I am not a wolf. I don't care what you think you see.

The wolf sprints through the trees, crunching the snow under his paws. Breath comes in wisps. Frenetic, senseless barking comes from behind. Fearful, hateful cries. Crags stand indifferently before the wolf, and he realizes the cliffs have caged him. He pauses, panting shallowly.

I don't care what you know. I'm certain you've never thought about werewolves, not properly. Have you ever thought about what it must be like to know the world through two sets of eyes, to feel loss – always – because you can smell properly or you can see properly but not both at once?

The wolf leaps from hardened earth to frozen rock, scrabbling for a claw-hold on the cliff-face. The surface is icy, harsh. It repulses him. He reaches the top, and looks up into the palely reflective eyes of another wolf. It snarls quietly, and drives a paw into his neck, swift and silent.

Ever thought about how they must be hunted by wolves and humans alike?

The wolf falls, landing on his back with a dull smack and a high yelp. He turns, limping and shivering, to face the hunting dogs encircling him.

I don't care what you think. A werewolf is a tragic creature who cannot live with man or wolf, who cannot control itself, who cannot feed without being called a monster, even a 'pest' by civilization.

A man cries something, full of anger and sorrow. Another brandishes a glinting cross – the wolf can tell from his eyes what it's made of.

Have you ever thought about what might happen to a wolf bitten by a wolf-man?

The wolf whines, and rears up, his legs contorting and his muzzle twisting as he mutates.

The same result as that which a man would suffer. I am a wolf, forced once a month at full moon, to lose his pelt and stand tall. I'm different even to werewolves, and I have no pack.

A naked body lies on the frosted heath. Human. Shaking.

It is worse for me. How could I learn your tongue? I couldn't even begin to live amongst humans and the wolves can always smell our difference.

Loud yells. Curses. The wolves on the cliff-top howl a requiem for their tainted brother.

I was starving. I didn't want to die. One small meal is not much – I had no way of asking, only finely honed means of taking. How could I hunt? The wolf pack drove me away. I have better chances with human cattle. It was small, weak, sick. What else was I to do?

The men brandish their weapons. Many hold silver. But man is cruel, and they set alight the tall, dry grass. The man-wolf cowers against the rocks.

I don't care what you think because you've never thought at all.