Composition #2

Many years have been gone since that fatidic afternoon. At first, I wasn't dead yet. I lived in Mosoonee those days, in a comfortable house at the suburbs, next to a national park. I was 13 years old and still had lessons at elementary school. Mosoonee, as everybody knows, is a tiny country city, so I used to walk by myself to school, every single day, even if it was snowing (of course, if the day wouldn't have been canceled).

It was the beginning of the spring; the snow had melted recently and I was coming back from school with some friends; it was sunset. I was laughing about some stupid joke that Mike told us when we turned the block and saw a skinny wolf sniffing the air. I stopped my laugh suddenly, but that sound echoed through the space. The wolf looked at us, the mouth half-opened revealing his teeth. It began to walk in our direction. My friends and I were terribly frightened, so when it roared we run away, each one to a random direction. I had so much despair that I couldn't think about where I was going. The starving wolf, for fate or something like that, followed me. When I realized this fact, I shouted between the gaps of my breath "Woooolf!... Wooolf!...". My feet took me to my favorite place: the surrounds of the national park. I was getting more and more slowly, the straps of my heavy bag were cutting my shoulders. Suddenly something (probably my hunter) pushed my back, making me fall and making the bag rip. From inside of it jumped a Tupperware with a half-eat sandwich. I tried to crawl away from the wolf, but my muscles refused to obey me. My hunter sniffed the food and decided to eat it, swallowing all at once. Then it turned to face me, with a tomato between the open teeth. I was paralyzed and couldn't do anything but follow that corpse with the eyes (yes, it seemed more a corpse than a living animal) surrounding me. I could hear noises of a far place, but beside that the scene was silent – I stopped yelling when I fell.

We stayed on that almost static moment until it decided to act. It jumped, aiming my neck, but I put my right arm in front of me. The wolf dilacerated from elbow to wrist; bit my hand and didn't release it. I cried as loud as I could, and saw an elder (neighbor of my uncle) with a rifle. He was trembling, but aimed at the wolf and shot. Lower than my cries, I heard the crash, but the wolf wasn't hurt. The blood flowing down was only mine. The bullet reached the floor, next to the wolf's tail. The monster felt threatened, but it wasn't going away without an award, so it did a hard pull in my hand and began to run away. The pain that I felt that day is something that I remember until today, in my dead-life. In the moment, I didn't realize that two fingers of my right hand had gone with the wolf; just when I saw (with wet eyes) my bloody mutilated hand without the forth and fifth fingers that I understood why it was aching so hardly. I heard another shot while my vision was getting blurred. I fainted.

After, someone told me that the elder killed the wolf with the second bullet. My parents took me to Montreal to visit doctors, but no one could help me. The wound had cured, but I had to became left-handed; I lost friends because of my appearance; I lost my childhood. It complicated my life and continue even now, in my dead.

Meio melô, confesso.