The Prince, the one who will sweep you off your feet and into a beautiful castle. His image is accompanied by dances and dresses. A charming smile, a charismatic tongue.
The Wolf, the villain of the century, the monster who bares his fangs and leers...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
♚♥♞
"You've been forced to work with a girl for your school project!?" Declan started laughing hysterically. "And she's the girl who offered you a donut!?"
Carl made a face and fingered the bandages on his arm.
"Is she scared of you too?" Declan joked. "Sir I-Stared-At-Her-Legs!"
Carl glared at him and turned his back to him. "I was checking if she was the girl that saw me in front of her building. I only saw her legs then, so I was—"
"Making up excuses already?" Clan laughed. "We both know that you are terrible with girls. You've got the face, but not the gentleness nor the patience."
Carl sighed in aggravation. "I don't need to be good with gir—"
"Are you going back to school tomorrow?" Declan inquired, glancing at the bookbag on the floor.
There was a long pause.
"Ooooh." Declan called, grinning. "And there is a reason."
Carl huffed, walking out of the room to the kitchen.
"A good reason!" Declan hooted after him, cackling like a madman.
My boy is getting himself some ladaaay friends. Clan thought to himself gleefully.
---
Denial. There is always a reason to deny the one truth lingering in one's mind. No matter how clear the solution may be, the human mind will formulate another scenario to cause doubt and to muddle one's mind. To overcome that denial, one might just need someone from the outside to give a little push.
"By now," it was English again, the teacher was giving a few instructions before letting the students start. "You should have a poem down already."
A few students made doubtful comments and were silenced by the teacher's glare.
"Start brainstorming the story." The teacher resumed. "And at the end of class, we will address how you guys would present the story."
The students started moving the desks, and the room was buzzing with talk again. Min was rereading the poem she had chosen. She realized that she had no way to contact Wolfie, and so she just found a poem anyway.
"Oh—" Min flinched, quickly turning to face the boy hovering above her, staring at the poem. "You have one too." He mumbled.
"Did you..." She laughed. "Find one too?"
He sat down, looking like he was mad. Then it slowly clicked in her head. It wouldn't make sense if he was mad, he was embarrassed.
"Which one do we do?" He asked quietly.
She took the two poems and read them both. "Hmmm." She mused. "The Snow White and the Seven Deadly Sins or Daddy by Sylvia Plath?"
She turned to him. "You know Sylvia Plath?" She asks, her eyes showing surprise.
"Uh—" He glanced away.
"This poem is great!" Min praised. "At least more PG-13 than mine, I guess."
"Yours tells more of a story, though." He states, examining her poem.
Min laughs awkwardly. "I guess it would be extremely dark to write something about the Holocaust."
"Let's use yours." Carl suggests, his eyes holding her captive in an entrancing stare.
"Y-Yeah." She responds, glancing away.
---
He came to school for no one. Not even himself. Declan can nag and beg and complain all he wanted but that was barely enough to get Carl to haul ass and get to school. His grades could fail and the school faculty could call all they wanted, but the complaints went through deaf ears.
College was not important.
Homework was a waste of time.
He walked down the halls and the people surrounding him would flinch, curl in on themselves with fear. It's him. They cawed. The one in the hoodie.Always proceed with caution.
The names piled like dead bodies. This is high school, you need labels to breathe. Your title, your supply of daily oxygen, be it small amounts or vast, your label was your life.
Like post-it notes laced with glue that could never be ripped off. Bad boy. Monster. Delinquent. Mystery. Savage. Killer. Wolf.
The words will die on their tongues as he strides past, but in their eyes, they scream their opinions. If it wasn't him, it was her, or him, or her, or anyone else.
Along with the names were the rumors. The gossip. The whispers that traveled behind hands, into attentive ears. He listened to none of it, but their drawls and their scratching is a constant white noise in his mind. His name will always come with a negative connotation.
I heard he killed someone! They concocted stories. I heard he's a drug addict! I heard he's got STD's! He has killed 7 people! He raped someone!
They screamed like it was a competition to stake his name on the invisible high school headline on a nonexistent magazine. None of it is written, but all of it is said. If it wasn't him—
It would be her.
It would be them.
He didn't cry at night about it like the other scapegoats. The other scapegoats listened as it was fed, like it isn't enough to satiate their dose of self-hate. He steeled his glare, he loosened his fists, he pulled up his hood.
He knew that despite what names they gave him there were still people who wanted him.
Yes, there was. The ones who wanted to run their hands through his hair and feed him their lips. They wanted to explore his body, his mouth, maybe even his soul. They wanted to tame the Wolf. But no matter how much meat they offered, he turned away. No matter how many traps they used to ensnare him, he dodged them.
But then, there was her.
And she, she offered him a donut. It won't satisfy his bloodlust or bind him down. Not at all.
But it gave him a reason to do the project with her.
