A WISP OF BREATH

The image is stark yet dreadful.

The bristled leaves scatter across the pavement, looking old and used, reminding me of a corpse - shriveled to the very end until there is almost nothing left except for a few wisp of brown and the very core of the things themselves. The woods are just to my left. There tree's cast an eerie scene across the stone path, their naked branches reaching across the park's edge, just inviting the unwanted visitors inside to their depths.

There is a wooden seat just across from my feet. I wriggle my toes under my next-to-nothing disgustingly yellow NIKES sneakers, the coldness biting at every possible limb of my body until it eats away at me, then I'll die of frostbite. I reach my hands across from each other and embrace myself, occasionally stopping to blow on my filthy hands.

This is my home, now. It wasn't before. I had lived somewhere rich and magnificent, with maids and nanny's catering to my every whim. I thought that there was more to life, that ordering people around couldn't be all there is. So I decided to see this for myself, if my hunch had been right. Now look where I am. Tattered clothing and shoes, freezing cold in unlivable conditions, no food or water, no previous surviving skills, in a secluded area that looks as if it could've been a murder scene in some horror movie and also that fact that if someone ought to come out from the shadows right now and kill me with a chainsaw, I would be completely vulnerable. Even though said has a very low percentage of happening, my death could be anything, as low as some hungry animal hunting for a good-night serve, and sure as I would be a nice juicy one ready for the taking.

I jump at the sound of twigs and branches breaking in some distance away. Probably just an animal.

Definitely. Probably a raccoon or something like that scattering around to find a place to sleep. Which is exactly what I should be doing.

I stop in my failed attempt to go looking for a place to sleep. Dead silence.

Then I hear it again. Coming from the East side. Which means it's coming from the woods. Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. It's the sound of nearing feet. Not just a pair, but a few. Like a group of people.

"Anybody out there?!" I yell, my lungs seizing from the cold at the last word there and I hunch down and hold my stomach as I cough, my throat making animal-like grunting noises.

I hear a distant cry, not for help, but an answer. Then I hear it almost definitely. I furrow my brows to hear it again make sure that I was correct. There it is again. I hear it as clear as day. Distinctly.

Cole.

Oh, great. Just what I needed. They found me. I wince in pain as a shot of pain wisp into my head like a bolt of electricity, seeking to prey for its victims. I hold my head and make another grunt, a grunt of pain.

They must've heard me because I hear them coming closer. Closing in on me.

I look around to take in my surroundings, seeing if anything around me would be useful to hide behind. Uh, perfect. I see a wooden bench, old and infested by mold from the rain and termite attacks, almost down do its last days. But it will do. I almost find myself sprinting to get behind the dead wood. Almost as soon as I get there, I look through the cracks of the wooden bench and see five figures bolting out of the woods, thinking that they're coming to the rescue, I presume. Which in my case, they probably are. They each hold flashlights in their hands and look as discouraged and disappointed as they possibly could get. Broad shoulders, and tight expressions.

How'd they find me here? In the middle of no-where?

I'll probably never know. Because after about a minute of just standing there, they bolt straight back into the woods, feet pounding against the freezing cold pavement. I get up to see the last guy, dark-skinned and particularly large, but he doesn't see me. The last I see of him is the slight touch of a blue MINNESOTAN POLICE jacket before he disappears into the trees. Almost as if they're eating him up the further he goes in.

God, what I would do for one of those jackets.

I fall to the ground and wince in pain as another shot of that freakin' migraine comes at me again. Soon I find myself screaming loudly and finally my vision takes over and everything around me is spinning. Until everything goes into a last blur and all I can do is hear distant shouts and feel the slight tug of someone shaking me. And then I'm gone.

And no, that does not mean that I am dead. Because then I wouldn't be able to tell of my story, now would I?

I wake up in my familiar hospital that I had seen so many times. Dr. Montgomery walks up to me and smiles.

"That was quite some risk you took their, honey." she says in her always-cheerful tone, making me more and more sick of her stupid Tennessee accent.

I purse my lips, though, it hurts to do so. "Mmm-hmm." is all I say.

"What were you thinking going on almost killing ye-self, hmm? And you down-right almost succeeded if it weren't for those helpful police out there trying to find you. And God bless their soul for doing so." she says, clapping her hands together as if she just actually made a prayer of thanks

My mother comes into the room, her face shallow and ill-looking - almost as bad as mine, but not quite. When she sees me awake she almost instantly lights up like a candle, but then her excitement is covered with furry and anger.

"What in the hell were you thinking?!" she screams. And for a moment, I actually believe that she will run up to me and strangle the living day-lights out of me.

"I-I-" I stumble against my words, but end up choking and coughing instead.

Dr. Montgomery hastily wobbles over to me in that signature penguin-type walk of hers, putting the back of her palm up to my forehead as if to check my temperature. "Shhh, now honey, don' you get worked up when you're just recovering, we don' want you to be back in surgery again, now do we?"

I shake my head in a discouraged manner.

"That's what I thought," she says. Then she turns to my mother and almost looks like she's gonna have a fit. "Now what were you doing dun going up to him and screaming, somethin' like that could make him high-purr-ventiilate and go into that dun old cardee-ack arrest." As much as her Tennessee accent pisses me off, these words ring off in my head like angels singing, literally.

My mother scowls at this and attempts to calm herself down.

Then she looks at me and says, "Well, it's good that your all awake and just peachy. What with your tumor and all."

Tumor. Oh, no. Oh, God, no.

*

- And that was how I found out. That my surgery was more than just stitches like I had presumed. It was a surgery to take out a brain tumor, they asked my mother if I would mind and if they should wait until I woke up to ask me myself but she just told them to go straight ahead with it, that I would be alright with it, typical of her, always wanting her and everyone else even associated with her to look, act and be perfect. I took out CHEMO Therapy for several or so months. I lost what little hair I had and the rest of my days included me and a bucket, a bucket and me.

I legally died on Sunday, the fifteenth of July, 6:08 a.m. in the morning. It didn't last though, my heart stopped beating for about 23 seconds, they told me. Then, without their help, I just woke up.

When I did wake up, or in my position, come back from the dead, it was like a new breath of life was poured into me, no more pain and no more suffering. They ran some test and said that any sign of cancer or the tumor had cleared up and by three days, I was ready to leave the hospital for good. Not including the extra visits for check-ups to see if it hadn't returned. And by 12 months of doing so, they said that it most probably wouldn't.

It was a miracle.

That first wisp of new breath, was a sign of a new life. I was ready to take on the world. And anything or anyone that is held within it.

Then I found out something else, something I hadn't known. Something - amazing. I felt completely and utterly invisible.

Although, I guess that's how I was supposed to feel.

Considering.

I found out that I hadn't had a tumor after all, in fact, it had nothing to do with anything like that. Instead, I found out that I was supernatural. Meaning, not normal. Non-human, even. Somewhat what you would think of, what was it called? A werewolf.

It explained everything. Apparently, my great-great-great - and so on - Grandfather was one, full-blooded, actually. Then he married an outsider, and they their children married an outsider and so on. Until me. They thought that it would've been gone by then, all of the canine blood that ran through my veins supposedly vanished, never there. In fact, by now, it was just old stories that were passed down from generation to generation, always believed to just be one of those old folk-law tales.

It would explain the so-called "tumor", the late night runs, the urge to be free, and especially the place I chose to be free. It explained everything. But the problem was: How do I control it? It's not like I knew any particular werewolves that lived across the road that I could just ask. Obviously, not. So how do I handle it?

There was only one answer, and one answer only.

I would tell you -

But it's a secret.



- Cole