Behind the Fangs

I suppose you've heard the story about me. They call me the Big Bad Wolf. But I didn’t start out that way. My name is, or was, Alexiou, though nobody remembers that anymore. Funny, how names stick to you like burrs in a forest once they’re thrown at you enough. I became the Big Bad Wolf, not because I was born bad, but because people needed me to be.

There’s this version of my story that gets told over and over, the one with Little Red Riding Hood and her poor, helpless grandmother. According to the tale, I was this snarling, drooling beast who gobbled up the old lady without a second thought, then threw on her nightgown and tried to eat Little Red, too. But if you’ll indulge me, I’d like to share my side of it. It’s only fair, after all.

I was minding my own business that day, wandering through the woods. The truth is, I was desperate. You see, we wolves don’t live on a diet of children and grandmothers. No, that’s just the twisted imagination of storytellers. I was just trying to scavenge enough food to survive. Times were tough — there had been a drought, and hunting had become scarce. My pack had scattered, driven away by starvation. I was alone and half-starved myself.

That’s when I stumbled upon the cottage. I could smell something cooking from miles away — a fragrant, warm scent that made my empty stomach gnaw at itself. So I approached quietly, hoping maybe I could charm a morsel from whoever lived there. We wolves can be charming, you know, though no one bothers to tell you that part.

When I reached the door, I gave a polite little scratch with my paw and said, “Good day, anyone home?” I put on my softest, most genteel voice. But there was no answer.

The door creaked open under my paw. It wasn’t locked. Inside, I found a table set with fresh bread and a steaming pot of soup. My stomach growled loudly, but I restrained myself. I’m not a thief, contrary to popular belief. I only take what I need.

“Hello?” I called again. Nothing.

I made my way deeper into the cottage, and that’s when I found her — the grandmother. But she wasn’t some sweet, feeble old woman lying in bed waiting for her granddaughter to visit. No, she was sprawled on the floor, clutching her chest, eyes wide with terror. I may be a wolf, but I’m not heartless. I rushed to her side and tried to see if I could help, but it was too late. She was already gone.

Now, I’m not proud of what I did next, but I need you to understand — I was starving. I hadn’t eaten in days, and here was fresh meat, right in front of me. Don’t look at me like that! It’s the law of the forest. I told myself I would say a prayer for her, but I needed to survive, too.

Before I could take a single bite, I heard the door creak again. My heart leapt into my throat, and instinct took over. I snatched up the old woman’s nightgown and cap, threw them on, and hopped into her bed. If you’ve ever tried to fit a wolf’s snout into a bonnet, you’ll know it’s not easy. But desperate times, desperate measures.

A moment later, in walked Little Red. But let me tell you something — she wasn’t as little or as innocent as you’ve been led to believe. She strutted in like she owned the place, red hood pulled tight around her face, a wicked grin flashing as she looked around. I could tell right away she wasn’t here to bring her grandmother cookies and good cheer. Her eyes gleamed with mischief.

“Grandmother, what big eyes you have!” she said with a mocking tone, her eyes narrowing at me.

“All the better to see you with, my dear,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. But she knew. I could see it in the curl of her lips.

Then she leaned in close, too close, that hood slipping back to reveal a dagger tucked into her belt. “Grandmother,” she purred, “what big teeth you have.”

I could have played along, kept up the charade, but I wasn’t going to wait for her to pull that knife. So I bared my teeth and snarled, hoping to scare her off. But Red? She didn’t flinch. In fact, she seemed to be enjoying herself.

That’s when it hit me- this wasn’t her first visit to the woods. Little Red Riding Hood wasn’t some innocent little lamb; she was the wolf slayer. The stories don’t tell you this, but there had been whispers in the forest. Wolves disappearing, only to be found later, butchered and skinned. I had dismissed it as a fairy tale to keep pups in line. But here she was, in the flesh.

I lunged at her, and she sidestepped me with a speed that no child should possess. The knife flashed in her hand, and I felt the sting as it nicked my shoulder.

“Bad dog,” she taunted, her eyes gleaming. “Did you think you could get away with it?”

I knew I had no choice but to fight for my life. I was weak from hunger, but desperation is a powerful thing. I snapped at her, managing to catch her cloak, tearing it away. Underneath, she wore a leather vest lined with... well, you can guess what kind of pelt adorned it.

The door burst open, splintering against the wall. A towering figure filled the doorway — the woodcutter, axe gleaming, his face set in a grim scowl. Red’s laughter danced behind him like a sinister melody, her eyes alight with something far darker than innocence. She had set me up, and now the trap was sprung.

