[Original - General Fiction] Wilde

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction' started by Shannon, Apr 13, 2013.

  1. Shannon

    Shannon Honorary Garbage Can

    I don't know if anyone else saw it, but Today on NBC had a story not that long ago about a woman claiming she could communicate with monkeys after they had spent several years raising her. I've always been legitimately interested in stories involving feral children, so I thought I'd write something inspired by that. I'm also very sorry if I depress anyone. Most things I write tend to have pretty sad endings.

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    He was raised by wolves.

    From birth, the only thing that he remembered were their warm, furry bodies surrounding his own hairless form. They raised him as they would their own cubs and, in time, he became a valued member of the pack.
    The pack was his life. The pack was his family.
    Mother and Father wolf taught him about the Others, the hairless, two-legged beings with the sticks-that-go-boom and the sharp-sticks-that-stab.
    “They hunt us as we hunt our prey,” Mother once told him. “They yearn for our warm pelts to cover their own bodies because they have no fur.
    “Always stay away from the others,” Mother warned him and his brothers and sisters. “They may take my warm fur, but I will not let them take yours, my sweet children.”

    He grew with the pack. When the cubs were finally old enough to hunt their first meal for themselves, he loped along with them on all fours. He was just as ready as they were to take down his first deer.
    Flanked by his brothers and sisters, he cornered a large buck with a grand rack. But the buck fought back.
    Swinging his rack around, the buck caught Brother wolf in the chest and flung him against a tree. Blood seeped from a gouge in Brother’s chest, and he did not move. It did not look like Brother was breathing.
    But he did not have time to mourn Brother. No, this was a magnificent catch for a first hunt. All he wanted was for Mother and Father to be proud.
    Snarling, he circled around behind the buck. The large male dear was distracted by the feints of Sister wolf and Runt. The two animals jumped and snapped at the buck, but did not make contact.
    And then he struck.
    He leapt at the deer with such force that, when he struck, the buck toppled over and began to low in pain. But he did not care. He raised his head, arched his back, and struck. He sunk his teeth into the meaty neck of the deer and took the first bite of its delicious meat. It was his kill. Mother and Father would be proud.

    And they were. The wolf family celebrated his victory by demolishing the deer together. And then Mother and Father made the announcement.
    “We are glad to see that our little Cub has grown so much,” said Father. “He is the strongest and the fiercest of you all, and we are very proud of him.”
    “But there comes a time when we have taught all we can teach,” continued Mother. “You all assisted in bringing down Brother Buck, but Cub was the one to strike the killing blow.” She turned to him and licked his face wither her long, rough tongue.
    “Cub,” she said to him, “you are ready. Leave home. Find a mate. Form your own pack. One day, my Cub, you may rule the forest.”
    Mother, Father, Sister and Runt each touched noses with him, as was the practice of sending a grown cub on his or her way. As they retreated into the warmth of their den, he prowled off. But, when he was sure they weren’t looking, he turned his head back to gaze longingly at his family and mewl one last silent goodbye.

    Three days later, they found him.

    He had stalked the forest for three days. There were no other wolves to be found here, but he needed a mate. So he had decided that it was time to move on.
    But as he prepared to leave what had been his lifelong home, he heard a noise echoing through the woods.
    That sound, he thought. That is the sound Mother warned me about. And then, Run! I must run!
    And so he did. But instead of running away, he ran towards the sound of gunshots, ever curious as to what the Others and their sticks-that-go-boom looked like.

