Red and Black

The moonlight caressed the tulips beside the road and reflected brilliantly upon the waters beneath the stone bridge. The evening was pleasantly warm and not even a breeze blew. A firefly alighted upon my shoulder and I admired its simple elegance for a moment before casually brushing it off.

I continued down the road until the merriment and laughter of the city died down and the cobbles turned to dirt and dust. The soft hoot of an owl intermitted the chorus of the crickets, but not without a certain rhythm, as if some unseen composer was conducting the music of the night. It was a symphony with an audience of one, but nature’s musicians did not mind and neither did I, for theirs was a concert I had oftentimes enjoyed by myself.

In fact, many a night would have been unbearably lonely, were it not for the solace they provided. Occasionally, their songs moved me so profoundly, I found myself adding my own melody, and they, gracious as they were, welcomed it without prejudice.

I could not say the same of humanity, however. I know not why, but they fear anything they do not understand. This fear inevitably leads to one of two reactions: either they choose to simply ignore it, or they view it as dangerous and wish to destroy it. I have grown accustomed to the latter.

Seven forests, seven beloved forests, I have been forced to abandon in these last two years in order to escape their violence and maniacal bloodlust. Of course, it was not as much for the reason that I feared for my life, but rather for theirs; one can be pushed only so far before all reason is lost to primordial instincts, instincts all the more difficult for a werewolf to suppress.

The Book of Life says one must forgive, and He knows, I have tried. I have desperately tried to forgive humanity, and the majority of times I succeed, but every so often, I am wronged again, and my hatred for humans surges to the surface once more, and with it, my resentment for the one who did this to me.

That devil of a woman, Lucinda, who calls herself a queen, how I loathe her! I despise her with every grain of my essence, and not only because of her injustice towards me, but also because of her cruelty to her people. She is the epitome of malice and mercilessly pursues her every desire.

Take poor Snow White, for instance. A kinder soul I had never met – she has earned her name a hundred times over, for not only is she as beautiful as the tales say, but she is also purity incarnate. We had spent our childhood together, naturally, for she is my half-sister on my father’s side, so I would know.

We had explored the woods together and many a happy memory I have of chasing her through it and her jovial laughter when I had caught her and tickled her. I also remember our regular swordfights, and initially I bested her, but she had inherited my father’s spirit and courage, and soon I was the one who suffered defeat. She was gracious in victory though; that she inherited from her mother.

Ah, even after all these years, I still remember her mother’s kind smile. I was but four when my dear mother had passed, but Snow’s had said that she had enough love for a son also. Alas, when I was at the age of twelve and Snow at eight, our mother fell terminally ill.

The following year was black with grief, for our father most of all. He found love again, however, at the end of that year, and within another, Lucinda was his bride. His happiness did not last long.

Lucinda had never married out of love, that much was certain to Snow and I, but we had not expected that she would poison him a mere three months after their marriage. Luckily, she was content for two more years. But then she was not.

Snow’s beauty had begun to rival Lucinda’s, and I experienced first-hand that odious woman's envy. A certain detail that has always been omitted from the stories though, is that Lucinda had had the audacity to ask me, not some petty hunter or huntsman, as the tales say, to take Snow out on a hunt and bring back only her heart. I could have refused, but that would undoubtedly have seen to it that I was silenced and Snow would die anyway. So I agreed.

Lucinda was not pleased at all with the deer’s heart I presented to her, so she said that I would forever after know what it felt like to be hunted and cursed me by slitting my wrist, placing an aconite flower one the cut and muttering some incantation. I was fortunate, at least, for while she was cursing me, I struggled, causing her to recite one of the most crucial lines incorrectly. My defiance granted me the ability to control when I transformed, but if I were to approach monkshood again, I would immediately transform and not be able to change back until the following full moon.

If I were ever given the opportunity to alter that day’s events, I would change nothing. I sometimes find I am actually grateful for my situation, as I would otherwise never have felt the earth underneath my paws or the wind through my black fur. My only regret is that I had to leave Snow in her time of greatest need, but we both knew that by staying, I would only have brought her great peril. At least we parted in love, and Snow had given me her mother's ring, a priceless heirloom, by which to remember her.

After that, my story only consists of one tragedy after another, and it was with great pain that, during my brief visits to the closest villages and towns, I heard people whisper stories of a fearsome “Big Bad Wolf” that plagued the land. Nobody knew I was actually Ross White, for Lucinda had, with “great sorrow,” informed the populace that my sister and I had perished during an unfortunate hunting accident and that our bodies were never found.

I wholly missed my dear Snow, and she could not even know that I was still alive; Lucinda had ensured that it was so. But my suffering was relieved the day I met Red.

Nadia was her actual name, but the townsfolk affectionately called her “Red Riding Hood,” from which my own nickname for her came. I had saved her from a bandit one day, and we were in love ever since.

I peeked into the basket in my left hand – the cheese and bread were still as aromatic as they were when they had first been made, and I had even bought Red her favourite red wine. She did not know I was coming to visit her, for I wanted our dinner to be a surprise.

As I stepped out into the glade in which Red’s grandmother had built her quaint cabin, I was relieved to see candlelight shining through the windows. I walked up to her door and knocked softly. She did not respond, so I knocked again, harder that time, but when still she did not respond, I assumed that she was in her room and could not hear me. I entered, placed the basket in her kitchen, and, with a red rose in hand, I crept down her corridor towards her bedroom. I slowly opened the door, but her name froze on my lips.

In her bed was a naked man, and in his arms was my Red.

Without ceasing their lovemaking, she gestured at me to leave. A scene of the most gruesome violence ensued. I could easily have ripped out the stranger’s throat, but that would grant him a swift and merciful death. No, instead, I ripped his limbs from his body. I buried my claws in his stomach and spilled his intestines all over the bed sheets. As he died, I feasted on his liver. Then, I turned to the shivering woman in the corner. Like the walls and windows of her room, she was covered in blood and gore. Fear, pure terror, was written on her face and every single of her features.

I crushed the flower in my hand and dropped it to the floor. I could never do such unspeakable things, no matter what she had done, and luckily, my wrath had been wrought upon her and her newfound lover only in my mind. I still loved her, after all, but it was obvious that she did not feel the same way.

Outside, clouds had obscured the moon and the air was filled with a stinging chill. I drew the ruby encrusted golden ring from my pocket and gazed at it in sorrow for a minute before pocketing it once more. I ran and would not stop running until I was a thousand miles away.

So I ran.