Chapter Text
In her whole life, no week had passed so slowly.
She knit to excess, creating a soft sweater for Jaspers, trying her hand at amigurumi cephalopods, and making one thick, perfect red-and-white scarf. She exhausted her collection of symphonies and etudes, and was working on her discography of Satie when she could no longer endure the same paragraph of The Murder of Merlin. She dwelled on the internet, though no-one was online to talk to; Jade and John, two of her dearest friends, were both vacationing, and naturally, Dave had no internet access from the woods, she supposed. The internet surely but slowly dwindled in excitement after several days, and she finally could not take being cooped up inside.
Rose picked up The Murder of Merlin and The Optimism Bias, tucked them under one arm, before gently retrieving Jaspers and tucking him under the other. Rose trot downstairs in summer attire, blowing her hair out of her face -- she was due for a haircut -- only pausing to greet her mother, whom was lounging on the touch with a martini, watching The Young and the Restless.
"Where are you headed off to?" She sang sweetly from the sofa, nudging off her heels, which clattered to the floor. "A secret meeting with Davey Jones~?"
"While I would dearly love to impress you with romantic escapades and wild erotic journeys, I am headed to read by the river. The indoors are starting to feel claustrophobic. Please do not renovate my room with wider windows."
"Ooopsie, caught me. Have fun, dear, be safe. Oh my gawd, Victor's marrying Sharon?"
Jaspers meowed, and Rose gladly left to the front door.
To say that Rose Lalonde lived comfortably was something of an understatement. She actually had no idea how many acres her mother owned, nor if she had bought up any of the woods. The water system running through their several-storied house, which resided in upstate New York outside of town, was unquestionably worth a small fortune. She had no fear of trespassing as she crossed her spansive lawn to the river because of it; she had no need to venture off to find a quiet place to read.
Rose tried not to acknowledge the woods, and how they beckoned. Curiousity bit at her heels, her toes, her ankles, urging her to walk the starting-to-overgrow path into the forest, wondering if it would lead her to a campsite. If anything, she could find a beautiful place to sit and...
The wind picked up, making the branches creak, the bushes rustle. But wolves. Right.
Rose wandered to the riverside with Jaspers in tow. She sat in a long-smushed patch of soft, olivine grass, smoothed out her skirt, and laid back with her book as Jaspers made himself comfortable on her tummy.
---
Mom was back on the couch with another soap on the next day when Rose got sick of everything again (or was it really that), and headed down to be back outside once more. Sometimes she wondered if her mother, already starting on a handle of vodka, even worked.
"Goin' outsiiide again? Good girl... You need sum... sun... hehehe, but so do I, I am sooo lazy though... soo pale..."
"I'll make sure to purchase you a heat lamp and a light box. More reading to do." Rose paused, moving to leave, but stopped herself. Her feet suddenly held a question, and took her body hostage, disallowing it permission to go until it was asked. So she asked.
"...Mother?"
"Mm-hmmm?"
"In the woods, are there wolves?"
The most peculiar expression came over Mom's face. Even in her coming intoxication, a strange sobriety hung in her familiar, beautiful eyes, the posture of her draping, thin shoulders, the expensive fold of her clothes.
She smiled, just a little. "Scared of the big baaad wolf? I promise, they're big babies and wouldn't harm a hair on your super pretty little head... gawd, you are pretty, Rosie... uhhhm, what was I talking about? Yeah, just don't go in toooo far. Full moon comin' up, after all! He...hehe..."
Rose, thankful that her mother was a coherent person that took her very seriously and answered her query with total honesty, exited the room without so much as a nod. She was restraining a bitter expression, trying hard not to let the mocking words of her mother break her facade. ...But it didn't help that she had decided to tease her by mentioning her "attractiveness"; while Rose was above such petty jabs, nevertheless, she would admit that it always hurt a little to hear your mother imply you weren't pretty.
It hurt a lot, actually.
Rose picked up Jasper on the way out the door, and gently pressed her face into his fur. Cats couldn't compliment. But they couldn't insult, either. Regardless, he purred contentedly on the way to the riverside.
It was a beautiful, late afternoon, with a swollen sun basking her perfect, huge lawn in warm light, the sweeping breeze moving the grass in waves as she walked through it. Robins were passing overhead, singing with pleasure and without care, and as Rose pressed her body into her patch by the river, Jaspers curling up on her belly again, she lost herself in her book, feeling slightly better.
---
It was a ghoulish warm, sticky night when Rose woke up.
The swollen moon, full and exhibiting its grandeur amidst the fat, dreary clouds of summer, was whitewashing Rose's lawn. Her skin looked even paler than usual in the light. A meandering breeze ruffled her hair, and far off in the unknown trees, some owl let out its cathedral song, chiming like old bells through the area. The river remained unchanged in the time setting; it still babbled musically, familiarly, though its waters were a clear black instead of fae opaque.
