Chapter 43: Weep
I'd always been a sad kid. I listened to weepy music, dressed in all black, wrote angry screeds in my diary about how much I hated my wolf, hated the world, hated my life. I've tried to be kind to my younger self; being a werewolf with a sick dad was very hard on me. It would have been hard for anyone. And because of the darkness I had finally pushed away, because I had chosen to chase boys and make fluffy cakes, I had thought that at last, I had conquered it. Depression? Cancelled. Despair? Beaten. There was nothing I couldn't do. Wolves don't cry. At least, not the same way people do, I would know. A couple tears got caught in my fur, the most I would produce. The sky ran thick with black clouds, and where the moon hid, a few pinpricks of white light pierced through. It wasn't my kind
- Writer
