The Wolf’s Tale

A re-telling

They call me wolf because they cannot bear to call me man. I live at the edge of the trees, where the smoke of their hearths does not reach, and the sound of their laughter fades into leaves. It is easier for them if I am beast, shadow, whisper; easier than admitting that one of their own carries a hunger that does not fade with age.

I do not hunt their sheep, and I do not prowl their doors, but I see her, her red cloak flashing between the trees, as if she carries a piece of the sun upon her shoulders. Within me the old fire stirs. No malice. No wickedness. Only the ache of blood that remembers what it means to live, to take, and to taste.

She walks with trust, and my body trembles. They will say I plotted, that I waited with cunning teeth. The truth is simpler: desire is a tide, and tides do not ask permission. Her youth, her laughter, her scent in the green air; they undo me. So out I step from the shadows.

In that moment, there is no village, no shame, no exile; only the meeting of hunger and offering. I consume her, yes - body, breath, and the brightness of her eyes. But it is not only she who is devoured. The act devours me as well - all the years of restraint, of silence, of being nothing but the monster at the edge of their talk. In one fierce moment, I become what they always believed me to be.

And when the tale is told, they will speak only of the girl, and the beast who swallowed her.
They will forget that the beast was once a man, who longed not just to eat, but to belong.