Tales Across the MultiBurst

The Boy in the Hood

In which the 'big bad wolf' watches the boy in the hood as he treks the woods, wondering and wondering until he decides to stray closer. The answer he finds is not one he likes very much. (Xander x Shu. Happy Birthday, Shu!)

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I had been watching him walk these woods for so long, following him out of curiosity but never going with him to the destination. The destination that was apparently so horrid that it drove him to walking the most dangerous, treacherous paths the woods had to offer. Drove him to put his life at risk when all he had to do was deliver a mere loaf of bread...

I always watched him hike the trails. I always watched him dig the heels of his black boots into the earth's crust, grip onto trees and branches with pale and calloused hands, brush dirt off of his black tights, and- more than once- have to carefully uncatch his cloak from the thorns and underbrush.

I never knew where he got that crimson, hooded cloak from, but I always loved it. It was so vibrant and pretty, and each time he came back from his trips it was just like new. The white lace lining the edges never frayed, either.

One day, after watching him come and go three or four dozen times over the course of several weeks, I decided to follow him farther than I normally did. I followed him all the way to the mighty oak tree that had been made into a house and spied through one of the windows, spied into the horrid filth and disgusting mess the old woman who lived in it had made.

I wondered, at first, whether it was the mess or the woman who made him want to stay away. Which was the reason that made his mission to bring bread so dreadful?

...

It was the old woman, I quickly came to learn. She screamed at him, forced him to work like a scullery maid, and then beat him with her cane or even her skillet when she thought the job was done poorly.

He worked hard for her every day he came, and this was her payment? Abuse and agony? It made my blood boil every time I watched, but I had simply resigned myself to only being able to watch.

And... To following him back along the trail, closer than before so if he slipped, I could catch him. Save him. Pretend to be a hero...

Of course, this closeness forced me to hear his soft weeping every walk home. He hurt so much, not just on the outside but in his very soul... But when he reached his village, he forced his tears to dry and put on a mask of happiness for his mother and father, who seemed none the wiser to their mother's awful treatment towards her grandson.

Since I could draw no closer to the village without being given away by my fiery coat, I resigned myself to heading back into the woods and passing my time by growling scornfully about that old bag.

"Wretched old woman! How dare she treat that poor boy this way?! How dare she abuse him and work him into the ground?!"

"What a witch! I should string her up by her old bones and let the buzzards have her!"

"Greasy hag! Why does she insist on being so cruel?! What has he done to deserve such despicable suffering?!"

"He brings her bread every week! He cleans her disgusting abode from top to bottom! The ungrateful bag of bones!"

...

I must admit... Over the many weeks of watching from afar, and seeing the boy so vulnerable and open... I grew to care for him more than I should have. Even thought I never spoke to him, and his lovely hood concealed the upper half of his face from my eyes, I...

I grew to love him.

I grew to love the dear Little Red Riding Hood (what I called him, for lack of his real name.) I grew to hate his grandmother and wanted nothing more than to see her dead and in the ground.