The Wolf
He looked out the window to the right, his vision partially obscured by the rain on the glass. He saw a knife shop and outside it were standing two apparent hunters, speaking enthusiastically about a recent hunt; "Hey, George!" One said. "Remember that hunt we went on last month?". "Hell yeah." The other responded, "Lennie nearly lost 'is feckin' leg man!"
A howl splits the night, filling the near silence with its haunting, hungry sound. Teeth as sharp as daggers tear into his ankle, driving him to the ground with a pained grunt. A knife flashes through the air, edge reflecting the light of the fallen torch in a strange way, leaving a shining after image for half a second. The wolf cries out in pain but is silenced near instantly, its blood flowing freely from its opened throat, mixing with the mudded earth and rain, diluting its beautiful red color.
He struggles to get the corpse of the once great wolf off of his now wounded leg, unable to stand and afraid of canine reinforcements appearing from the dancing shadows cast by the flickering light of his fallen torch. Never once did he notice the spreading fire from said fallen light source. He spots his blade, its once silvery, now red edge gleaming in the light of a fire that was not there before. He had dropped it in the mud, that same slime he was near submerged in now, adding the fear of drowning in the muck to the back of his head. What a way to go that would be, would it not? Body sinking into the bog, a great wolf following you down the whole way, your body never found. Mud, thick like wet cement pouring down your throat, blocking up your lungs with its foul taste, choking on something that dries as you try to remove it. Horrific in ways many would never think of.
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He reached for his blade, snagging it just before it sank forever into that which threatened to devour him too. With his trusty, beautifully engraved blade he began to saw at the wolf’s head and front legs, trying to lighten the great beast so that he could lift it from his bleeding leg.
He did it, his whole body drenched in blood and gore, he finally severed its head, the last part to go. As he shifted its lightened body off of him, blood poured out of its decapitated neck, covering him in yet another layer of horrid, foul smelling gore. The smell becomes too much for him and he succumbs to the creeping darkness. Sleep takes him as he sinks into that which has sought to devour him for so very long...
“Whee-o! whee-o!” The sound of distant sirens wakes him from his strange slumber with a start. He feels something warm covering his body and looks down to see himself covered in blood and bits of gore. “What?” He questions, suprised. “Was it not a dream…” Then he sees them, the hunters he saw just before. Pieces are scattered all over the floor, the walls, there’s even some on the roof of the shop. the shopkeeper is nailed to the wall with seven different swords and thirty seven knives of varying size. A kukri is stabbed through his bald head and his eyes were gouged out with switchblades, the knives still in their sockets. He sighs, looking at the blade in his hand. “A Japanese tanto, huh?” He whispers to himself wearily. “Perfect.” He presses the blade into his chest, then drags it down.