Chosen wolf

      I was running faster than I ever thought possible. Branches smacked and cut my arms, but it didn’t slow me down. Not this time. My pounding feet kept the same beat as my pounding heart. I didn’t feel afraid as I raced through the woods. I was excited, but I couldn’t remember why. My lungs began to burn in my chest. I didn’t care. I kept running. Soon, the sound of wolves howling filled the otherwise quiet forest. I smiled. 

      I wasn’t one hundred percent sure where I was, but it looked like the woods outside the hotel. Even though I wasn’t sure where I was going, I knew I had to keep going. I could never remember if I was running to something? Or away? I just knew I had to keep going, and my life depended on it. I made it through the deepest part of the forest, and the trees began to thin out. I was grateful for the lack of branches to cut my arms on. The sting of the cuts soon faded as I stepped further towards the small clearing. I wasn’t out of the forest yet, but I was able to see the light of the full moon breaking through the darkness of the forest. I slowed my pace as I took a deep breath. I knew what was coming, so I decided to take in the beauty of the full moon as I moved from the forest to the open area.

      “Ah, finally, I made it through the woods,” I said out loud to no one in particular, because, well, I was alone. Until I wasn’t. An unnaturally large white wolf emerged from the forest next to me so that it could stand in front of me. I looked deep into the wolf’s eyes, the same emerald green as mine. Something in my bones filled me with a sense of familiarity, which used to unnerve me. I was used to seeing this strange wolf after years of this dream. Now I stood in front of it unafraid. Something in my head screamed a single word, mine. That was new, and it confused me before I could fully wrap my head around what was said. The wolf pounced on me, but did not bite me like it usually did.

      I woke up with a startle. Sitting upright, one hand on my fast-beating heart. My other hand ran through the tangles of my golden-brown hair. That dream again. I used to have that dream once in a while as a kid, but since my dad passed away six months ago, it has only gotten worse. A lot about it has changed since I was a kid, but not everything. Before I would trip and fall before I made it out to the clearing. Now, there was the white wolf. It was so massive that it used to scare me, but now it doesn’t. It was just a dream. When I was afraid of it in the dream, it would just straight out attack me. Now that I wasn’t scared, it just jumped at me. Not in an aggressive ‘I am going to kill you’ way, but in the way an excited dog would jump on you when it was happy and excited to see you. The jump always woke me up. I am kind of curious about what it did when it jumped at me. What a weird thought. I shook my head. What was I thinking? It was just a recurring dream that slightly changed from time to time. 

     I brushed thoughts of the large white wolf away in my dream. I washed my face and proceeded to get ready for the day. Now that my heart was no longer beating a million miles a minute from the dream, it began to sink heavily with grief. 

      I went through the motions of getting ready for the day. I climbed out of bed and washed my face to wash away any remaining sleep. I turned and made my way down the hall. I refused to look at my parents' bedroom. I knew my parents weren't there. Each step I took towards the kitchen filled me with more depressing dread. My mother stood frozen in the spot where she always stood, and it broke my heart to see her like this. It was a Saturday morning. When my dad was alive, the house buzzed with happy and excited energy. Now, it was just another depressing, quiet morning, like a prison of happy memories —a form of punishment for happiness that no longer exists. I popped a bagel in the toaster and proceeded to make a cup of coffee. I tried my best not to stare at my mother, who was gazing off towards the shed where my father would be working. I often found her just staring at it as she silently cried. She has barely said three sentences since Dad passed away six months ago. 

      I was beginning to worry about her. She was so consumed by her grief that she was a shell of a person. I could understand it, but it hurt. I know she didn’t mean to, but she left me alone to process the loss of my dad. We could have grieved together. I shook those thoughts out of my head as I sat in the painful quiet of the house. I didn’t want to sit here crying in pain anymore. I wanted to live. I needed to live. I needed to find a way to move forward and establish a new normal without my dad. 

      The only sounds that filled the house came from me drinking my coffee and eating my bagel, until my phone buzzed. Looking at the text, I rolled my eyes. The only messages I seemed to get now were either from my best friend Jessica or work. Since it was before noon, it was work. I longed for the normalcy of a morning filled with messages from my dad, not just work and Jessica. 

      “Good morning, Daniella. If possible, can you please come in early and help set up for the day? I know you're working later, but if you can pull a double, it would be greatly appreciated.”  My manager texted. I always did. They were good to me, and they even gave me a paid month off when my dad passed away. It is one of the few good things about living in a small town. The community was always willing to help a neighbor.

     I liked going to work more than I should. It got me out of this depressing house. I would have to do something soon if my mom didn’t snap out of it. I don’t expect her to ever be over my dad’s death. But it wasn’t good that she just stared at his shed, unmoving. Like if she stayed still enough, time wouldn’t go by without him. My heart ached in grief at those thoughts. I’ll have to figure that out later.

     “Of course, I’ll be there soon.” I texted back. I didn't bother saying goodbye to my mother as I walked out of the kitchen. She wouldn't notice or respond to me anyway. About fifteen minutes later, I was dressed in my uniform and headed out the front door. I could have taken my dad's old truck, but I still couldn't handle it. So, walking it was. I did not mind walking. It was nice; it reminded me that I was alive by having my body move. If I stopped moving, I was afraid my grief would swallow me whole. Like my mothers grief did to her. 

     It was still warm enough that all I needed was a light hoodie. I only made it ten minutes down the street before a truck pulled over, and the man in the truck rolled down his window.

     “Get in, Danni, I’ll give you a lift.”