It's hard being something your not, even more impossible is being something you hate. Especially when you have no choice, no options and no way out. It's hell.

I was raised with the knowledge that one day I'd change. Werewolf. Predator. Violence. It's a cage. One that every year has gotten smaller, tighter. Suffocating me with the awareness that once I become one of them things will be expected of me.

Then it happened and my life became darkness. Pack battles. Mates. Alphas. Dominance. Submission. Death. It's an endless cycle, one that owns your life after you change. Fighting and violence. Anger and rage. Death and mourning. Sometimes it's all I can do not to scream.

I never wanted this. I begged and pleaded silently for freedom from this duty, from a cursed I never deserved. I've lost so much to this world. Love, family, innocence. I want out. Now I wonder if it's even possible to free myself from it.

This story is rated M for graphic scenes and explicit content in later chapters. It begins generally rated T but has been rated M in FP for the purpose of the overall story.

"It's okay Annabear. I'll be back before you know it."

When I dream of him I always see the reflection of my pale grey eyes flecked with gold in his older face. I feel the fierce cut of the winds and the smell of hot blood clogging my nose. My dreams always have a special substances, something real life can't recreate. Lights, textures, smells streak like brush strokes in paint across my subconscious.

Sometimes they are thick as molasses.

Others faint and thin like watercolors.

My dad always said I was born to hear the colors of the world. It was silly and something I never fully understood. I just figured one day it would make sense. Maybe I'd wake up one morning, look down at the inks embedded into the cells of my fingers and it would dawn on me. I'd run to his and mom's room and he'd smile. He'd kiss me and call me what he always does.


"It's okay Annabear. I'll be back before you know it."

Colors. So many colors.

I was born to hear color.

The irony of the statement my father made is when he died my love of color died with him.


This is the prologue to a new story I'm going to be working on after the turning of the New Year. Just wanted to post this and see what you think. It's not a lot but let me know if the summary intrigues and your general thoughts. Look forward to hearing from you.