( context: in the right circles, the wolf family is more than a name. they are a sword to be wielded, a promise to wreak vengeance upon your enemies.

allison, mother — a lawyer.

garett, father — an enigma.

cayden, father figure — a priest. )

think back on your childhood and maybe you’d think you’ve ventured into eden, with pastured fields and vernal plains stretching verdant for as far as the eye can see. it goes on, and on, and on. it’s a good place, this little house at the end of the lane, where the fence line bisects the present and eternity. and it’ll stay a good place for a while; it’ll stay a good place until it isn’t, until the house is set ablaze and the garden aflame looks like sunflowers, and you’re standing in front of your house at sunset with your backpack in your hands as it burns before your eyes.

the fire sets the house ablaze, but sometimes you think it took more. your parents are distant, now, ever preoccupied with some work or other, never stopping for a moment’s rest. they are boats unmoored, and you, alone, stand on the shore.

not that the shore is a constant either. you live a life uprooted, ever flitting between one place and the next, an existence liminal. rental apartments, the occasional hotel.

you know that your mother is a vicious woman — but not unkind, never to you. there’s the way she tears through the room in a rehearsal for a case, eyes ablaze, her words gun-rattle, the wine glass in her hand threatening, at any instant, to be reduced to shards. there is only the briefest of pauses, a moment of reprieve as she listens to your father offer a counterpoint with laughter lightening his tone, a mimicry of an opponent, before she is off again, only preceded by the drawing of breath like a snake rearing back for a strike.

in this life between lives, there is no room for softness, so that is how you know her: all bite and sharp teeth, every word merciless judgement, every inch a wolf as the rest of you.

but if you know little of your mother, then you know even less of your father. but if he was an enigma then, before the fire, and he is an enigma still. he cleans your bloodied knuckles, and wraps your angry hands in his own, and all he does is smile his cryptic smile and says, be careful.

you are careful, you think, as careful as you can get. you’re rocketing through school with sky-high grades, settling for nothing short of excellence. you’re meticulous with every assignment, diligent in your revision. you’ve got opportunities aplenty ahead of you, and there’s a sob story waiting to be played out if you so choose — you know you can paint it to perfection, the story of a broken little boy struck by tragedy, fuelled by an unmovable sense of justice, wanting to follow in his mother’s footsteps and make the world better.

but that’s not what you want, though. you can’t do that — you can’t lead that manicured, perfect life. you can’t live the rest of your life in an operating theatre, with its sterile colourless walls. you can’t live the rest of your life behind a desk in an office with a city-view, clock off at five and go back to a hypothetical wife and kids.

you can’t — there’s some part of you that is used to knuckles bruised to the colour of wine, with blood on your lips, with laughter high in your throat. there’s some part of you that wants the wild to run infinite in your veins, to trade your teeth for fangs, and launch yourself off the edge of the building with every inch of your body convinced that you can fly.

( you know it’s possible, too. not the flying, no, but the wild. you know about the gun your father keeps in the nightstand. you’ve seen the blood on the back of the car seat. you’ve checked the bank accounts. you’ve overheard the conversations, you’ve pored over the books. you see them toe the lines; you see them work between the shadow of the systems; to exact the vengeance that falls between the gaps; you know the wolf within the walls, and he sees you too. )

here’s the danger of that, though, if you’re always flying high on the thrill; one day, you’ll look down and realise how far you’ve flown, and remember that you’ve never learnt to land gracefully. so it takes a hit or two, a barstool broken over your back, a glass bottle shattered into your palm, before you’re lying on the ground with the taste of dirt at the back of your throat and you’re realising — you might not get home tonight.

and you’re right. you don’t get home. but you wake up nonetheless, nestled in a soft blanket with the blood cleaned out of your wounds and your hands freshly bandaged. there’s a priest looking down at you with a gentle smile, and you think you might have seen him before. he offers you a glass of water, and leaves to call your parents. you don’t quite think too much on how he knows them until after the fact, when you’re sprawled out across the backseat of the car.

you ask your father, curious, and he doesn’t respond for a while. but, eventually, he does say, “it helps to have someone to talk to, you know.” there’s that cryptic smile again, echoed faintly by your mother. it’s the lightest you’ve seen them in a while, like a weight lifted momentarily off their shoulders. their edges are soft in the soft gold hues of a sunrise, as they sit in the parking lot of the church, listening to the faint strains of the pipe organ through an open window.

it is in that same space that they will speak to you, some many months later; a confession that spills forth, laying their sins at your feet. they will speak of legacy and of history, of a wolf with its head held high. they will apologise for things beyond their control and you don’t think you’ve ever seen your father cry. and the three of you will sit in the car, a triumvirate of unholy things holding their breath, until you break it first, and with your head bowed, forgive them.

( allison has let monsters walk free, and garrett has sent countless others to an early grave. their hands are red, but — what else could they have done? for them, there is always room in your heart for forgiveness. you can only hope that, when the time comes, whatever lies above may hold the same mercy in their hand. )

if you think of it like this, regarding the closure of wounds: you have stopped bleeding, you think. there is scar tissue forming, slow and soft. your parents are lighter now; allison stops holding a knife between her teeth; garrett smiles more, truly; cayden is as he has always been, unmoving and steady, a rock in a tumultuous sea. but here’s the thing, see, the wounds will heal, but the problems don’t solve themselves.

there’s a revolution calling — divinity has made a home in your veins and it tells you to rip; to tear; to burn. there is a revolution calling — petty apologies and threats of violence will save none. there is a revolution calling — and so, with mercy in one hand and judgement in another, you answer.