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I grew up surrounded by wolves. Big cuddly wolves, small bouncy wolves, mean and scary wolves who growled but still carried the best intentions. It was normal, I loved the wolves that I grew up with. But there was one wolf who stood out among the rest. Kind and gentle to me, always using the softest words to sooth me. And the more I grew, the closer we got. From glances to talking to playing, I trusted this wolf.
Sometimes he would get too close, too rough, too mean, and It would scare me. But I knew this wolf, just like I knew the other wolves around me, so I didn’t mind.
But one day, during a game, he bit me. A normal bite at first, a playful bite. Yet he didn’t let go, even as I started to struggle and cry out. I told him to stop, but he didn’t. Instead his teeth grew sharper, dug deeper into my skin. I had never been bit by a wolf before, it hurt in agonizing ways I never thought possible. It ripped and scarred into my delicate flesh, where it would never leave. And when the wolf I had trusted finally let go, I was different. I was scared and angry, I was jumpy and distrustful. I still loved the wolves I grew up with, but ever since that day I can't help but stare at their teeth, sharp like daggers lining their jaws.
Sharp like the ones that marked me forever.