They say he’s a predator, that wolf. But I know what he really wanted.
I know he saw the gardening knife. When he met me on the path, my cloak billowing in the wind, the glint of its sharp point was clear against my side. He knew I was armed. Wolves aren’t stupid– they recognize a threat when they see it. The danger only attracted him.
That wolf became desperate. He did everything he could to tempt me. With a hungry gleam in his eyes to match the brightness of the blade I carried, he led me off the path to the touch-me-not shrubs. He disguised himself to get closer to me. He even dressed in women’s clothes, the deviant, to get me into bed with him.
When he swallowed me whole, he knew that I would cut myself out of his very flesh and claw my way to freedom. He wanted it. That wolf wanted it so badly that he was willing to let himself be destroyed by it.
And I did it.
I flayed him open from side to side.
I cut him apart until I saw light and smelled air, still redolent with the scent of touch-me-not blossoms.
I pulled my body free of his bones, covered in his blood.
And you know what? I’d bet you anything he liked it.