When I Was Nine Novels & Stories

Chances were it wouldn't count after I broke our bond, yet I wanted to sink myself into it. "I was only nine," I began. "My twin and I were out with our Aunt, her name was Darla." I shifted, recollecting the memories. "She was exactly like the female version of my father. She was a hard worker, so she didn't come around much, and when she did, we would go out to the park, get ice cream. She was like that big older sister, only eighteen years older. On that day..."

Were they watching me? My grip tightened, as if the world had stopped. The memory of the werewolf’s red eyes and its deadly stare haunted me, etched into my mind forever. My breathing hitched for a moment, and a memory surfaced from the depths of my mind. I was nine years old, standing by the riverbank on my father's land. I had stumbled upon a wounded wolf, and I saw a boy tending to its injuries.

I couldn't seem to get enough of her and it was pissing me off. With a distressed expression—as if she could feel my pain—she took out the shard from my skin and meticulously tended to the raw cuts. Reluctantly, I tore my gaze away from her and redirected it to my side, finding solace in the fact that anything was preferable to the enticing sight of her. "I was nine..." she said and my attention turned back to her, "I was nine when my dad died in a car accident." My eyebrows pinched together, she looked up at me with a sad smile and sighed, blinking her tears away, "Antonio Rossi..." she whispered.

Avery was banging on the windows with tears streaming down his face as they left the garden. I was nine when my life had taken everything from me.

So why did it all feel wrong? Why did my wolf feel… incomplete? Why was Raina still crawling through my mind like a ghost that refused to leave? I ran a hand down my face and leaned forward, elbows on my knees. Where did it all go wrong? --- I was nine when I arrived at the Frostfang Pack. Filthy. Angry. Alone. I don’t remember my parents' faces. Just smoke. Screams. Blood. The rogues tore through our village like fire, and I was the only one left standing. Dazed. Burned. Starving.

When I was done cleaning the dishes, I moved to wiping the picture frames. I started from the large ones — the ones of our complete family. Mom, all smiles, in graduation attire. Dad, standing beside her, looking every bit proud, with his arm wrapped around her shoulder and the other hand holding me at a place for the shot. Done with that one, I moved to the next picture, which I recognised all too well. I could remember perfectly when that picture was taken. It was my ninth birthday. Before that, I had been going on and on about wanting a pink bike because all my friends had one.

I wasn’t trained, brutal, or broken. I was nine. Twelve Years Ago Somewhere in Northern Province Kelly – Age 9 | Kane – Age 12 It had rained that night. I still remember the smell. Ash and wet leaves. Our sister, Maylee, had sung herself to sleep beside me, her little hand tangled in mine. Mom was in the kitchen laughing. Dad was watching something on the radio. Kane was outside with a flashlight, pretending to be a spy. “I’ll protect you,” he’d whispered to me earlier. “Always.”

I can feel Julian's breath moving against the thin cotton of my sweater, slowly lengthening, and I match mine to it without deciding to. "Tell me something stupid," he mumbles. "Stupid how?" "Anything. Something with no stakes in it." I think. "When I was nine, I tried to dig a hole to the other side of the world in the backyard. I got about as deep as my knees before my mother found me. She made me fill it in, and then she made me dig it out again, because she said a person who starts a hole should at least see it through." "Did you reach the other side?"

I pace once, twice, running a hand through my hair. "Do you know how many nights I spent in that basement? Alone? In the dark? Do you know what that does to a child, Mom? Do you have any idea what it feels like to be nine years old and screaming until your throat bleeds and nobody comes?" My voice cracks on the last word. The tears are streaming down her face now but I can't stop. I need her to understand.

“I don't particularly care.” He exhaled sharply and rubbed a hand over his jaw. “You should let this go.” That almost made me smile again. “That's interesting.” “What is?” “Everyone who tells me to let something go seems to know exactly why I shouldn't,” I said, taking another step closer. “You're right about one thing though: I was nine. I didn't understand what happened that night.” There was something satisfying about watching him realize I wasn’t the clueless child he saw nineteen years ago.