Talon's dream

I remember my mother. In her arms, as she rescued me from the cold, wicked damp of the forest floor.

I was not like her. I was not like anyone else. Outsider. Mongrel. Freak.

But not to her. She loved me. Protected me. Helped me in what ways she could to learn about myself, about others like me. I wanted so much to leave our farm; to leave the village; to leave the suffocatingly familiar countryside that I knew so well. To leave behind the Others that seemed to hate me, to distrust me, for what I was, and what I was not. But I could not leave. I could not leave her.

She was strong. She taught me to care for the farm, for the animals, for the crops, for myself. But as I grew older I saw that she wept often. Alone, at night, when she thought I was asleep. She did not know that I knew. I never asked her why she wept. I never asked her. I should have asked her. I should have tried harder--worked harder. Would it have made a difference? Would it have changed anything?

I remember the Others. They were cruel. They would jeer, taunt, fight. Sometimes I would fight back. She did not want me to. She did not like it when I fought. She did not want me to get hurt. She did not want me to hurt anyone else.

I did not want to disappoint her. I never meant to disappoint her.

But on That Day. On That Day they were cruel. My mother and I were at the market, selling what little surplus we had from our fields. The girl was new to the market, selling wares that looked to be handmade, brought from who knows where. She was young. Too young for the market. That Day was hot. Unbearably hot. The Others were in a foul mood. They harassed the girl. They broke her things. Nobody cared. Nobody bothered to stretch out a hand or say a word for her. That was the way with the Others. She was helpless, defenseless. Not like me.

I handled the first group easily enough. Sent them crying back to their mommies with bloodied lips and sore heads. But more came. There were too many. I know now that there were too many. They punched, kicked, grabbed me. But I punched back. I clawed back. I could hear my mother yelling, crying, somewhere beyond the growing crowd. It was hot. So hot. I was tired, bleeding. My arms burning from the exertion. But I could see that the Others were weary too. They retreated. A sigh of relief. I looked for my mother. She did not want me to fight. I knew I had disappointed her.

Another hand on my shoulder. Another with the thought of putting me down? Did he not see the rest? Did he not tire of harassing me, tormenting me? Did he wish to end up like them? I would oblige him. My hand raked across his soft face as I spun, too quick for him to dodge. My claws dug into his flesh.

And then my horror.

She lay at my feet. I did not recognize her face. There was blood – so much blood. I knelt down, cradling her as I pleaded for her forgiveness. She did not respond. The Others were silent. Everything was silent. It was so unbearably hot.

I remember my mother, in my arms, as she died.

And then anger. Rage. Blood.