By Caroline Ashley
He inspected his teeth in the mirror. Lip stretched upward by a trembling index finger to show glistening enamel. Head tilted back and forth, revealing nothing.
He exhaled a breath and beheld the pallid spectre in the mirror. Dark rings encircled his eyes and his pupils were caverns opening into a world doused in blood. He feared the damage he could do with a razor, so stubble formed an overgrown thicket on his face.
His eyelids briefly shielded him from the world. When they lifted again, he caught sight of the gold wedding band encircling his left ring finger. A gleam of brightness against dirt-smeared skin. An eternal tie to his childhood love. His hand formed a fist, then he turned on the tap to scrub it clean.
She appeared in the doorway, a full head shorter than him, all her ferocity compressed into diamond. Casting a sharp look in his direction, through the mirror, she asked if he had finished in the garden.
“Yes, dear.”
Her lip tightened in a doubtful expression. “I’ll go have a look.”
His jaw clenched and a growl swelled in his throat. For a moment, he swore his eyes were more amber than brown. His fingers clenched around the sink, knuckles whitening as he inhaled a breath through his nose.
I need to make dinner.
In the wild, lone wolves were often forced out of packs through aggression from the others; a war of attrition until they finally accepted their rejection. How much did they fight back before slinking away, unwanted? Did they ever kill those who spurned them before leaving?
His wife emerged from the garden through the kitchen door, boots placed neatly at the side. “The fence is alright but you’ve trampled some of the flowers.”
His shoulders tensed. His bicep throbbed as the movement pulled at four neat marks under his shirt. A reminder of finger pressure tightening until nails punctured the skin, blood welling over aquamarine polish. His wife asking: Why do you always let me down?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll buy new ones if you want.”
She waved a dismissive arm and told him not to worry about it. She pressed a kiss to his cheek but her fingers tightened over the injury, a silent rebuke.
He began to chop the vegetables for dinner, a steel blade carving through green flesh. The edge could so easily cut across her neck. A red fountain would spray across the room, not stopping until he drowned. Then he would thrust the blade deep into her abdomen, the penetration sending a pulse of arousal through his body.
Distracted, the knife sliced into his finger. His palm filled with a crimson ichor and he was certain he saw grey fur fighting to break through the surface. His stomach churned with writhing worms and his hearing was overcome by the thundering of his heart. Tap turned on, he concealed the wound beneath the steady stream.
When he finally dared move his hand to look again, all he saw was his own skin. The image fractured, colour fading to sepia, but he blinked his vision clear and lifted the knife to clean its blade.
“Adam.” The way she said his name always triggered a wave of nervous adrenaline. The single word was so often laced with others lurking like venomous snakes beneath a murky pool: Failure. Waste of space. Worthless lump.
He swallowed. “Yes, dear?”
“There’s dirt on the bedsheet.”
“Sorry. I’ll change it after dinner.”
The slam of a palm against wood caused him to spin around, knife in hand. She stood framed in the doorway, cheeks pink, mouth twisted. “You make me so angry sometimes.”
Of course, the bedding was changed yesterday. He was messing up the system.
“Why can’t you just be more careful with our things?”
Her system. Her things. He had no choice in any of them. Did an extra load of washing really matter that much? His teeth pressed together, straining his jaw. The knife handle was smooth and warm against his skin. And underneath, a seething force tried to escape from its containment. Hairs rose, alive with anticipation. Saliva pooled in his mouth – begging him to succumb to his desires.
“Can’t you do anything right?”
The wolf ripped its way out of his body, tearing skin aside like paper in its desperation to reach her. It lunged for her throat, canines sinking into her artery, the sweet ambrosia filling its mouth. She fell to the ground, hair spread across the cream carpet in a halo. She fought, trying to gain purchase on its paws, trying to push its snapping, snarling maw away from her fragile body. Tears scarred her cheeks and she expelled a helpless wail, the wail of a mouse, the wail of a rabbit, the wail of a woman who knew she would die today. The wolf consumed her flesh and howled to the sky.
Except –
There was no wolf.
Just him.
Just his wife.
There she stood, hands clenched at her side, eyebrows creased in a frown, finding him wanting as always. The knife clattered to the floor, shattering the silence like a gunshot. She took a step forward and he took a step back, following her lead in a hopeless dance.
The wolf scratched under the veneer of his skin, but the blue fire of her gaze showed her dominance. It lowered its tail between its legs and sank into the darkness – returning to the sanguine dreams hidden behind his eyes. It couldn’t help but bare its teeth just a little as it left. He could feel the tips of his fingers burning, as if claws were about to rip his nails asunder. His tongue licked a canine, wondering if it had grown.
Not today, the wolf said. Not today, but one day.
About The Author
Caroline Ashley is a clinical psychologist who works for the NHS in Scotland. She primarily writes fantasy with the occasional foray into sci-fi and horror. Her favourite authors will always be JRR Tolkien and Terry Pratchett but she also has a soft spot for romantasy. If she had any spare time around raising her two young children, she would spend it playing board games.
Caroline Ashley 