The Blue Wolf
Chapter 1

Arabella’s Perspective:

I had nothing on except my big plaid shirt, underwear and socks. The wind was hitting hard against my bare skin and whistling past my ears that already felt numb from the nasty night cold of autumn.

I had already tried walking in every direction of the forest, trying to make my way out. My feet were bleeding now from the sharp branches and little jagged rocks on the floor of the woods. What I wouldn’t do for a pair of shoes at this moment. I took a few deep breaths through my nose trying to come up with a plan on what to do.

I decided to listen for cars on a highway or any sound of life coming in from any direction. When I felt like maybe I did hear something, I started walking towards the faint noise. I kept walking until I heard something behind me.

I turned around slowly only to be paralyzed in my spot. Right there in front of me, about five meters away, there was an abnormally large whitish-blue wolf. I felt equal parts fascinated and afraid of the wolf.

The wolf stood there staring at me, almost like it was observing me, admiring me. I looked into its eyes confused.

I waited for it to do something aggressive but it never did. I started walking backward slowly, never taking my eyes off the wolf. When I was a few steps back. I picked up my speed, still walking backward. The wolf at that point, without any signs of aggression, started jogging towards me, I knew there was no way I could outrun it or defend myself. So I just stopped in my spot knowing I was about to die. A tear went down my right cheek, knowing this was the end.

As soon as the wolf was about to pounce on me, my morning alarm rang and my eyes snapped open. My cheek was wet with a tear. I grabbed my phone from the side table, beside my bed and stopped the alarm that was blaring. It was 6:45 am.

Usually, I didn’t wake up till my second alarm that was set for 7:00. But maybe today even my subconscious wanted to escape that dream. I put my arms above my head and stretched out my body and yawned. As I brushed my teeth and showered I thought more and more about the dream. I had never had a dream like that and it was kind of freaky.

I moved from the town I grew up into the city about a year ago. I went on a summer trip two years ago, once I turned eighteen and I found myself falling in love with this city only within the few days I spent here, the art museums, the libraries, the mass of people constantly walking around. The way even in the night the city still seemed awake. It was so different from where I grew up all my life and I found a strange peace in it.

My family would come to visit me, or I’d go back to visit them. We’d rotate every time. My brother Anthony, my sister Phoebe, and mom left only two weeks ago after seeing me for a few days for my birthday.

I was only a 1 day drive away from home. So sometimes they’d road trip here, sometimes they’d fly in. I always liked taking the train back home instead of flying. There were a couple of months before Christmas time, and then I’d be seeing them again.

I’d call my mother at least once a week. Otherwise, I’d mostly just text her and my siblings.

I had saved up enough money from the convenience store job I worked for two years back home, to have enough money to survive here for the first four months, but I had found a full-time job within the first two. I was lucky everything had gone pretty smoothly for me.

I worked at a cafe called “La Magie Cafe.” My manager Martha was an interesting woman, she was fifty-two, she had never married and had no kids and she was genuinely content in that. I asked her once about it. You know if she ever got lonely. She told me “Nah, you know everyone does that shit, the partner, the kids. People think it makes them whole or something. News flash: it doesn’t. It just makes them miss out on life.”

I kind of did understand her point. I mean once you devote yourself to anything, it claims you, even if you say it doesn’t. It does. And any sort of control on a person limits them, you know? Well, anyways I liked that idea. Of being happy alone. I was happy on my own, in my one-bedroom apartment. With my books, my films, my poems, and my music.

I put my dishes in the sink. And put on my sweater, jacket, and toque. I grabbed my backpack. I contemplated on what boots to wear for a minute before I chose my short black ones, then proceeded to walk out the door.

I got to work about fifteen minutes early, when I walked in Martha was holding her phone in one hand un-steadily and trying to apply eyeliner to her eyelids with the other hand. I chuckled while stuffing my toque in my jacket pocket, then hanging up my jacket and other stuff. She looked up at me annoyed and said “What are you cackling at kid? Like you could do any better.”

I pulled up a chair in front of Martha. I reached for the liquid eyeliner in her hand and said “Here. Just close your eyes. Don’t open them until I say.” I applied two-winged lines on each eyelid and blew on Martha’s eyes lightly. Then I said, “See now look.”

I put the cap on the liquid eyeliner makeup pen and dropped it on the table. Then I got up and started walking, to the back, to the kitchen, to see what Emile was doing. I heard Martha looking at herself in her phone camera, saying “Damn baby. You fineeee.” That woman really loved herself.

Emile was the co-worker who had the same shift times as me. We had become friends very quickly once he started working here, two months after me. We both liked all the same things. And we were always telling the other about whatever new book each of us was reading.

See our chef before Emile, Nick, he’d always show up to work high. Once Martha noticed she fired him on the spot. This guy was so lost in the clouds he didn’t even get worked up about it. He literally just said “Alright man.” Grabbed his stuff and left. A week later, Emile showed up. Emile was tall, muscular, and very good-looking. He had moved here from France only five years ago to pursue his cooking career abroad. And man did this guy really love food. He talked about it as if the food had a mind or something.

He’d always compliment me on my deep brown eyes and long curly dark hair. Which I found to be quite boring features. He’d say in his sexy French accent “Arabellllllahhh your haar is so sans défaut, don’t ever change it.” I’d always say “Yours too Emile.” Emile’s hair really was gorgeous. He had this straight light brown hair, that he kept groomed up to his ears and no longer. And sometimes I’d catch myself gazing at it.