The Third Year of Wolf Decay
In the third year of my wolf decay, I was dying.
It was a rare condition. I wanted to donate my body to research.
I called my mother, three years since I'd last seen her, and asked her to sign the donation consent form.
Without her signature, there'd be no one to handle my remains.
She was busy with work. "Are you really making up something like this just to get attention?" she snapped.
But I begged, and she gave a cold laugh and agreed.
"What a miserable thing to deal with. You better actually be dying."
Later, my wolf heart ended up on her dissection table. And that woman, who had nothing but contempt for me, actually killed three people for me.