It was a lurid evening, and as Rose rubbed the sleep of her unintentional nap from her eyes, retrieving her novel from her side, she realized with great fear that something was missing.
Something like panic burst in her chest, but Rose was a calm person, and she took off towards her looming home with composure. She keyed in the code to the front door (her mother had that installed after years of forgetting to lock it), and urgently entered, turning on lights as she went. The dent in the couch and empty bottle of Grey Goose signified that her mother had at some point wandered off to bed.
Rose Lalonde clicked and tsked with her tongue against the roof of her mouth, calling searchingly between sounds, "Jasper? Jasper?" But there was no flat, sweet meow in reply. She started on the bottom floor, checking his usual places -- the dining room chair, his food bowls, his litter box -- he was not discovered. So she went upstairs. Every room was checked thoroughly, and she even retrieved fish from the fridge to try and summon him.
Rose looked everywhere. And her horror grew. Even with no-one to see her expression, she remained collected, placid on the outside, only a faint knit to her brow, a downward tick of her lips that betrayed her anxiety. In a home that was so vast and so empty, with only an alcoholic fool of a mother to keep her company, Jaspers was privately her dearest kitty, her sweetest friend. It would be difficult for her to ever say it out loud, but the powerful fear and melancholy in her chest that her precious cat was missing in the woods revealed the truth about her affection. Dave may have been a closer friend of hers now -- dare she admit -- someone she cared for in that sense of the word (unthinkable), but he was gone, and now Jaspers, too.
More than anything right now, Rose did not want Jaspers to be lost in those woods.
Her fears slowly became realized. The fish grew warm, every room was searched twice and thrice over, and the house remained silent. Jaspers was not inside. Of course he wasn't -- how would he have gotten back inside? The door was locked, and her mother was shit-faced again. Rose bitterly pocketed the fish and cursed the night, cursed herself, prayed to god and stars and her ability that somehow -- she pocketed the flashlight from the kitchen as well -- somehow, she'd find her kitty again.
Opening the front door and stepping into the night air, it seemed so much louder outside than inside, she noticed immediately. There was silence, but it was a jittery silence -- cicadas, crickets, the river, the trees, all harmonizing naturally as they had, timelessly. She instantly missed the safe, familiar humming of the electronics, air conditioning, inside her house.
The serenade lasted all the way to the treeline. It was there that her nerves won, for a moment, and she removed her flashlight, clicking it on to examine the darkness. Her breathing felt shallow, her palms and forehead damp, her clothes sticky.
"Jaspers?" She called hopefully, but there was no reply.
To be quite honest, Rose had really never ventured into these woods at all. She'd had no reason to. The outdoors were simply not her thing, and the woods had never beckoned her attention. She regretted not searching them earlier, now; the familiarity would have been of some comfort. Instead, she walked slowly, stiffly, heartrate a shooting star that made her being trembling. If only this were a video game -- if only she had weapons, companions, some sort of reachable objective...
No, no, no. There was none of that. Rose had but only a flashlight, and a desire to find her cat. There was little confidence, and no plan; only poor, wistful, little Rose Lalonde.
As she walked, deeper and deeper, calling and calling, she began wondering how deep was deep. How long had she been walking? Her mother had insinuated that there were no wolves to be afraid of, but--
Then she heard it.
Long, mournful, needing, the long note from a warm windpipe miles or inches away, it swallowed the air around her and shot currents through her skin and bone. It was a howl. Rose stood perfectly still, her normally well-oiled gears hesitating, unsure, rusting over like a bike in a junkyard. Jaspers. She needed to find Jaspers. But she couldn't find Jaspers if she was dead, now could she? And Dave, oh my god, Dave was somewhere in these woods, with only his brother, she didn't know if they had a gun or if they would be safe oh my god what if she never saw Dave again what if Jaspers was already dead anything could have hurt him, he was too sweet, he didn't bite or scratch or hurt, oh my god.
Rose quietly clamped a hand over her mouth, sunk to the dirt and pine needle ground, and shut her eyes.
The black from the inside of her eyelids was comforting. In these woods, it was this darkness she knew, and it had kept her company well, protected her from the world. The amount of time she sat there was immeasurable, but unimportant, because when Rose opened her eyes to the sound of movement in the brush, she screamed.
Crouching for so long, her ankles weren't ready for her springing movement and she toppled backwards into the moss and mulch, scrambling in the dirt to get up. She didn't care where she went, as long as it was away from the wolf the colour of old snow with eyes like blood-pulp. She blocked out and yet acutely measured the sounds of its powerful, measured footsteps bounding behind her, following her, stalking her through the woods, and with her heart screaming painful symphony in her chest, the creature won with no effort. In a second flat, immense paws hit her back like bricks, sending her crashing to the ground again, chin and cheek painfully scraping against a tree root as the claws sunk into her back. Massive horror filled her chest. This was it. She whimpered and felt the tears coming to her eyes, no longer willful to hold onto her porcelain facade; she wanted to go home and crawl into bed with her mom, more than anything, more than anything at all, and smell her hair and press her face into the bosom of her dress. But her mother was not here to wipe off her skirt and stroke her hair; she was passed out drunk in bed. And Rose would never see her again.
