Page 7 of Pucking Feral: Part Two
She screams.
I let her go.
SORRY—I'M SORRY—
The knife comes down fast, slashing across my right eye. There's blood everywhere now, all over my face, running into my mouth. I shield myself with my arms, afraid to grab her again, afraid to hurt her.
"WRAITH!" she screams, slashing again, again, again. "THAT'S WHAT YOU ARE! A WRAITH PRETENDING TO BE MY SON!"
A mournful siren drowns out her shrieks.
Sirens just outside.
Oh no.
Someone must have heard her screaming through the broken window.
Someone must have called 911.
James and Mom always close the windows when they fight. Because the cops might come and take them away from me.
But I don't want her to get in trouble.
She's sick.
She needs help—
"Wraith!"
A different voice calling out to me.
"Wraith! Wait! Please!"
The ringing in my ears drowns the sirens out.
I'm not in the living room anymore.
I'm not a kid anymore.
It's not snowing.
There are bright pink cherry trees all around me.
What the fuck…?
Where am I?
Something moves in my peripheral vision.
A blur through the blood and the panic.
My body reacts before my brain can process.
Pure feral instinct.
I whirl around with a vicious snarl, ready to tear into whatever's coming at me. The sound that rips from my throat isn't human. It's the noise a wounded predator makes when it's cornered.
Dangerous.