I didn’t wait. The moment his boots hit the wooden floor, I was already moving, muscles coiling like springs. I leapt for the window, shattering through it in a spray of glass, and hit the ground running. The cold earth struck my paws, a shock against the raw, tender pads.

The forest enveloped me, its embrace dark and cold. The scent of pine needles and damp earth filled my nostrils, mingled with the sharp, metallic tang of my own blood from the gash Red had left. I could hear the woodcutter’s heavy boots pounding behind me, crushing leaves and snapping twigs like bones. The sound of his axe scraping against his belt sent a shiver down my spine, pushing me faster.

The air was thick with the musty scent of decaying leaves, and as I tore through the underbrush, branches whipped my face, leaving thin, stinging cuts along my snout. I could taste the iron salt of blood on my tongue, my own breath hot and ragged in the cold November air. Every breath burned, every inhale filled with the scent of rot and earth and... her. Red’s scent lingered in the air like a ghost, that sickly sweet smell of crushed berries and freshly tanned leather.

My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it in my ears, a desperate drumbeat driving me forward. The forest floor was a treacherous maze of roots and stones hidden beneath layers of wet, slippery leaves. My paws skidded, nearly sending me sprawling, but I pushed on. The shadows of the trees danced around me like skeletal hands reaching to pull me back.

A howl of laughter echoed behind me, sharper than the cry of any owl. Red was close, her voice floating through the trees like a twisted lullaby. “Run, Wolfie, run!” she called, her words a taunt that cut deeper than any knife. I could feel her closing in, the chill of her presence creeping along my spine like frostbite.

I veered left, plunging into the denser part of the forest where the trees grew closer together, their branches knitting above me to blot out the last slivers of moonlight. My vision blurred, the darkness almost total. But I knew these woods. They were part of me, the same way the scent of blood had become a part of me.

The ground sloped downward, turning into a shallow ravine filled with slick mud. I lost my footing, claws scrabbling for purchase as I slid. The acrid scent of wet earth filled my nostrils, and I tumbled, slamming into rocks and tree roots, the impact sending jolts of pain through my ribs.

Behind me, I could hear Red’s steady, unhurried footsteps. She wasn’t running anymore. No, she knew I was weakening. To her, this was just a game. The woodcutter’s axe was now silent, but I could still sense him, smell the faint reek of sweat and iron drifting on the breeze.

The forest seemed to come alive around me — branches creaked like old bones, the wind hissed through the leaves, whispering secrets of my doom. The air was thick with the scent of moss and decay, of life and death intertwined. I could hear the scurry of unseen creatures retreating into their burrows, fearful of the violence that followed in my wake.

And then, the scent hit me — fresh blood, rich and coppery, not my own. It sent a jolt through my exhausted limbs, a reminder that I couldn’t stop. Not yet. The scent pulled me like a beacon, promising life if only I could reach it. But I knew better. It was a trap — Red’s traps always reeked of blood.

A sudden, sharp pain shot through my hind leg. I howled, stumbling as something bit into my flesh. A trap? No — a thorn, jagged and cruel, tearing at my skin. The forest was turning against me, every branch, every root conspiring to slow me down. The ground felt like it was shifting beneath me, the cold seeping through my fur, numbing my limbs.

But the sounds behind me were fading. The woodcutter’s footsteps were growing distant, swallowed by the dense underbrush. Red had stopped laughing, but I could still feel her presence — that predator’s gaze piercing through the darkness, hunting me not with her eyes, but with that unerring instinct of hers.

The trees opened up suddenly, and I stumbled into a moonlit clearing. My chest heaved, lungs burning like fire. For a moment, I dared to hope that I had lost them. The wind howled through the treetops, carrying the scent of pine sap and winter’s first frost.

But then, from the shadows at the edge of the clearing, came a soft, mocking clap. Red stepped forward, her silhouette framed by the silver light. The hood was down now, revealing those cold, pitiless eyes. In her hand, the knife glinted, still slick with my blood.

“You can’t outrun me, Wolfie,” she said, her voice a soft purr that sent a shiver through my fur. “I always finish what I start.”

I growled, the sound low and feral, but it was an empty threat. I was spent, muscles quivering with exhaustion. My legs trembled, threatening to collapse beneath me.

She took another step forward, the scent of her — sweat, leather, and blood — overwhelming my senses. My vision blurred, the edges of the clearing seeming to close in around me. But I wasn’t going to die on my knees like a beaten dog.

