wrists bear many scars from her many attempts to take her own life. Crazy as it seems, she has collected so much evidence that she has used it to dye her winter’s cloak, until it appears to be fashioned from her own drops of blood.

Death himself has been too oblivious to her, she believes. But she will stop at nothing to rid herself of this miserable existence.
The warnings of the townspeople heed her call, but it is enough to fall on deaf ears.
Beware, beware! Tread not into the woods!
For the hounds of hell descend upon us!
And of course, she has heard the old tales of those who went into the woods. They were never heard of again, but the wolves that lived there seemed to have increased in numbers.
Even a man who is pure in heart
And says his prayers by night
May become a wolf when the wolfsbane blooms
And the autumn moon is bright!
But her mind is made up, and she dons her blood-stained cloak. Perhaps Death lurks somewhere in the dark, mysterious forest, and she is certain that he will come to claim his prize tonight.
She was sixteen, still a virgin and conspicuously naive.
All around her, she hears the lamenting cries of the wolves. For years the forest has bred its own assassins, and now their voices echo in low, mournful tones as they sing to the moon above, forever longing to touch its celestial beauty.
Just when she thinks that she will not be able to find a creature feral enough to tear out a child’s heart, from out of nowhere, one emerges from the clearing to greet her.

That was her first meeting with a wolf.

They say that first impressions are like the craters of the moon. The deeper the impact, the longer it lasts for all to see.
She knows that this wolf is not like the others of his kind.
His snout was raised high as sniffed the air. The sharp tang of blood on her cloak was strong and luring, but he did not seem in the least interested to that. The moonbeams shined upon his luscious fur, turning it from grey to silver, as though the beauty of the night had materialised into an animal form.
Thought after thought ran endlessly through her mind. Is he alpha, beta, or omega? Is he a lone hunter, or does he runs with the pack?
In the night, his eyes searched deeply into her soul. They were golden, like the sunlight’s promise of a brand new day. She does not know whether to run from this creature, or continue to be mesmerised by the strangeness reflected in its gaze.
A low, growling noise erupts from the clearing, but she does not have the time to react as another wolf bursts forth and begins clawing and tearing at the first one. In the end, the hunter has its jaws clamped over its opponent in a chokehold, while the wolf looks pitifully at her, begging and pleading with his eyes.
In that split second, she has decided.
She will not allow him to die, like some wretched animal.

The liquid courage of adrenaline flowed through her as she picked up a stick and strikes out at the attacker. Dazed, the renegade hunter pauses to turn on her, but the wolf has regained his strength as he rips a huge chunk out of his attacker’s hind leg. She watches as the beast yelps in fury before running off, possibly to crawl up somewhere secluded and then die of its wounds.
The wolf extended his paw; an offering of its gratitude of thanks. She shakes it gently, all the while keeping a close watch of any strange behaviour that might be concealed. When she knows that he means her no harm, she leans in to stroke his furry chest.
How she wished that all her problems could be solved that easily.
As though he was able to understand her grief, the wolf whimpered as he nuzzled her hand. There was something about the way he looked at his saviour once more, as though he was trying to tell her something.
I can give you a new life. But I will have to take another.

A new life. Now that’s really something to look forward to. But to take another? In her heart, she already knows the perfect victim to sacrifice. If he is serious to his commitment, then she should give him time to prepare for what may change her life.
Therefore, she decides to give the wolf a head’s start. He acknowledges her with a mere nod, before he is swallowed by the dark forest, a trail of moonbeams left behind in his wake.
There were two paths now diverged in the midst of the woods. And being one traveller alone, she looked as far as the path could take her, all the while thinking of the consequences that might await her on either end. Her mind made up, she takes the road less travelled; the path carpeted with flowers of iridescent colours beaming in the moonlight. Perhaps a handful of nature’s gifts can tame the savage beast.
There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. And pansies are for thoughts.
I will bring you roses, she whispered, as a token of my love.
There is a patch of strange purple flowers that blossoms like twilight waning in the grass. Upon closer inspection, she frowns in disgust. It is aconite, otherwise known as wolfsbane to the superstitious folk. They use it to keep the wolves at bay. How trivial it seems, if humans as the dominant species are unable to defend themselves from the demons of hell; they have to resort to old wives’ tales and ancient remedies so they will feel safe in their beds at night.
But while the offer may have been gracious and sincere to her, yet wolves are well-known for being nature’s cunning politicians and ruthless murderers.
So she grabbed some. And prayed that she wouldn’t need to use it at all.

Meanwhile, the wolf runs swiftly through the forest, the wind lifting his paws off the ground with every stride.
He does not pause to catch his breath – there will be plenty of time to rest once he has brought down his prey. The thrill of the hunt excites him, courses through his veins.
At last, he stumbles across it – the old crone’s cottage at the other end of the woods. A pair of nut trees stands proudly like sentinels guarding the place, just like she told him. He breaks down the door with just a swipe of his claw, rendering the firm and solid oak into a thousand splinters.
By the way, it is really pointless to keep huffing and puffing until the house comes falling down. Especially if that house is not made of stone and bricks.
At the first sight of the old crone, the wolf bares his teeth, snarling as he raises his hackles. Then the call of the hunt resonates loud and clear from his throat, and he pounces.
The last thing the old woman remembers is a glance at the abyss of death – an endless black hole of snarling jaws and demon-sharp teeth.
She screams, but not long enough for her to feel the pain.
It is finished within seconds.
Crone flesh may be tough and chewy, but it is human nonetheless. At least its flavour increases with age, just like wine and cheese.
Sometime after he has satisfied his appetite, the wolf licks his paws meticulously and swipes his tongue over his blood-stained muzzle.
He always remembers to clean himself after every meal.

