Before I clutch the tattered blankets he has given me, I pray that the wolf will only rest outside the room—from time to time, will only look through the cracked lines of the window.
I stare outside the lonesome darkness; the moon sings the hauntingly beautiful tune of a cycle. The rise and fall of its voice match the consistent fear swimming in my veins.
I brush away the blood remains upon my lips. The pain on my cheeks lingers and consumes my empty face; the slap has been a blow into my guts.
I curl my toes as I control my breathing. The rush of the rivers surges down to the sides of my face. Everything comes into a blur.
I hear a door creak just outside my bedroom and I hold my breath. All of a sudden, footsteps ascend—coming closer and closer. I turn my eyes to the door. The knob shakes before it turns.
I pretend to sleep.
WORD COUNT: 163
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