wolf

lets go lesbians lets go

“there's a wolf prowling about. have you heard?” 

I turn to her as she whispers this to me, dark hair shining as the small fractals of light from the stained glass window reflect upon its silky surface. my eyes widen a fraction, confused. 

“no, well– I guess I have. I assumed that was what had been…” 

a silence falls, and the preacher teetering behind the pulpit continues to speak. her eyes don't leave mine. 

“killing the townspeople?” she murmurs, voice low and soft. I nod nervously, looking down at my lap. hands folded, neatly, almost in prayer. almost. 

“it's funny,” she continues, her voice growing even softer, “it's only men.” 

“what?” I reply, leaning in closer to hear her voice. the preacher, the pews, the stained glass windows all disappear as I peer into her eyes. green, like emeralds, like greed. 

“only men have been killed. no women,” she elaborates, and my heart seems to flutter as my mind spins with thoughts. I feel slightly relieved, but at the same time even more uneasy. 

“I suppose that is true,” I manage anxiously, taking in a small gasp of air. her grin widens slightly, as if she is amused by my nervousness. 

“she must be a friend,” she mumbles, one of her long nails tracing a crack formed within the old wood of the pew. 

“she?” I question gently, yet insistently. 

“the wolf,” she smirks, head rolling back, eyes glimmering. her teeth, so sharp, shining pearls in the light. 

“I…” I trail off, feeling my eyes unfocus, my face warm with a mix of embarrassment and intrigue. 

“I don't think…that anyone should die,” I say, reaching a hand up to nervously fiddle with my coif. “it is a very sad thing.” 

I see her eyes roll slightly, a soft sigh leaving her lips. “you know what those men were like, don't you?” she raises a thin, dark eyebrow in my direction. “perhaps it is a blessing.” 

“Mary!” I chide her, but quietly enough so as to not draw attention to our forbidden conversation. she smiles at me again, a sort of mischievous grin, and I feel my stomach flip. 

“perhaps she is on our side,” she continues, pressing her nail into the crevice of the old, rotting wood, claws unsheathed. “one of our own.”