DISORDER

the wolf

[acute stress disorder]

She was human. Her heart beat, her lungs expanded and contracted, and she was complete. Every hiss of air from her nostrils told her she was alive.

She was human. And she was prey.

The shadows in the alleyway congealed around her, settling on her skin like flies to a corpse. She hated the way they whispered to her, told her to do it again, even when she clenched her fists and squeezed her eyes shut. There would never be blood on her hands again, she swore. She'd never stand over someone's bullet-riddled body and dial 911 with shaking hands, telling them she'd killed in self defense even though it was premeditated murder.

There was a monster after her. And she hid from it, her wardrobe changing like a chameleon into dull browns and greys until the demon couldn't pick her out from a crowd of people. Her face shifted, too. Different methods of contour, freckles painted on, a different smile each day. She hated it. She hated being safe, and yet she had to do it.

Dark brown lipstick. Foundation that was ash brown, to match the color of her weathered skin. She grabbed these with striking accuracy as if her fingers were the fangs of an adder, painting them on until she was unrecognizable. Beautiful. Her flaws gone, vanished under a fresh coat of paint.

It didn't matter. The wolf would hunt today, and it was hunting for her. It would seek out her scent in the streets, searching every face until it settled on hers, ripping off her head with bloodied teeth. Just like it did every single day, until she was the hollow doll she'd always been afraid of becoming.

She fled.