With one last surge of strength, I lunged. My vision had narrowed to a single point- Red’s throat, exposed beneath the flickering shadows of the moonlight. I aimed to rip, to tear, to take her down before my last breath left me. But she was faster. The knife flashed upward, catching me across the muzzle. Pain flared, white-hot, blinding me for a heartbeat.

I stumbled, my legs buckling as blood poured down my face, dripping into my eyes. My vision swam, the world a blur of red and silver and shadows. But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. I snapped at her, teeth gnashing, a growl rumbling deep in my chest like distant thunder.

Red danced back, light on her feet, her laughter ringing in my ears like the chime of a funeral bell. “Oh, Wolfie,” she said, her voice as soft as silk. “You really thought you could win?”

I could hear the woodcutter approaching again, his heavy footsteps crunching through the underbrush. I had mere seconds, a flicker of time before they’d close in on me, corner me like a wounded animal. I could smell him now, that sickly scent of sweat, beer, and wood shavings. The edge of the clearing shimmered, the trees swaying like dark sentinels waiting to see how the hunt would end.

But then, a thought — wild, desperate — sparked in my mind. The scent of blood on Red’s knife... it wasn’t just mine. There was something else mixed in, faint but unmistakable. The metallic tang of human blood, old and sour. I glanced at the woodcutter, the realization hitting me like a blow. It wasn’t me he was after; it was her. She had been using him, too — a pawn in her sick, twisted game.

I needed to turn the tables. Somehow.

Gathering the last of my strength, I let out a deep, guttural howl, a sound that echoed through the forest, making the trees tremble. Red’s grin faltered, just for an instant. I lunged again, but this time I wasn’t aiming for her. I barreled straight past her, snapping at the woodcutter’s legs. He stumbled, his axe swinging wildly, nearly severing Red’s arm as she jumped back.

Chaos erupted. Red’s eyes widened as she realized I had turned her prey against her. The woodcutter, dazed and confused, turned his focus on Red. “What are you playing at, girl?” he growled, eyes darting between the blood on her knife and my torn fur.

Red’s mask slipped. She bared her teeth — not in a smile, but in fury. “You fool,” she hissed, “Finish him! He’s the monster!”

But the woodcutter hesitated. The doubt was there, a seed I’d planted, and it was growing. I didn’t wait to see how it played out. I used their confusion to my advantage, slipping back into the shadows of the trees. I could still hear them arguing behind me, Red’s voice rising, shrill and furious.

The forest closed around me, a wall of darkness that swallowed their shouts. My breaths came in ragged gasps, each one sending a fresh wave of pain through my torn side. I was bleeding badly, and the cold was settling into my bones. But I was free — for now.

I kept moving, driven by instinct and the will to survive. The scent of blood was thick in my nostrils, mingling with the damp, earthy smell of the forest floor. My vision blurred, and I stumbled over roots, my legs trembling, but I refused to stop. The memory of Red’s mocking laughter and the glint of her knife spurred me on.

Finally, when my strength gave out, I collapsed beneath a towering oak, its gnarled roots forming a hollow where I could hide. The cold earth pressed against my belly, and I let myself sink into it, my breaths slowing, my body shaking with exhaustion.

The forest was quiet now. The only sound was the whisper of the wind through the trees and the faint trickle of a distant stream. I closed my eyes, listening, every muscle tense. But there were no footsteps, no laughter. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I was alone.

I don’t know how long I lay there, half-buried in the leaves, my blood staining the ground. Time became a blur, the world reduced to the dull throb of pain and the rhythmic beat of my heart. But I was still alive.

The scent of dawn began to creep into the forest, that faint, fresh smell of dew and new leaves. As the first light of morning filtered through the branches, I stirred, my wounds stiff but no longer bleeding. I had survived the night. Red would hunt me again, I knew. But for now, I had won a small victory — the chance to live another day.

I rose slowly, my limbs trembling, and set off deeper into the forest. My wounds would heal, my strength would return. And the next time she came for me, I would be ready.

They still call me the Big Bad Wolf, but they don’t know the truth. They don’t see that behind every monster lies a story — a story twisted and turned until the lines blur and villains wear the faces of heroes.

So let them tell their stories, let them cast me as the beast in their fairy tales. I’ll keep to the shadows, where the truth lies waiting, sharp as a wolf’s teeth.

And someday, when they least expect it, they’ll hear my howl on the wind. And they’ll remember that even a cornered wolf has its day.

But for now, I’ll rest. I’ll heal. Because this isn’t over.

Not by a long shot.