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Lycanthrophe


Author: Fahr    (all articles by this author)
Published on: July 10, 2000

The beginning, a proud lycantrophe stands on a mountain and cries out to the world a cry of happiness and joy. The cry is answered and my kind gathers and reproduces and forms a pack. In the line of blood that came from the lycantrophes that started the pack, I was born. I am Fahr, a lycantrophe and a Watcher, but here I write about the lycantrophe I am. My grandfather was one of the full lycantrophes, so were my sister and I. My mother was a sleeping lycantrophe who never knew of a being other than human and my father was human. I found out what I was when I turned six and felt the irresistible force of the full moon. I hid my feelings, afraid I would be considered different. When my sister turned six and experienced the same, she wished not to talk about it, she denied what she was. When my grandfather came, I suddenly felt calm and when I was seven I found the courage to discuss it with him. He seemed delighted; a new-born lycantrophe of his blood, a miracle, and he explained to me what I was and why. From that moment on I paid attention and I saw I was not alone. A lot of people around me were just like me and I felt free and I did what I wanted with my newly discovered side. I was happy, as were all other lycantrophes. At the time I was nine, there was an argument between one of the leaders of our pack and someone who knew what we were and blamed us for the death of a child. The child had been attacked by wild hounds, all evidence was there, but no one seemed to see it. From that moment on, people paid attention, and in no time they could pick out any lycantrophe in a row of a thousand people. The humans learned, learned to see the differences that were there and they started to treat us different. At that time, the mayor of our town was a Christian and head of an organization of a church that called us Satan's children, demons of the night and what's not. They started to hate us and spread their hatred among the other people. Then at the time I had just turned ten, five lycantrophes were killed, just like that, killed and dumped into a ditch. My grandfather was one of them. What reached the national news was nothing more then the shocking message that two bodies were found brutally slaughtered and there was no trace of the killer. The other three bodies never came out of our town, the police force and the mayor prevented it. At that time all lycantrophes in the police forces and high positions were fired and also that never left our town. The dead bodies never were buried within our town, they were taken away and were left to rot somewhere in a forgotten place. When I howled and cried for the death of my grandfather, my sister came to me. Not to tell me she felt bad, but to laugh in my face and tell me she had been wise to deny what she was. The hatred had got her too, my own sister. My father then was a strict Christian himself and he had divorced my mother long ago, but now he wanted nothing more to do with us. The people saw how easy it was to kill and get away with it and more lycantrophes were killed. Of the thousand that once formed our pack, about twenty were killed, the rest, afraid of what might happen, flew to Scotland. But I refuse to leave my birthplace. I am left here, with about ten others, alone and isolated. Though the system has changed and a new mayor has taken place, the hatred remains. And I silently ask myself, are we still in the Middle Ages? Has the fear of witches and creatures other than human not died out? Didn't the humans change at all? Would they still burn us if they had the chance to? Why is something else always considered an outcast? Why? What did we do to the humans to make them hate us so? I can live here, but I am often threatened. Still I refuse to leave, refuse to give in, I will not let them win, I will not let my sister get her right. I will stay!

And now I find myself, standing on my mountain, crying out to the world a cry of hopelessness and despair. No answer comes and my kind scatters... and dies...

Originally published in Project X Newsletter #41

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