It Was Just Another Protest

“I detest depictions of wolves as vicious, greedy creatures that are only out for themselves. Wolves are pack creatures, and a real wolf dedicates themselves to preserving the future of their pack. A real wolf dedicates themselves to their children.”

Allison stared, on the verge of tears, the memory of her father’s words echoing in her mind.

“No,” she whispered.

Her mother, eyes already red from crying, shook her head. “Allison, I’m so sorry, sweetie.” Lillian Thatcher’s entire body was tense, and Allison knew her mother was barely keeping it together.

“It can’t be him. He wouldn’t...” Allison slowly backed away from her mother.

“Allison, please,” Lillian whispered. “I was with him when...”

Allison’s lower lip trembled. “This wasn’t supposed to happen!” she cried. “It was just another protest!” A sob caught in her throat and she suddenly bolted.

Lillian leapt to her feet, starting after her. “Allison, please, wait!”

Her mother’s words didn’t even register. Allison’s feet carried her out the back door and into the forest behind her house. Her pace picked up, her feet navigating the ground without hesitation, without fear, her subconscious guiding her and ensuring she didn’t trip. And she ran.

How many protests had her father been to over the decades? Dedicating his life to giving his children a chance at human rights he had never been able to enjoy himself? Werewolves had struggled for every inch of what they’d gained, over the past century in particular, and Benjamin Thatcher had been at the forefront of it for every one of the eighty-five years of his life. And that part hit Allison hard. She should’ve had over a hundred, maybe two hundred, more years with her father. And now suddenly he was gone.

Allison stumbled to a stop, panting hard, sweat beading on her forehead, her hands curled into claws. And she let out a scream from deep inside her, shoving everything she had into it. She dropped to her knees and bawled, her chest heaving, and screamed again, loud, angry, and fierce, until her throat was raw. Her breaths choked in between sobs as her mind continued to strain away from the idea that her father was never coming home.

Suddenly she pulled her shirt over her head, throwing it aside. She stripped off her bra and unzipped her jeans, fumbling to get them off with shaky hands. Then her underwear was off, and she was running again.

The twigs and rocks dug into her feet, but Allison ignored the pain. Her body tensed, rippled, adjusted. At the adjustment, she allowed herself to slow, reluctantly, as her bones morphed and broke, her skin shifted, her vision blurred. And she dropped to her hands and knees, hair sprouting, skin disappearing, claws emerging. And Allison reopened her eyes to a beautiful, perfect world of brush and prey and scent.

And she ran.

***

The world was still the same when she returned hours later.

Allison put her clothes back on and reentered her home through the back door. Her mother had been sitting in front of the television and now lay, head on a couch pillow, having fallen asleep. Quietly, Allison turned off the news and laid a blanket over her mother before heading to her room and turned on her own television, flicking to CNN.

A photograph of her father hung next to the woman who was speaking and Allison suddenly shut her eyes against it, tears sliding down her cheeks. She wrapped her arms around herself, imagining it was her father doing so.

It was surreal. It had just been another day, another protest, and now he was gone. Allison opened her eyes and stared at the screen, the newscaster’s words blurring together, unimportant. It had been so long that her father had been doing this kind of activism that, even knowing how many people out there hated them for who they were, this hadn’t seemed like a realistic ending to his story.

That’s what it was, Allison realized. A story. Everyone had their own and suddenly this one was part of something bigger. It was history. It was something the next generation would read about in school, learn from their parents. To most, it would become some far-off event, a distant memory, known of only in photos and words on a page, and that seemed so wrong to Allison. This was real, this was of such immense importance, she couldn’t imagine her own father becoming a footnote in history.

But he would. Sitting here and soaking in the matter of fact, albeit sad, way the woman on the television spoke about her father’s death, she already felt it happening. She was still in mourning, knew she would be for ages, but her father would barely be in the ground before the news would fade in importance, replaced by something of equal value, or maybe something worse.

Allison clenched her fists against the thoughts running through her head. Her father wouldn’t want her to be hurting herself with this kind of mindset. The way the world treated his death was not relevant; he was her father and all that mattered was that he was gone. She took that and held it tight. And then she turned off the television.

Thinking back, she purposefully pulled forward memories of her father. The first time she’d gone running when she turned, with both him and her mother. The first time they went running with others from the pack. It was pure joy, freedom, exhilaration. The way her father taught her to hunt, to let the forest melt away around her and focus only on the animal in front of them, how to chase and take it down for their dinner. The way she roughhoused with him, leaping this way and that, without a doubt in the world of her safety, even with his lips drawn back in a snarl, from the bright playfulness in his eyes.

That mattered. And it mattered more than an entry in a history textbook. It was a crushing burden that she would have to absorb and then march forward under the weight of for the rest of her life. So, Allison curled up on her bed, her head on her pillow, and sobbed.