When you're alone, you wrap yourself in your own thoughts, wandering through everything around you. Time stands still until you notice something—like a tiny speck of dust on a shelf that's been there for hours—and you think, whoever said the earth rotates must have lied. Then you drift to another useless thought, until Mom comes back from hunting.
'Honey, look what I found,' she says, holding up a deer carcass—left for dead by wolves, or maybe something worse. You eat everything she brings home, but you've never seen the world beyond the hut that's been your cage for as long as you can remember.
My name is Anne, and that's my life. I live with Mom, and know no one else. It wasn't strange to me—until yesterday, when I turned 17. As a birthday gift, Mom let me see the world outside for the first time.
'Why can't I go outside?' I asked her the last time I was out there. I was five. I don't remember how or why, but I killed a kid—burned him alive. Mom doesn't talk about it. She never told me what happened, and she's always been secretive, about everything.
Things have been changing inside me, though—things I can't understand. Mom calls it puberty. I didn't understand it then. At 14, I grew tender lumps in my chest that kept growing until they were too big, and Mom said they were 'breathing.' She has them too. I didn't think much of it.
When the fangs came at 16, that was something I couldn't ignore. They only show up when I smell blood. Mom calls them 'fangs,' part of the 'puberty development.' She says every girl my age has them.
Last year, I got wigs—long, fiery-red hair. I never got to wear them because I'm not allowed outside.
But yesterday, something new happened when I asked Mom if we could step outside just around the hut. I felt this strange, insistent urge, like I was about to explode, and when I exhaled… fire. Flames shot from my mouth. I didn't ask her about it, though. I don't ask anymore.
There's something else I didn't tell her, something that still haunts me. I saw a child, just like me. At first, I thought I was imagining it, but I know what I saw. He was far away, just beyond the edge of the trees, and I didn't get the chance to speak with him. But I would do anything to see that child again.
Today, I saw him again. He was holding a catapult, and a huge man came to take him away.
'Come on, Adam. There are no birds here,' the man said.
So, he's a boy. A faraway boy, but I can still see his face—his perfect, beautiful face. I even caught the way he moved, with a grace that reminded me of a gentleman. I've never asked Mom about boys, about love. Whenever I did, she'd tell me I wasn't meant to love anyone—not yet. I believed her, followed her rules. But for this boy? I'll break them. The moment she leaves for hunting today, I'll find him.
'Honey, what are you doing? I told you never to peek outside. You don't know what's out there,' Mom warned, appearing in the doorway.
'I just… I can't stop thinking about yesterday. I have fire in my breath, Mom.'
Mom's face tensed, and she patted me on the back. 'It's nothing, Anne. I have fire in my breath too. I'll explain what it means when I get back.'
'Please… don't lock the door from the outside. I'm 17. I've been here long enough. Don't you trust me to be alone?' I asked, hoping my eyes hid the true meaning behind my words—that I planned to run into the wild and return before she came back.
'I trust you, honey. I don't trust the world.'
'But Mom…'
'No 'buts.' You know the rules. But here's a deal—why don't you stay here while I hunt and get your favorite?'
'The deer?' I asked, a smile tugging at my lips.
'Yes, the deer.'
'Okay, Mom… maybe I'll count the soil, or the water, while you're gone.'
'Good. Do that. I won't be long.' She locked the door behind her, and I felt the weight of it fall on me.
I already had my bag packed. And I wouldn't be long, either.