I want to live

It started with the sound—a shattering of glass, sharp and piercing, followed by the crack of a bullet cutting through the night. Then came the explosion, a dull, thunderous roar that shook the ground beneath him. In the silence that followed, the steady rhythm of marching boots echoed in his mind, the distant beat of a drum growing louder, relentless. Jamie could almost feel the vibration of each step in his chest, each thud pulling him back to memories buried deep.

The wind howled around him, but all he could hear was the drumbeat, its tempo matching the pounding of his heart as he ran through the blizzard.

Jamie ran like a rabid dog, his breath misting in the freezing air, each step pounding through the deepening snow. The night brought with it a biting arctic cold, and the snowstorm wrapped around him like a suffocating shroud. His fur bristled beneath the weight of the blizzard as he tore through it, swift as a bullet, the winds howling louder than a pack of wolves. Trees and buildings alike trembled under the force of the gale, their creaking timbers lost in the fury of the storm.

Suddenly, the wind died, leaving an eerie stillness. Jamie slowed, then stopped, the world around him settling into a rare, fragile calm. Snowflakes, soft and glistening, feel like stardust from the dark sky, glittering in the faint moonlight. In the distance, a ruined wall emerged from the swirling haze, it was a strange obsidian looking wall going on for miles.

As Jamie approached, he noticed something reflected on the surface of the wall—a small figure, barely visible through the frost-covered glass. He stopped in his tracks, his heart suddenly heavy. It was his own reflection, but not as he was now. It was him as a child, dressed in a white and red marching suit, a massive backpack strapped to his tiny frame. The suit was decorated with Native American symbols, bright flowers embroidered along the sleeves and chest. A fake rifle, light but awkward in his small hands, was slung over his shoulder.

Jamie stood there, frozen in time, staring at the child he had once been, marching in that old costume, so proud and unaware of the man he would become. The memory flickered in front of him like an old photograph, vivid and haunting in the cold night air.

Jamie stood frozen, his gaze locked on the massive obsidian wall beside him. His reflection revealed a younger version of himself, marching steadily alongside him. There were no mirrors, just the endless, dark surface of the wall, but in its glossy depths, his past self marched up a mountain, perfectly in sync with Jamie's present steps as he walked along the snowy path. Two points in time—one real, one reflected—moving side by side.

The echoes of distant voices reached his ears, faint but sharp.

"Half-blood, bastard, tainted snow. Never loved, never wanted. You don't even have a mother, Jamie. All you have is a drunk for an uncle."

The younger Jamie, in the reflection, ignored the insults, marching forward with the same unwavering resolve. Rocks flew from unseen figures, striking him in the head, cutting his skin, but still, he kept going. His eyes were fixed on the climb ahead, as if nothing in the world could break his focus.

Jamie clenched his fists, watching the boy—the one who had endured so much and still kept moving. He remembered every insult, every sting of those rocks, the weight of the backpack, the mock rifle slung over his shoulder, the Native American symbols and flowers stitched into the fabric of his red and white suit. The memory hit him like a wave.

As he walked down the icy path beside the wall, Jamie's reflection followed, his younger self marching up the mountain in the glass. They moved in perfect synchrony, two versions of himself—one in the past, one in the present—united by the endless stretch of obsidian.

A sharp whistle pierced the air, followed by the barking command of his uncle. "Get in line, maggots!"

In the reflection, Jamie's younger self fell into line with the others, the march continuing with grim determination. The beat of a drum started, slow and steady, matching the rhythm of Jamie's steps. The sound resonated in his chest, a weight that hadn't left him since those days.

With each step, Jamie walked alongside the boy in the glass. Though their paths were different—the younger Jamie scaling a mountain, the older one walking down a snowy trail—their strides mirrored each other perfectly. Both marched forward, their burdens heavy but carried with the same quiet resolve.

Koda stood in front of the boys, preparing the speech he had given to thousands before.

"You are creatures, bastards of Mother. You are the most unholy things on this Earth, the vilest of monsters. The worst that mankind could ever imagine. Out of the thousands of horrors Mother has created, you are the worst—the most feared, the most hated.

You are werewolves, creatures of the night, harbingers of death. Countless men have fallen to you. The blood you've spilled could fill oceans. You are monsters, incapable of love and capable only of fear. You are everything but men. The only things you know are death, war, and the hunt.

But when I am done with you, the only thing you will be known for is death, war, and the State of Cheyenne. Your bastard fathers lost the war they started, and you and your children will now forever atone by being the weapon the state uses. What little humanity you think you had dies tonight."

The reflection of Jamie's youngest self, shrouded in a dark fog, began to shift. Stepping out of the fog, the vision changed. Now, a slightly older version of Jamie appeared, one from his late teens. Around him, the faces of comrades he had once known flickered into view—friends and soldiers who had marched beside him. These were their final moments, the last time they were alive. But they were still marching.

One of them was shot in the head. Another was blown apart. Flames consumed another, while the rest died or vanished one by one, their faces twisting in pain or fear. Jamie watched as they disappeared before his eyes, just as he remembered it. Slowly, they trickled down, leaving only him, walking alone.

His youngest self, still walking, stepped out of the valley they had been marching through and into a small, unassuming bar—the kind you'd find in any small town. Inside, lying face down on a table, was Koda.

Jamie's younger self shook with anger and grief as he approached. "You're a soldier of Cheyenne," he yelled at Koda. "You do not have the right to die in this bar. Get up! Get up, dammit!"

There was a long, agonizing build-up as Jamie's younger self checked Koda's pulse. Nothing. The boy's face crumbled, and he cried, raw and unfiltered, over Koda's lifeless body. But there was no answer, no sign of life.

