Runner

“We?” I ask, craning around to see if there was any more of them, but the effort is pointless because both he and Fleur aren’t doing anything to disrupt my line of sight.

“Yes,” he answers evenly.

“And who are you?” I venture to question, attempting to meet his eyes but he manages to dodge my glance too.

“Darren. You’ve met my wife, Fleur,” he says, gesturing behind him. Fleur nods in slight acknowledgement, leaning against the wall. “You’ll meet the others soon enough, once you’ve rested more.”

“The others?” I try again, but he moves away with the same grace that inhabits Fleur, crossing the room.

“We’ll get you something to eat,” Darren says instead.

The door clicks behind them and I survey the room for the millionth time as if it holds the answer to my missing identity.

I push myself from the plush pillows again, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The cool floorboards icing my bare feet as I try to force myself to stand. The pain in my back creeps back again, throbbing along with my headache as I take a timid step to the window. I push the curtains aside, my eyes searching the landscape outside.

Everything has been covered in a heavy blanket of snow, the hillsides that lead away from the house, to the cars in the wide lot outside. The trees slump toward the ground, limp under the weight of the snow.

My breath coats the windowpane as I absorb everything, sparkling in the midafternoon daylight. The sun is low in the sky, dipping down past the horizon line.

I take a few slow steps away, using the wall to guide myself around the room.
Everything aches as I move, even my toes.

People shuffle around downstairs, creaking along the floorboards, carrying on with conversations, the thumping of their hearts in rhythm with mine.

They move with a togetherness that begs at familiarity, but I can’t put my finger on it. Besides the headache, I notice a hollowness in my mind, but right along with the familiarity, it’s just out of my reach.

Before I make it to the other side of the bed, I can hear the rap of feet against the steps before Fleur walks into the room unannounced.

“Here,” she says, extending a pile of clothes to me. “These might not fit, but they’ll do for now.”
I take the clothes from her and she leaves again without another word. The clothes are baggy, hanging off me and engulfing my frame. I catch sight of myself on the mirror on the back of the door, and I take in my mangy appearance.

I look like a mutt who’s been left out in a storm. My hair falls to my chest in knots, an utter mess. My eyes are wide and green, flickering from one inch of my skin to the next. My face is made up of points – pointed nose, pointed chin.

It’s not my appearance that seems foreign; it’s an accepted fact of who I am. But the puzzle pieces that make up the soul, not the body, are scattered.

I rake my finger through my hair trying to iron out the curls and untangle it the best that I can, but it’s out of my control.

The door pops open again and Fleur pokes her head in. “Done?” she asks.

I barely manage a nod before she opens the door wider and gestures for me to step out. “There’s been a change of plans,” she tells me as I walk toward her. The more I move, the less it hurts as if I’m slowly coming back together.

“Being?”

“We figured we’d just hit you with it all at once. Like a Band-Aid,” she shrugs. She descends the stairs quickly, stopping at the landing to glance back up to me.

“Don’t wait up or anything,” I murmur, gripping the banister as I take the steps slowly.

“Sorry,” she says flatly. I follow her through the foyer to the dining room. The dark mahogany is set, all the food laid out, the candles lit, and all that’s missing is the people.

But as soon as that thought crosses my mind, they appear. A group of people flood in from the kitchen, and from behind me, dropping into seats all around. Fleur abandons me then, finding her seat on the other side of the table.

“You can sit here,” Darren says, approaching me. He pulls out a seat politely, waiting until I sit before he takes his spot across from Fleur.

“So you’re the new kid,” someone says and my eyes flicker around the table, trying to match the voice to a face.

The seat at the head of the table pulls out and the man behind the voice drops in, his eyes finding mine. Every head at the table bows slightly, rendered completely silent.

“I suppose,” I answer. “And you are?”

“Samuel.”

He has a darker glow to him, his features all hard and defined. His dark brown hair is long and unruly, dipping down past his forehead, and just below his eyebrows. His eyes are brown, but not like Darren’s – they’re much darker, the pupil nearly blending into the iris. A smile – more of an arrogant smirk – rests on his face as he watches me, like predator to prey. But no fear ebbed at me, just amusement.

“So you lost your memory?” he asks. “Shame. We’ve all been quite curious.”

I glance around at them again, arching an eyebrow. It’s almost as if he’s completely stopped time, the two of us the only ones moving while everyone remains suspended in the moment, downcast.

“What is this?” I ask. “A cult?”

He chuckles. “You really have forgotten, haven’t you?”

I turn back to face him, and the moment our eyes lock, I can feel it. The familiarity from their togetherness is there again, but this time in a different way.

I stumble backwards, spilling out of the chair and onto the ground trying to escape his gaze. My joints ache, and I fold into a ball onto the floor, every muscle screaming out in pain, contorting and reshaping.

“Samuel, stop it,” I hear, but the sounds are becoming more and more unrecognizable.
When most of the pain is over, I’m left with a dull stinging sensation.

I can hear him approach before I see his feet right in front of me and I rear back, a growl rippling through my teeth.

“You’re lucky we’re the ones that found you, little wolf.”