Instinct

Its eyes, glowing and golden, glared into me, seemingly counting the faint beats of my heart. I couldn’t breathe. It taunted me with a wide grin of tarnished fangs. Foamy saliva dripped from its menacing jaws, which snapped at me. Tears fell from my face as I tried to back away from the beast, but somehow couldn’t. Behind it lay my mother’s dead body bleeding and mutilated. I struggled and screamed but the wolf continued to snap its jaws like some sort of maniacal, wild laughter. Only a second later did it pounce and—

My eyes shot open. Perspiring from every pore on my body, my hands shook in fear underneath my duvet. I had to catch my breath. My eyes darted around the dimly lit room. I realized I was safe. There was no wolf; there was no body.

I hated that dream. I had it at least once a week. A combination of real life events and fantasy, it never failed to terrify every time dreamt it. It always ended like that—right before the ugly creature devoured me. I wished it would end before the part when I saw my mother’s torn up body. Wolves had killed her when I was young. At least that’s what they told me. I didn’t see it, contrary to what my dream insinuated. But after having that repeated vision so frequently, it felt like I had seen her torn to shreds by a wolf.

I looked at the alarm clock on my bedside table. It was 4:47 in the morning. I had one hour and thirteen minutes left until it would scream at me to get ready for school. I choose to get up then. I usually didn’t sleep much after I had that dream. Too many terrifying images lingered in my head for sleep to be plausible.

My bare feet hit the ground as I pushed the covers off. I shivered. Only the eerie light of the moon illuminated my room. I hated winter, almost as much as I hated wolves. I didn’t like the idea of being afraid of things. I preferred to hate them.

I switched a lamp on as I shut my curtains. I was tired, but too terrified to sleep. I thought that I could try, but I pictured those long canines and the bloodstained paws and I couldn’t. I wrapped my arms around myself. How could I sleep when that monster could very well gobble me as I dreamed?

I seated myself at my desk and turned on the lamp. I pulled on the right-hand drawer and found what I had been looking for. The tattered, old sketchbook sat in the drawer exactly as it always had. Faithful and trustworthy, it was always there when I needed it. I pulled it out of the drawer along with my pencils and pens and flipped through it. I passed by other drawings—some of landscapes and nature, others of my friends or my cat, but most were of the very wolf that terrified me weekly. Tonight I would focus on his paws. I picked up pencil and sketched out his shining talons, the matted fur, and the blood that splattered on his legs. His stance was wide. His nails dug into the ground. It seemed as if those powerful paws would leap right off the page and rip into my pallid skin.

“Whitney!” The shout was followed by a few hastened knocks. “You’re going to be late!” It was my dad who spoke, pulling me out of my trance. My head shot up and flew to my alarm clock. 7:39 it read. “Shit!” I muttered as I jumped from the chair. I threw the book back into my drawer and rushed into the closet to find something to wear. I practically gave myself a concussion as I searched for my jeans, but luckily I made it out alive. Rolling on the ground, practically tripping over air, I managed to pull on a sweater and some boots before I rushed into the kitchen. I kissed my father quickly on the cheek as he sipped his coffee at the table. “Bye, dad!” I shouted as I rushed to the door and slammed it behind me.

The run to school was perilous. I slipped on the ice at least twice, but the third time really didn’t count since I didn’t fall on my ass. I usually didn’t care about being late, but this was my senior year and if I got another tardy they would force me to make up the entire semester of English, which was unfortunately my first period class. I had skidded into my seat just before the bell had rung. I did have a few more bruises when I arrived than when I had left, but at least I wouldn’t have to take summer school.

My classmates acknowledged me quietly as we all stood to say the pledge immediately after I had seated myself in the first empty desk I saw. I did have a seat, despite always being late. It was farthest to the left in the second to last row. However, when I had arrived that morning, an unfamiliar face was seated in it. Most kids who went to Bradshaw High School avoided messing with me. Maybe it was the blue streak in my hair or the tongue piercing, but most kids tended to avoid me. The stranger who had taken my seat obviously didn’t know me. I had never seen him before, which briefly made me wonder why anyone would transfer halfway through their senior year. I quickly returned to hating him for stealing my seat. I was currently seated right in the middle in the third row. I hated the middle. There was enough distance between my desk and my teacher Mr. Reynolds for me to feel safe enough to doodle, but it was close enough for him to catch me not paying attention.

As we all seated ourselves after the pledge, Mr. Reynolds was not hesitant in beginning his lesson. We were discussing James Joyce. His work was riveting stuff if you lived in the early 1900s. It was dry reading, but I was not a huge fan of reading to begin with. Maybe these English nerds found it more enjoyable than I did.

As my attention level began to fade, I began to wonder again about the guy who had stolen my seat. I took another quick glance at him before turning back around. He wouldn’t have seemed that odd had he not been string straight at me. I turned away quickly, an embarrassed blush creeping onto my cheeks. That was a little more than mildly creepy, I thought, scrunching my eyebrows together in confusion and concern. I shifted in my seat, now feeling his intense stare on me. I actually tried to pay attention to the lesson so I could avoid feeling the gaze of the stranger. I tried to forget about concern that was creeping up on me as Mr. Reynolds rambled on about rhetorical devices.

Before long the bell rang and I shot up out of my seat. I rushed out of the classroom and made a beeline to my locker. I had never been so grateful to get out of class. I fumbled with my combination as I reached my locker, but eventually I got it open. I was shaking a little as I reached into my locker to grab my books for the next period. I took a final look into my locker and closed it gently. Then, suddenly, a hand slammed into the locker next to mine.

My breath hitched in my throat.