Dead and Loving it

Patrick stands rigidly on the other side of the door, listening in horror to Peter’s every word. He jumps back as the door shudders from the force of Peter’s fist, but somehow that furious contact isn’t what’s frightening him the most. No, it’s that last, growled-out sentence.

He’ll break my legs if he has to.

Patrick stares down at his ruddy, bare toes curling on the splintery floor as the thought sinks in.

Sighing, he walks back to the bed in the centre of the room and collapses face down onto it when his knees hit the mattress. He takes a deep breath and realizes that the blankets have the same spicy, intoxicating smell of the flowers in the maze. And despite the fear and panic running through his veins, he can’t keep the musky scent from lulling him to sleep.

The door slams, jolting Patrick awake. Upon opening his eyes, he sees a large black wolf sitting in front of the closed door. His first, blurry thought is that Peter put this monstrous dog in his room so he wouldn’t try to escape. But to tell the truth, Patrick has given up all hope of getting out of this place. Slowly, he pulls himself into a sitting position and watches the wolf watch him with its bright amber eyes, silently praying that it doesn’t move.

Patrick sits there for a few minutes that feel like hours, willing the wolf to stay where it is. But his already poor luck doesn’t bother to last the next couple minutes; of course, the wolf gets to its feet and pads over to him, growling quietly in the back of its throat. Patrick pushes himself back into the headboard, trying to put some distance between himself and the approaching animal.

Patrick used to wish that his life were more exciting, like in the movies. But right now? Not so much. No, right now he’s longing for the boring security of his mundane life, his safe home, his quiet, uninteresting family. Maybe he brought this on himself, like some weird kind of karma thing. Maybe, by wishing for a more exciting life, he landed himself in this freaky house with this freaky man and his freaky damn wolves…

“Patrick?” Peter says hesitantly from where he’s standing beside the bed.

Patrick raises his head, searching the bare room for the wolf. Finding no sign of it, he stares at Peter, trying to figure out how in hell this crazy man got into the room without making a single sound.

“Patrick,” Peter says again, frowning concernedly.

“How did you get in here?” Patrick demands, shrinking back even further against the headboard.

“I was here the whole time,” Peter mumbles nervously.

“You weren’t in here! A wolf was in here!” Patrick yells, telling himself that he isn’t going insane, that there really was a wolf, that Pete’s just lying.

“I was here the whole time, Patrick,” Peter repeats slowly, like Patrick’s some mentally deficient five-year-old who’s claiming that there are aliens under his bed.

“No, you weren’t! There was a wolf! A gigantic fucking wolf, with black fur and brown eyes, and it was fucking growling at me!” Not insane, not insane, completely and totally fine...

Peter grabs Patrick’s face in his warm, dry hands, dragging it up close to his own. “Patrick. I was here. The WHOLE time.”

This close to Peter’s face, Patrick can feel his hot breath on his cheeks, can smell the very scent seeping from his pores. Like the blankets, Peter smells like the flowers in the garden: sharp and spicy and musky all at once, like ginger that’s been soaked in strong alcohol. Intoxicated, Patrick feels his eyes start to go half-lidded, and he sees Peter’s eyes widen a little. He really has amazing eyes; they’re a deep, burning honeyed amber color, full of a fiery light that leaps into Patrick’s eyes and pools there like hot syrup. And he has an odd feeling that he’s seen them somewhere before, surrounded by black fur…

That’s when it clicks. Patrick feels his breath hitch a little as his eyes widen in shock. “B-b-but…how?”

“I was born this way,” Peter says softly, eyes scanning Patrick’s face in something like desperation.

Suddenly, Patrick yanks his face out of Peter’s hands, scrambling backwards to huddle on the other side of the bed.

Peter’s hands fall helplessly down to the mattress, his eyes slipping closed like lanterns being hooded. “Don’t be afraid of me, Patrick,” he whispers pleadingly.

“Why shouldn’t I? You…you’re a monster.”

“I’m not.” He tries to grab Patrick’s hands, but the terrified blond jerks away. “Please, Patrick. I won’t hurt you.”

“How am I supposed to believe that?” Patrick demands, voice far too high-pitched. “You know, in health class in high school, they told us that if someone hits us, we should never believe them when they promise not to do it again. At the time, I thought that people like that deserve a second chance, but now I think I’m beginning to understand what my health teacher meant!”

Pete doesn’t reply, only regards him blankly, not understanding.

“What am I even doing telling you this?” Patrick sighs disgustedly. “You’ve never even had a health class, I bet. Who teaches abstinence to werewolves?” A little hysterical laugh slips out of his mouth before he can restrain it.

“I don’t understand,” Pete says helplessly, giving him a pleading stare.

“How am I supposed to believe that you won’t hurt me?” Patrick clarifies icily. “You’ve already hit me once! What’s stopping you from doing it again?”

“I didn’t mean it!” Pete wails. “I promise you, I will never hit you again.”

“There you go.” Patrick laughs nervously. “Typical abusive behavior. You know, you really could’ve used those health classes I had to take.”

There’s a moment of silence as Peter stares at him, perplexed. Suddenly embarrassed by his hysterical outburst, Patrick looks down and picks at a loose thread in his blanket. Then, compelled by the awkward silence, he looks up and asks the big question looming in his head:

“Are you really a werewolf?”

“Yes,” Peter answers quickly. “I mean, no! I…I’m more like a shape shifter. I can shift forms when I want to, not like a werewolf that only changes on a full moon.”

“A shape shifter?” Patrick snorts. Peter nods, dead serious. “Now I’ve heard everything,” Patrick says disbelievingly.

“I’m telling the truth,” Peter mumbles, finally catching Patrick off guard and grabbing onto his hands, which are only trembling a tiny bit.

“Show me.”

Peter lets go of Patrick’s hands, and in a blink of an eye he’s a wolf.

In typical anticlimactic fashion, Patrick faints.