In walks the girl with the red cloak, her eyes widening in horror as she surveys the carnage of a gladiator’s sport.
Once the wolf saw her, his tongue lolled out, his rear end held high. Adoration and sympathy were etched onto her face – for a stranger, he certainly was charming to the eye.
After all, she had never seen a creature with such humane emotions.
He even wagged his bushy tail.
For a moment, he looked like an overgrown puppy, incredibly proud of the terrible deed he’d committed.
When she approached him, the savagery took over instinctively, and the wolf bared his teeth once more, now showing his aggressive side. But she was not afraid anymore, for she knew she had already gone this far not to give up.
“I am ready,” she whispers gently.
There was something so surreal about those tufted ears. They twitched eagerly at the slightest noise, all the better to hear the beating of her heart.
Then both human and animal stared longingly into each other. They were beautiful, those eyes, and they were all the better to see her with.
She shuddered at the sight of those ferocious teeth, but if he wasn’t going to eat her, then they were all the better to give the gift of life to her.
Her decision firm and absolute, she casts the wolfsbane aside and sprinkles the flowers like the first drops of rain. She leaves the clasp of her cape undone and lets it fall, revealing her body as pure as the driven snow. The girl lies in her grandmother’s bed, ready to abandon the remnants of her innocence behind in the cold eternity of sleep. When she awakens, she rises not as a child anymore, but as a fully grown woman.
Or perhaps, something more.
But tonight, he was the dominant male. He would make sure of that.

First, his soft, leathery snout caressed her skin as he sniffed curiously, slowly breathing in her scent. He allows himself to be completely immersed by her human aroma; the greatest aphrodisiac for predators.
Then he licked her all over, until the temptation to consummate finally caved in. She put her lips against his snout, wrapping her legs around the wolf’s silver-gray fur.
And to seal the deal, he nipped the base of her neck. Gently at first, his fangs tingled against the skin like music notes; sharp but rhythmically pleasant. It rouses her, and it makes him want to unleash his inner animal. With each passing second it grows deeper, more passionate.
Then he bit down, as hard as nails.
Despite the claim that wolves are indeed savage and brutal, she could tell that this one was gentler than a spring lamb. He was careful not to sever the slightest thread of life as it flowed warm and thick from her body.
After all, how many women could say that they had the chance to lie with wolves?
That was when she realised that she was truly, madly, and deeply in love.
That was when she knew she had already stepped into a brand new life.
That was when that vengeful hunter stormed into the room and tore the wolf away from her.

If you ask her what she knew on that fateful night, all she remembers is seeing a tangle of brown and grey fur with claws raking at each other, and howls that rendered the night’s silence.
By now, her life is a huge puddle awash on the floor; she can hardly keep herself awake.
It is almost impossible to predict the state of the outcome in this dreary state...

She has never fully recovered from the state of fear she had found herself in when she came to her senses a few days later. The townspeople who had managed to save her from the brink of death whispered amongst themselves in fearful hushes. You see, something had died inside of her, yet they cannot make out what it was.
By day, she is human, like you and I; a mere plaything to the naked eye.
But by nightfall, when the beast has taken over her completely, she runs wild; more freely than any bird in the sky.
A change in a woman’s heart is often quite noticeable, and it doesn’t take long for either man or wolf to want her as a companion. But she will not have them. She has decided on her mate, and she will prowl the ends of the earth until she has proof that he still exists...

She stumbled across his body a few days later. But the hunters had already made quick work of her mate-to-be. He’d been gutted like a fish, and then turned inside out. His skin hung like some grotesque trophy in the sun – waiting to be turned into a mat, where his final resting spot would be that beside the fireplace.
She has never cried nor howled at the moon so forlornly in her life. But it wasn’t long before an epiphany had risen in the midst of her grief:
In all of creation, there results destruction. And with every destruction, creation rises like a phoenix from the ashes.
Unlike most of her newfound kind, the fate of the moon does not affect her metamorphosis. And while she may not have found her killer, but that despicable mongrel has left behind a trail which reeks of death and decay. It won’t be long before she will finally catch up to her prey.
But this she is sure of: when the moon has reached its highest peak, that renegade hunter shall cease to exist, and she will have earned the respect and leadership of a pack of her own.
After all, it is written in the lupine law – you kill not only for pride and glory, but mostly for position. But there is no decree which states that you cannot kill for revenge. Or for a wolf’s love.
Somewhere in the heavens above, her mate has become one with the moon at last.
And that is what she commemorates her first kill to.
She will think of him always when she slays.
But most of all, she will remember a life she once had, a life now left behind.
A life that flowed in blood, as red as her riding hood...