    He came upon a clearing. Two Others with long hair on their faces and on their heads stood in its center peering over a dead deer. In their hands, they each held long, silver rods. Those, he thought, must be the sticks-that-go-boom.
    But the sticks-that-go-boom were not the thing about the Others that unnerved him. When he looked down at his own paws and then up to the Others’ that clutched their sticks-that-go-boom he noticed that they were the same. And, in that moment, he questioned himself.
    Who am I? he wondered. What am I? And he knew that the only answer he would ever find lay with the Others.
    Naked, he loped out of the trees and towards the hairless creatures. He barked at them, and they turned to see him.
    “What do we have here?” he heard one say, but he did not understand what it meant.
    “I do believe it is a boy,” said the other. “A naked boy. And what, young one, are you doing here in the woods bare as the day you were born?”
    He cocked his head, his lips parted slightly. Then he let out a whimper.
    “Well boy,” said the Other. “What is your name?”
    He barked his name – Cub – in response. But the Others did not understand.
    “He must be a feral child, like you hear about on the television,” said one.
    “He’s wild,” said the other.
    “Wild,” he repeated, the words sounding strangled coming from his throat, more like a gurgle than proper words “I, wild.”
    “Your name?” said the Other. “You say you are Wilde?”
    “I, wild,” he repeated, the strange sounds becoming more and more familiar.
    “Well, Wilde. We’ll find you a proper family and get you cleaned up. You’ll become a right proper gentleman in no time, you will.”
     
  2. Shannon

    Shannon Honorary Garbage Can

    In time, Cub became Wilde. And he learned the ways of Man.

    At first, their customs were strange. They did not eat their meat raw, as he was used to, but instead simmered it over hot coals until the center was no longer red and bloody, but pink. They also did not rip and tear at it with their teeth. Man used utensils – forks and spoons and knives. And Man did not get messy when he ate. He remained clean as the day he was born.
    Civil. That was the word that Man had used when they first took Cub into their clutches. But he was no longer Cub. He was now Wilde, and Wilde was an upper-class gentleman.
    More and more each day he forgot his wolf pack and Mother and Father and Sister and Brother and Runt. More and more each day he succumbed to the ways of Man and their silly fads and clothes. Who needed clothes to cover up what one was naturally given? Why wear them at all? They were itchy and uncomfortable and stuffy, but Man was embarrassed by its natural skin. Some parts of the body, Man had taught Wilde, were not to be viewed in public by others. It was “inappropriate,” they said. Not worthy of a gentleman of his stature. Maybe for the scum that lived in the streets below, the beggars wallowing in their own filth. The homeless not sure if they would be able to purchase their next meal.
    And, in time, Wilde became one of them.
    He married a beautiful woman. He settled down in a beautiful house. He had many beautiful children with her. But he could feel that something was missing in his life.
    The children had awakened something in him, he realized. That animal part that he had buried beneath the suit and tie was still there. It was just smothered by everything Man expected him to be.

    One day, Wilde’s wife came home to find him sitting, naked, on the living room floor. He was pawing at the carpet, and the house was a mess. Broken glass and porcelain was scattered everywhere. There was a dark stain on the couch – she did not want to know what that was. And Wilde? He was acting like an animal.
    He swaggered up to her on all fours, his bottom up in the air. It waggled back and forth as he loped toward her, tongue out and eyes happy.
    She screamed, of course, and called the local mental institution. In a matter of minutes, a white van containing white-clad workers bearing cots and straight jackets arrived at the door.

    Wilde found himself in the cold embrace of madness. Or what Man calls madness, anyway. It’s bitter, white arms wrapped themselves around him, told him he was theirs. He did not want to go. He was comfortable here.
    He was carted into the white van with the white walls and the white-clad workers all bustling around him. They hooked him up to an IV that was dripping a steady stream of poison. The blackness in the bag filled his veins and clouded his mind.
    He dreamed of his life as a child. Dreamed of Mother and Father and Sister and Brother and Runt. Dreamed of the wonderful life he had had with them, and how rudely he had been ripped away from who he truly was.
    I may have been born a man, he thought, but in here, in my heart, I am a wolf. I will always be a wolf. It is in my blood.
    And, as Wilde drifted off to sleep wrapped in a white jacket and stuffed in the back of a white van with white-clad workers all bustling around him, those were the last thoughts he would ever think.
     
  3. william smith

    william smith New Member

    wow amazing post
     

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