Without another word, Jamie's younger self left the bar, walking into another valley where he was utterly alone. He kept marching, step after step, his face a mask of hollow determination.

The present Jamie, observing this reflection, finally stopped walking. His younger self mirrored him. Jamie reached out and pressed his hand against the obsidian wall in front of him, the glass reflecting his past.

On the other side, his younger self did the same, touching the glass as if trying to reach through. Around the boy, the once beautiful fields began to darken. The sunlight faded, swallowed by an encroaching darkness, until there was nothing left but the boy and the void. Everything else had disappeared.

Jamie's younger self was consumed by the darkness. From that void, two red, glowing eyes emerged, piercing through the blackness. He recognized the presence immediately—the voice that rarely spoke, but was unmistakable when it did. It was his werewolf voice, the primal beast within. Even now, in his werewolf form, he typically heard his human voice, the voice of his conscience. But not this time. 

The red eyes took shape, becoming a more monstrous version of his own werewolf form. Jamie could only make out its outline—teeth bared, eyes glowing, like someone had sketched it in blood-red ink. His inner demon spoke, its voice dripping with malice.

"Here you are again, old friend," it taunted.

Jamie didn't respond, but he listened, the tension between them palpable.

"You've finally tasted freedom, unchained from responsibility. You could live life the way you want, do whatever you please." The creature slammed its fist against the obsidian wall, making it shudder slightly. "Why can't you just let me in? Life is short, even for a werewolf. Ethics, morals—they're beneath you. They only bring misery."

Jamie looked up, meeting the creature's gaze. The red eyes blazed as it sneered, pressing its face against the obsidian surface.

"Come on now... she deserved what happened to her. And like the good little boy you are, you'll do worse to Shiloh. Hell, I'll kill everyone. You'll never feel like a bastard again. No more tainted snow, no more unwanted, unloved, half-blood."

The creature moved closer, pressing its twisted form against the glass, almost breaking through. "You're not a man. You never were. You never will be. You'll always be the monster people see in you."

A thick, suffocating silence filled the air. Most would have crumbled under its weight. But Jamie didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a laugh—one of pure amusement, not insanity.

"I can feel you, and you're still the same," Jamie said, his voice calm. "No ambition, no love, no reason. Just an impulse. Sure, you could give me what I want, but I'd be nothing more than an animal. I like being a man. I have something to prove. With you, I'd have nothing."

The creature howled in frustration, slamming its claws against the wall, scratching at it with no effect. It thrashed, desperate to break free.

"I want to be free. I want to be loved. I want a life that's mine, not dictated by you or anyone else," Jamie said, his voice steady, filled with resolve.

The creature snarled, enraged. "You can't be serious! You are a monster, and nothing more!"

Jamie shook his head. "You're wrong."

The demon, desperate now, screeched, "Then tell me what it is!?"

Jamie shifted back into his human form, staring the beast down as he answered. " Because  I'm far more human than you thought."

Jamie opened his eyes, and the obsidian wall was gone. In its place, the familiar dark forest stretched out around him, its towering trees shrouded in deep shadow. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, and the quiet hum of the night filled his ears. 

Moonlight spilled through the branches, casting pale silver streaks on the forest floor. He stood at the edge of the treeline, where the dense woods gave way to an open expanse. The clearing lay before him, bathed in the soft glow of the moon, distant but inviting.

Perched on a nearby branch, an eagle-hawk watched him, its sharp eyes glinting in the light. It let out a low, piercing cry, as if calling his attention, before spreading its wings and taking flight. Its powerful wings sliced through the cool night air, disappearing into the moonlit clearing.

Jamie exhaled, his breath a soft mist in the crisp air, and began walking. His footsteps were quiet, deliberate, as he followed the bird's path, his eyes tracing the outline of the distant mountain. The peak loomed in the distance, majestic and silent, a sentinel over the wild lands he had once called home. 

He walked steadily, feeling the weight of the forest behind him, the moon guiding his way forward. Each step felt lighter, as though the night itself was carrying him closer to something he had long sought but had never truly found.

The mountain rose before him, vast and ancient, its slopes bathed in moonlight.

The mountain rose majestically in the distance, its towering peaks cutting through the night sky like jagged teeth. The moonlight bathed its rugged face in silver, casting deep shadows that hinted at untold mysteries within its slopes. Dark patches of forest clung to its lower reaches, while higher up, the barren rock stood stark and unyielding, untamed by time or man. 

Rivers of snow capped the summit, glowing softly under the stars, while wisps of mist coiled like ghostly fingers along the ridges, swirling in the mountain's breath. Each ridge and fold in the rock seemed to pulse with life, ancient and eternal, yet tranquil in its stillness. 

Jamie could see where the craggy cliffs gave way to softer, undulating paths that wound upward, leading to heights unseen. The mountain felt alive, as if it were calling to him, a beacon of beauty.

Jamie stood still for a moment, his eyes locked on the mountain before him. Its beauty struck him, raw and untamed, bathed in the moonlight's glow. Every ridge, every shadowed crevice seemed alive, breathing with a quiet intensity that called to him.

He felt it then—an impulse, a surge of something deep inside, an unfamiliar yearning. The weight he carried for so long, the burdens, the battles, the voices—they all seemed to fade. All that remained was the mountain, the night, and the unshakable desire rising within him.

Jamie's steps quickened, his heart pounding with a need he hadn't known in years. The forest, the darkness, the past—they no longer pulled at him like they once did. Each step toward the mountain felt like a step toward something new, something his soul had always reached for but never grasped.

His chest swelled as he whispered to the night, "I want to live."

The words echoed in the still air, hanging there, undeniable, true. He breathed in deeply, savoring the cold bite of the night, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, Jamie felt free.

"I want to live," he said again