Rose focused on the dirt under her right cheek, though. Even in death, even drowning in agonizing fear, she would attempt to soothe herself; the wolf's weight on her back was too much, even though she struggled to heave it off of her, and she counted numbers in her head, thought of what homework would be due when classes started again, as the beast leaned down and began chewing into her hip, snarling muffledly. It was trying to tear through her skirt with all of its might, and after several insanely long seconds, ripped it open.
The wolf stepped off of her to lay on the ground beside her, and voraciously bit through a plastic bag, before gobbling up some warm salmon.
But Rose laid there, still as death, waiting, eyes wide, staring with terror at the sideways bushes and dark air and dirt. She dared not turn to see why the wolf had removed itself from her body, but after long seconds of hearing chewing that was not being done on her flesh, her chin dragged through the dirt, and she caught the eye of the creature that was now happily pulling apart bits of plastic. Rose began to sniffle as tears unwillingly came to her eyes, and she shook uncontrollably, realizing very slowly that she had stupidly brought the fish with her to find Jaspers.
What was she supposed to do now? Running was out of the question, right? Or had the predator captured its true prey, and wanted nothing to do with her? Should she lay there, and wait for it to leave?
Very, very, very slowly, gingerly, ignoring the throbbing punctures and dull lacerations in her back, Rose moved her thin arms underneath her to gently prop herself up. The wolf's eyes snapped to her, and she froze for a moment, but as it continued teething at the material and not moving toward her, she continued. It let her sit up.
With even more caution, with dim hope, Rose even then proceeded to move at a snail's pace, and rise up slowly and stand. The pair each observed each other unreadingly; Rose had no clue of the animal's thoughts and intentions, only noted that it seemed content to watch her as it ate, and she had no idea that wolves could be so massive. Speaking of its appearance, Rose could not deny that it was a creature of terrible beauty; its dirty cream coat was like thick clumps of feathers, and its limbs were incredibly graceful. Its eyes were so burning, so sanguine, it felt like looking into the dying sun. There was something almost familiar about it, though from what nightmare, she wasn't sure.
Standing, shaking silently, Rose decided to take one step back, and the wolf entirely lost interest in its toy and rose royally from the earth, standing nearly level with her collarbone. Its jowls parted to bare its horrifying teeth at her, lips curling back faintly, forcing her into submission. Rose went wide-eyed and responded with an involuntary yelp and covered her gaping mouth, sinking to her knees on the ground again.
But the wolf did not attack. She waited, trembled, searched the trees for any sign of help or hope or death or sleep, but there was nothing. No; instead, against all death-defying odds, the unexpected happened.
With aching slowness, the nearly-white canine took four steps toward her and from its throat came a low noise as it nudged her bare thigh with its cold nose. Rose instinctively sprang up, protectively stepping away, wrapping her arms around herself, wishing at the wolf that it was not just playing with its food. Simply, it nudged her again. And again, she retreated away from its looming jaws.
Patiently, the creature walked behind Rose, quiet and regal, herding her through the looming evergreens and pines and immortal oaks in this way, prodding her with its snout to make her walk. Rose realized after some time that it was directing her, though she could not fathom why, and only held her arms securely around herself. She managed to level her breathing, calm her heart to a point that was not inducing palpitations and hyperventilation, and attempted to shut down the panicked majority of her psyche in favour of logical thinking.
Wolves. She tried to throttle her mental database for information, anything at all. They were pack animals. Carnivores. They would herd, and then go for the throat of their prey. At this moment, Rose was obviously a weak, scrawy creature in comparison to the beast, and it was intelligent enough to know that it could snap her neck without a second thought. It had no reason to walk her back to its pack, right? It seemed to have only wanted the fish in her pocket, not her.
So why was it guiding her? And where?
Rose didn't have to question the animal's motives much longer, as she was suddenly standing in full moonlight, looking at the field that spread leisurely before her massive house.
It had walked her out of the woods.
Was it a fluke? Was the canine so intelligent that it had expected to follow Rose into her home to devour both her and her mother as well, knowing it needed her to unlock the door?
A cold nose pressed itself into the palm of her right hand and licked softly, leaving warm, sticky drool on her fingers, and the strangest sense of deja vu with it. She turned as the canine withdrew, only to watch it lithely slip away into the bush. The stillness that followed betrayed nothing; as if nothing had been there at all to begin with.
Rose Lalonde stood there, staring into the shadows, for a long, long time.