I could feel them come. They were a few, accompanied with metal, and they were coming right to me. I could hear them utter some threats they would not have the strenght to execute. I was huddled against the cold trunk of some tree, and my flesh was bitten by the bark. My head was nodding under a certain strenght I wouldn't understand: it made me feel dizzy, but the Voice didn't like me to talk, I could not imagine what she would do if I've screamed.
We had to listen, to shut.
It was in a certain way a method to express her discontent. My thoughts swayed to the rythm of my bending neck, and it made me feel nauseous. I clung to the tree as if it was my savior.
My savior: I softly laughted, stretching with calm my lips. I never had any savior, and without a doubt I would never have one. Whatever was in my head anyway just did what it wanted, and the ones that saved me from my mortal condition ended up being nobody's savior. That particular memory always brought the Beast to scold, ready to taking over. She whispered in my ears some silent words, which the Voice immediately approved.
The men emerged into the small meadow from which the coronarian wolf howl came from. A woman with fiery hair was fastened to a sturdy from a few century tree.
-You should not hang 'round here, milady.
The Italian was surely right. The woman didn't glance at him, neither she opened her mouth or her eyes.
- Is she dead?
Most likely, yes.
- Damned wolves! Yet they are not coming near town since a long time...
I turned my head slowly toward the man that was speaking. His six pals and himself wanted to split in order to seek for the wolf nearby. I stopped them right away by pulling my body away from the tree, by walking, with a strong and flying rythm, to the leader of the crowd, and by seizing him to the throat. I needed to hit, it was just like a vital necessity, like a song that runs in your brain all day long, like a craving for anything, well now I needed to kill him.
I did not even hear the muffled creaking that made his neck when I crushed it between my fingers: I was concentrated to immerse my gaze in his eyes that before mine died. His warm blood ran down my hands, my index finger, my thumb and my middle finger had penetrated his flesh. He was warm, almost cozy. He was losing his force: even if he had fought like a bull, the only beef attribute he had was now of being the steak. His other friends were petrified. Some of them ran towards the village, but a little hocus-pocus and the Voice undertook them. They were not very hard to influence. Indeed, fear had given them wings that the Voice only had to snatch with a lazy flick. The fall was inevitable.
I left the dead body drop onto the cold floor. He fell with a thud that occupied my billion thoughts for a moment: the noise of the collapse was as subtle as the tree falling when no one hears, but the damping of the green grass had attracted my gaze to the ground. Immediately, my own voice signaled to the Voice that she had made a mistake by exacerbating the desire of the Beast, and she would regret: I got slap. The trace of a hand appeared a few moments on my skin, dead anyway, because of the blood I had just swallowed.
The Voice made me move a few steps toward the next corpse. The Beast roared: I bit. I tore. I killed. Taking refuge in a corner of my head like you're camouflaged in the stands of a stadium filled to overflowing one game night, I watched helplessly the blood-colored killing that loomed before me. They had no chance, because the Beast would not give them one. Maybe she would amuse herself with the prey like a cat does with the wood mouse before proudly beheading it, but I began to hope as authentically as possible it kills without fuss. I felt my rage's flood flow as much as the flow of blood on the ground, but it wouldn't dry out. Not yet. Yet I felt it dwindle.
The last soul left the last body. They ultimately had lost their wings, they had hit the ground after the fall. I collected on them what their transition from life to death had cost them, a little bit of blood: then, a little lighter silver slid into my palm.
-Burn them, the wind will help you to scatter the ashes.
Why would I resist? I had no ounce of agressivity left anyhow, everything was gone.
Everything was gone that night, while I was watching seven corpses burning. Seven corpses: that was a sign for transformation, for accomplished cycle. I would fill up form the inside of gall and bitterness and violence. With my bare hand I broke the skulls, the hips, the phalanges and any carbon residue that wind couldn't blow away.
The wind often whispered to me to follow him. He whispered some words that nobody ever take the time to listen because they are from another language. This night, he helped me to spread the ashes anywhere, everywhere. With a little bit of luck, automn would offer me its clouds and its rain to absorb the stains. And winter...
I stopped. The murmur in my head was still buzzing, but that one never stooped. Stroking the gash on my arm, I remembered winter of the land that saw my birth, several mortal lifes ago.