Archive of Our Own

1 A.M., Thursday.

When Louis was twelve, and his father was still alive, they would go on night drives together. His dad had been a short man with sandy brown hair, thinning by the age of thirty. He’d always wear baseball caps to hide his bald spot, something Louis’ mom said only caused him to lose more hair. You’ll rub the rest of it off with that hat, she would say. His dad never listened, though. He wore his cap to the very day he died.

It happened on New Years, 2006. Louis was fourteen and in his first year of high school, and with it came expectations and the excitement of finding your passion. School, back then, was his main priority; good grades meant a future, and he had no problems with keeping his report cards in line. Almost straight A’s by the end of the first semester and boy, was he proud of himself. He had brought home the piece of paper and watched as his mother’s eyes filled with tears of joy, telling him that he’d make it far in life. He believed her. That was two weeks before the crash: a hit and run that left his dad’s body in shambles, ribs penetrating his lungs, drowning in his own blood. When he had come stumbling home with blood on his clothes and teeth stained red, Louis’ mom had tried to hide him. She kept saying it’s okay. It’s okay, honey go to your room. But Louis wasn’t a kid anymore. He knew what death was, and he knew a mouthful of blood wasn’t a good sign.

His dad died that morning at 11:52 A.M. The police said that the driver must have been drunk from the night before. They said these words and had expected Louis and his mother to accept them. That’s it. A hit and run by some drunk asshole who didn’t see the middle-aged man on his afternoon walk. It was the new year and Louis was ringing it in with a mother who didn’t sleep anymore and nightmares of his father bathed in red. The police did nothing about it.

1:10 A.M., Thursday.

It was five years later, Louis nineteen and out of high school—his grades had floundered—when his mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had never smoked a day in her life, but apparently secondhand really does affect the innocent. The doctors assumed it was due to her parents’ constant smoking indoors when she was growing up, or it could be because she worked in one of the only business firms that allowed indoor smoking anymore. Either way, she had cancer, but she fought it. She never rolled over and played dead. She picked up her life and used the rest of her time for good.

Louis kept a close eye on her, always making sure that she was taking her meds, going to her doctor appointments. She didn’t want to do chemo, not for the first year of it. But soon the pain was too unbearable and he found himself holding her hand whilst doctors poked her with needles, drawing blood, putting fluids in her. She lost most of her hair and half of her body weight.

By the time Louis was twenty-two and had finally started college—a small community school that didn’t require a perfect GPA—his mom was bed ridden. She didn’t clean anymore, didn’t eat. She would watch daytime television and Judge Judy until her eyes were too dry to stay open. Too many nights Louis would sit by her bed, or curled up next to her, inhaling the faint smell of her old perfume—the one his father would get her each Christmas—and he’d tell her made-up stories about queens and dragons. She had always loved fantasy, had spent much of her time reading J.R.R. Tolkien and Christopher Paolini. It was her guilty pleasure and Louis took pride in how much she loved his stories. You should be a writer, she’d say. He’d only laugh, kiss her forehead and tell her goodnight.

She died six months later in a hospital bed, her very first copy of Eragon frayed and torn from years of use sat on the side table, a coffee ring embedded in the cover. She died with her bones brittle and frail, had died with a broken heart and empty eyes.

That was exactly one week ago to the day, and now Louis sat in his idling car with the engine still on, the radio turned down. The headlights shined on a dirt trail, the same trail his father would follow on their night rides.

1:15 A.M., Thursday.

Growing up, Louis never had many friends. So, thinking now, he wondered: who would miss him? Who did he have left? Adrien was in college, a big university out in Brooklyn. He hadn’t been back to Maine in over a year, but he still wrote every now and again. Sometimes he’d call. Louis didn’t think Adrien would miss him. Would Adrien even notice? Would anyone?

It was a slow process as Louis eased his foot on the gas pedal, his hand moving blindly to the gearshift. If you stick to the trail, you’ll find your way out of the woods and back to the main road. It’s a short drive, but a long walk. Louis knew, because his dad told him, that if you veer off the main trail, you’ll find yourself looking down off a cliff, one that hangs right over the Atlantic. He had even taken Louis there one time, salt high in the air, making Louis’ eyes burn. It was a beautiful sight. It was peaceful. Louis wanted peace.

With his jaw clenched and angry tears in his eyes, Louis shifted into drive, taking his foot off the brake and placing it on the gas. He balled his hands into fists around the steering wheel, gripping it tightly, his knuckles turning white. The engine revved, tires rolling on gravel. He pushed down on the gas, eyes unblinking. If he stayed to the trail…but if he veered off…

He cranked the wheel to the left, tires leaving the man-made tracks. Flying freely, he drove, pushing past 30…40…45. The trees turned to blurs, rocks hitting the windshield, leaving smalls cracks in their wake. He pressed on. 50…55…

Thoughts of his mother, dying and ghastly pale; his dad with blood in his mouth. He had no one left. He didn’t even have himself.

Thinking back now, Louis’ sure if his vision hadn’t been distorted by the tears in his eyes, maybe he would have seen the animal in the road with the brightly glowing brown eyes. Maybe he would have seen its shape in the night, illuminated by his headlights. He would have had time to stop. But he didn’t, not until this animal—a burly black dog, too big to be in a preserve—was only inches away, its face coming closer, its eyes filled with confusion and fear. Louis cried out, both feet slamming on the brakes. If he had been on a street, the rubber of the tires would have been able to grip the asphalt and tar, able to possibly stop the vehicle without rolling, but with dirt under his wheels and an animal smashed into his front bumper, there’s no hope.

A loud, sickening crack sounded through the trees as the animal’s body hit Louis’ car—but what happened then isn’t something anyone would anticipate. As if he had hit a brick wall rather than something made of flesh, Louis’ bumper caved in on itself, the front of his car twisted and dented. It rolled, Louis inside, seat belt clattering uselessly against the window. The windshield shattered, and Louis would later thank God that he didn’t fly through it. Instead, he was pinned under with his head throbbing and warm blood running down his sides.

He panicked, as anyone would, adrenaline spiking through his body. Shimmying his way out of the wreck, his vision going in and out, black blotches dancing in front of him. All he could think was the dog, the dog. There’s enough death in the world without his help, and maybe that’s why he crawled on his hands and knees away from the wreckage, the taste of iron in his mouth, moving at a speed that he didn’t know he had left in him. When he looked back, looked to where the dog should be, he found nothing.

Rustling leaves to his left, Louis turned towards the intrusion. Standing cautiously with its tailed tucked between its legs was the black dog—only it wasn’t a dog at all, but a wolf, and there were two others behind it. It just stood there, staring down at Louis as if examining him. When it took a step forward, the other wolves snarled, lips pulled back from their teeth. There was a white one and a brown one—neither as large as the black. With its head ducked down, nose to the dirt, the black wolf pressed on, walking slowly, never minding the two behind it.

Louis’ thought process had dwindled down to a single plea: don’t eat me. For the love of God, don’t fucking eat me. And as his head pounded harder, his fingers twitching, pain splicing through his body, Louis’ vision began to give away. His eyes going in and out, darkness taking over, and the last sight he saw wasn’t that of a wolf, but a pair of human legs walking towards him.