Where, Wolf? Where, Wolf?

A schizophrenic. A man. A beast.

There wolf. There wolf.


1. Chapter One

I sit there and I watch. I watch my stomach concave with each and every frozen breath. I watch my innards, aching and convulsing from within my bloated gut. I watch the mirror, sitting across the room like an unwanted houseguest whom wishes not to be there but is too awkward to leave. And it is decaying equally so. I watch myself. I watch my spine, curving like a question mark asking how, what and why I came to be. I sit there and I watch. I watch my breath in humid air, floating in front of two bulging tiresome eyes. They are too weary to blink at regular intervals; too awake to drape the curtains of my eyelids over the shallow lit stage of my conscious dream. I sit there. And I watch.

Thin streams of ivory moonlight seep through my window asking not permission to enter. They are dressed in the shadows of filth and grime that have long since chose rest at my glass panes, and they dance. Oh! How they dance. Between the counterfeit silk and torn hangings, they dance. Across jagged nails, curiously sticking their crooked head up from beneath a rotting floor, they dance. Over the four walls, and around the tearing paper of my bedded chamber cell, they dance. Yet still, I cannot really see.

I sit there and I listen. I listen to the moans of a dormitory door lying open upon a set of broken hinges. I listen to the wail of the wind whispering my name outside. Rat-a-tat-tat. I listen to a knock. The knock I know I should ignore. Rat-a-tat-tat. It is the knock of bent and bony fingers rapping against the glass. It is a knock of stretching silhouettes. It is the knock of tree branches and simply this. I sit there and I listen. I listen to the grandfather clock across the hall tick and tock it's timely cry. Tick. Tock. I sit and I – Tick, tock – listen.    

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