rock bottom
Spencer looked out over the small town nestled in the forest.
tw;; gore,
He wondered if he could ever have a life like that. It was improbable, after all. He didn’t have a pack like the wolves, he didn’t have a coven like the witches. He didn’t even band with his own kind; they were a holier-than-thou kind of group that he never really fit into. Spencer had no family, and little friends. The friends was his own doing, lest what had happened to him before should happen again.
Spencer was in a city, bustling and crowded. Perfect way to hide in plain sight, by pretending to be a human. It was like that for many others as well, and there was a thriving wolf pack living within the confines of the city. There he had lived for several years, creating connections and generally networking throughout.
One wolf had approached him, and asked Spencer if he wanted to come to dinner. It was a seemingly harmless invitation, so he went. It was strange, thinking back on it now, that no one else was supposed to come, which was odd. There was always a fey waiting to make a deal with some unsuspecting wolf at the dinner table.
So Spencer went, and as he looked up at the address, he was by himself. Suddenly, out of the blue, with no warning, three wolves sprung from the shadows and dragged him into the strange building he was waiting in front of. This was when he realized that he was in deep shit and should probably have known sooner he was going to be in deep shit. Then he would have brought some silver stuff.
The wolves dragged Spencer, and he knew that he was probably not going to make it out alive. No way. No chances. Nothing. He was not expecting the operating table set in the middle of the room, the heavy chains set in the stone floor.
“Huh. Thought this was an execution.”
His voice brought no response.
Well fuck. This was going to go great. Spencer didn’t try to fight. Didn’t try to escape. Didn’t do anything at all. He knew it was futile, knew it was just going to make him get hurt a lot worse that whatever they planned to do to him.
Spencer, on the table, on his back. His wings were squished up against his body and the cold metal, which was both painful and uncomfortable. He took off his disguise and then they grabbed his wings and pulled.
The soft blue feathers seemed so out of place compared to everything else in the room. Spencer didn’t want to watch as he saw the pliers. Oh god, he knew what was coming next. He just knew.
He screamed.
His blood started to leak out from where they pulled and broke feathers, a horrid light and the stench of blood wafting through the air. The pain was unbearable. Light was pouring out of Spencer’s body and for a second, it wasn’t him screaming.
Looking back on it, as he watched the wolf pack down below playing in a field, it was not getting his feathers plucked that was the lowest of the low. It wasn’t how he did what he could to break the chains that bound him to a steel table. It wasn’t even how he isolated himself afterwards. But those who died because of him, because of his own blood, that was rock bottom.
It was the guilt.
Nowadays, he hardly remembers the incident leading up to those wolves screaming in fear and pain at the sight of his blood, or the events after. Just that he caused death, not even in a fight. Spencer remembers a feeling of intense guilt. Would it not be right to take his life because he took someone else’s?
Maybe not.
