It’s easier for the rest of the world to think of us as legends and myth. Life as a werewolf isn’t simple; it’s dangerous and at times filled with heartache. The chaos of teenage life is touched with the ever-changing moon and the call of the night to run and lose one’s self among the shadows. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t love it.
I don’t think a human can fully understand the call of moonlight streaming through the window, or the way it can brush against the skin like never-ending acceptance. The moon pulls at us, beckoning and welcoming, promising nights lit with the gray-washed expanse forest and farmland, the scent of rabbits and deer tickling tantalizingly along trails that lead to midnight adventures. Every smell is a new experience, a new image for my brain to categorize and my paws to follow. Sounds are multiplied a hundred fold until the chirp of a cricket is a miniature symphony and the breeze catching in the leaves creates a blanket of soft rustling that embraces the night in the security of sheltering hands.
I take care of the others. Ever since my dad was killed, I have been a protector and peace keeper between the werewolves and hunters. The things I have seen haunt my dreams and sometimes it’s easier to give in to the moonlight and run with the thoughts of a wild thing far from the cares of my teenage world. Werewolves are being experimented upon, fought like dogs in underground arenas, hunted as though we’re wild animals instead of people with thoughts and feelings who love and fear, hate and hope as passionately as any human. My life is dedicated to protecting other werewolves from the horrors I have lived through. If I can save even one, it will be a life well worth living. And there is always the call of the moonlight.