She ran for miles - ran until her heart felt as if it would burst. Stopping in the middle of a side street, she tried to catch her breath. It took a lot for her to shift, but life or death situations are … well … life or death situations.
She thought of the last time she’d shifted. She was ten and a man was trying to abduct her – to steal her away from her parents. If she knew at the time what really was going on, perhaps he would have survived and her life would be different. Alas, she didn’t, and the would-be-abductor laid in her little pink princess bedroom, bleeding out onto her stuffed animals, the same way the wolf was bleeding out onto the sidewalk.
With a sigh, she pulled a hair tie from her pants pocket and put her hair up into a loose bun, the stray locks falling around her face. She glanced around the neighborhood, focused on the long, one story building in front of her and remembered. This is where it all began - where she found out about The Conflict.
The elementary school, built in the 1950’s, was something reminiscent of a Rockwell painting. The large wooden desks that felt bigger than the kids were … though everything was huge when you were a child. The chalkboards were still green and the teacher’s favorite would get to bang erasers outside on the brick wall in the sunshine instead of doing busy work. She loved her teacher. A small, elderly woman named Miss Weathersby, who had to have been a hundred, but was still in love with her job. Miss Weathersby encouraged the girls to wear skirts or dresses and the boys to wear shorts and dress shirts. Miss Weathersby demanded manners. Miss Weathersby was the epitome of a perfect teacher wrapped in a grandmother’s body… a body found in the child sized bathroom a year ago, having been bludgeoned to death.
Taking a chance, she walked to the metal doors and peeked in the small window. It was empty. Everything was the same, as if time had skipped over the building. Crayon drawings and finger paintings lined the walls with masking tape, faded from the sun that shone through the blinds. She pulled on the door and heard the clank of the chain that wove between the curved handles. Grasping both hands around the cold metal, she jerked and the chain shattered into links, scattering all over the beige tile flooring of the main hall. She opened the door and stepped in, the stale-air breeze of glue sticks and construction paper permeating her nose. Tears welled in her eyes, as memories of this building flooded her senses. She treaded lightly down the hall, dragging her fingertips over the painted brick walls as she had as a child. She turned down another hallway, the light dim here without the aid of windows. She remembered this hall. The smell of industrial grade peanut butter was still strong as she slowly made her way to the cafeteria door. Before she reached it, something to her left caught her eye. A glitter-covered mural painted by thirty small handprints decorated the otherwise beige wall.
Unfamiliar tears sprung to her eyes again as she recalled being part of this mural. She remembered the excitement, the joy of being creative, and of being part of something to be remembered in the school for years to come. The permanence of it was so tangible when she was a child. She found her own handprint; blue and green paint swirled around silver glitter stars. Under it, the scrawl of her old handwriting, her name she’d tried to erase since she found out The Truth. The letters, complete with a backwards “s” written with a shaky paintbrush. Sage. Age 8.
Sage placed her palm to the print on the wall, so much older now it dwarfed the small one, and she yearned to hold that 8-year-old hand… to tell her not to worry. Things are going to get scary, but she will survive. She wished she could hug that child and tell her it would be okay. She backed away from the painting and looked at it in new, adult eyes. A tree trunk was painted growing up from a few sprays of green grass, with the children’s hands as the leaves; swirling with sparkly stick on rhinestones and glitter. It didn’t make sense then, as it was an innocent tree painting; but now it did. All the kids’ names that were on the tree, all but hers… belonged to children who shifted… children who were now dead.
Taking a deep breath to slow her heartbeat, she wiped the sweat from her palm on her black leather clad thigh and offered it to the owner of the growl in the bushes. A furry muzzle emerged just enough to sniff it. The menacing growl rescinded to silence, but the air still hung heavy with tension. She gracefully shifted to all fours, her knees and palms pricked with the gravel of the pathway under the lightly covering snow. Locking eye contact with the creature, she bared her teeth. The skin on her arms began to shimmer iridescently, the tiny hairs vibrating from some outside force. Her blue eyes turned to silver as she hissed like an angry feline. The hidden animal growled with renewed rage and lunged from its hiding place, revealing an adult human sized, gray wolf with jaws open to attack, aiming for her throat. She leapt too, colliding with it in midair. Effortlessly, she grabbed it by the muzzle with both hands and slammed it down to the ground. She stretched the length of her body out, wrapping her thighs around its midsection as she twisted its head and heard the neck snap. It yelped futilely and went limp. Her features returned to normal as the blood from the animal seeped out onto the white snow. She stood and surveyed the area. Still, no one witnessed. She started to run.
The freshly fallen snow crunched under her black leather jump boots as she ran from the town square. The beat of her heart pounding in her ears and her ragged breath were the only noises that surrounded her. Streets were empty and the nearby houses were dark. Even after the mornings’ events, her mind was silent. She could only focus on her next stop. There was no room for remorse and definitely no time for indecisiveness. It had always been said, take action, and follow through. Show no weakness. Weakness equals death.
She glanced to her left at the park and changed course. The swings stood motionless. The playground was devoid of children’s laughter echoing off the nearby pine trees. The world had seemingly stopped. The one thought that popped into her head was simply, “I hope they’re okay. “
A low growl made the tiny hairs her nape stand. Her blue eyes dilated. Her instincts took over as she scanned the area, not breaking stride. Shifting her eyes to the wrought iron exit gate, she picked up speed and leapt over it with ease. Landing on the other side, she crouched down and peered under the bushes. Beady black eyes stared back at her. A sardonic grin crooked the corner of her mouth.
“Well, hello...”
I've decided to try a serial here, based on the 100 word challenge I did a while back about the cafe girl. I had a lot of feedback and thought to expand. I'll be doing a weekly thing, so stay tuned for posts.
~~~
Stepping over the body in the floor, she tiptoed to the counter. Knowing good and well there was no one left to take the money, she still pulled a five-dollar bill from her pants pocket. She tucked it under a stapler beside the register. With a sad smile, she turned and looked around the room. Glasses were broken, coffee cups everywhere, spattered with blood. The lone server lay under her table. Briefly, she closed her eyes. There was nothing more to do here. The Cleaners would arrive and know what to do. She opened the front door of the café and looked around. The snow stopped falling abruptly. It was as if God himself knew she was peering out and refused to let her witness His beauty, or perhaps even He was frightened of her. Either way, it was no matter. She stepped outside, her lungs suddenly splintering from the cold air that rushed in. Acting more efficiently than a triple espresso, her senses perked and she breathed deep in relief. Awake, finally. She now noticed the streets were empty. The neighboring stores, deserted. Feeling more secure about continuing without another incident, she began the trek back home.
copyright elysabeth williams 2010
@VelvetVerbosity on twitter has stared at me pointedly to take part in her 100 word challenge. I thought I might give it a shot. Here's the result.
She tucked a stray strand of inky black hair behind her ear as she stared out the café window into the snow drifts. The flakes fell silently like a blanket being laid over a sleeping infant. Taking a deep breath, she took a sip of the bitter brew she held; the hazelnut flavoring tickling her nose. Her hands shook slightly as she glanced to see blood caking under her fingernails. Putting the cup down, she picked up a nearby napkin to try and clean them. She kicked the body lying at her feet. He should’ve known she preferred black coffee.
