The Silver Lining - First place winner: lustenvy

The Silver Lining Challenge

Life is about choices.

Sometimes you don't make the right ones.

• • •

My hands curl around the paper clutched between cracked fingers.

Tomorrow, I would turn eighteen. The year of choice.

But it wasn't a choice, not truly when you were only given three.

To be killed, weaponised or cured.

My fists tighten around my future as I turn the corner, eyes downcast, trying desperately not to glance at the words that stain the parchment.

It's no use, I already have it memorised.

I have been given the choice to be cured.

A scoff releases from my lips.

A choice. That's what this world preached. Everyone was given a choice. But the very fact it was given to us, showed ownership.

It wasn't something that was ours. No, we weren't given a choice until we were of age.

And tomorrow, I would have to choose my own future out of the two they deemed fit for me.

Be cured or fight the war.

I knew the choice I should make, what everyone knew to make.

To be cured, to be allowed into society.

My eyes flick to the paper, the rustle of it in my fist. All I had to do was sign the bottom and that was it.

I would be cured.

Blinking away the thought, I reach up, clutching the strap of my pack tightly.

It bounces with every step, the hard spine of a book digging into my own.

Inside, the words whisper a story of peace, something my kind had only ever longed for.

The history of lycanthropy was riddled with conflict and pain, but it hadn't always been this way. We had once lived side by side with the humans, hidden.

Four decades ago, that changed. Four decades ago, we were pushed into the limelight and suddenly we were at war.

All I had ever known was the bloodshed of this world, of the fear that seeped into every corner. I had grown up learning to suppress the beast within, hide who I was to survive, to live.

But this wasn't living, looking over your shoulder for the next blade to plunge down, for a guard to appear at your doorstep.

It was all I had ever known, and now I had the choice to live, I mean really live.

No more looking over my shoulder, I could be free.

The paper crinkles once more and I look at it.

All I had to do was take the cure and I could be free.

My feet stop in their path, hand lifting as I slowly unfurl the paper.

Boot falls echo around me, my heart beats against the cage of my ribs, screaming.

A harsh breath sucks into my lungs, hands shaking, paper fluttering to the ground.

My eyes lift to meet the harsh ones of the guards and hastily flick away.

I ignore their domineering presence as I drop to a crouch and swipe up my only chance at survival before scurrying away, leaving the guards at my back.

Their footsteps hesitate, turning for me and my heart creeps its way up my throat, shoulders curling in, trying desperately to make me the smallest target possible.

My breath comes in harsh spurts, in sync with the pounding of my heart as I listen for pursuit.

The paper shakes in my fist, teeth clacking before I tighten my jaw and hasten my steps, not looking back.

Not inviting them closer.

Sector six was relatively safe for the Lycans. Relatively being a loose word to use. Out of the thirteen sectors that made up the new world, six to thirteen were the only ones that didn't kill a Lycan on site.

My eyes flick up briefly to settle on the guards before fluttering away.

But that didn't mean we were safe.

I keep my gaze to the grimy wall surrounding me, ears perked for sound. Smoke billows towards the sky, curling a welcoming hand towards me.

A nauseating stench permeates the air, rising the hair on the nape of my neck.

Anxiety crawls its way up my spine, digging its claws into my back with ferocity. My breath like lava in my lungs as I narrow my eyes on the remnants of fire.

Boot steps follow me and my eyes rip from the sky, smoke forgotten.

The skin around my eyes tightens as I squeeze them shut. Steps fumbling over one another as I await the first hit.

Blood swells under my clenched fists, nails tearing through flesh, staining parchment crimson.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh rips me from my fear, a tortured scream echoing through the air.

I try not to look, I really do. But I can't help it.

My tawny eyes flick up, watching as the guards raise their hands once more, shoving an elderly woman out of the way. She stumbles, back arching as she hits the wall that surrounds the sectors, the wall that keeps the wilds out.

Blood blooms at the woman's mouth, dribbling from cracked lips. Her eyes settle on me for a mere second before narrowing on the guards.

The slight costs her, the weapons at the guards' hips being drawn, the sound of the batons releasing from their holsters like a gunshot in the silence.

I trip backwards, knowing what's coming.

The woman stands tall, regal in the face of our captors.

Her mouth lifts, the scar on her cheek moving, almost as if alive.

The mark on her weathered face shows who she is, a brand driven into her flesh with a hot rod.

That's what happened when you chose to be cured, you were marked.

My own hand lifts, meeting the smooth skin of my cheek before my fingers flinch away.

My eyes settle on the paper, and I tighten my fists, shoving it into my pockets as I hastily turn away.

Her cries will haunt my sleep tonight, but I don't dare look back.

I practically run the rest of the way home, dirt spraying up in my wake as I wander the ransacked streets.

Lycan children scurry past me, bruises marring their thin wrists. Their eyes hold fear, and it permeates from their pores like perfume.

My back hits the wall as they run past, not once looking at me.

Windows slam shut as I turn the last corner, pack life a withered horrible memory of what it used to be.

My eyes lift, a garbled scream leaving my lips as I rush forward.

The smell of smoke clings to the skeleton of the house I grew up in, vomit settles low in my throat as I push the remains of the door open, rushing in.

"Dad?" It's a breathless whisper, cloaked with despair. "Dad!"

My feet rush from one end of the house to the other, eyes jumping over tarnished furniture.

"Dad!" The tortured scream releases into the air, followed by sobs that rack my body. My knees hit the ground, the pain all consuming.

A howled scream releases from my lips as I see his body, eyes stinging with tears. I crawl forward, falling to his side.

"Please!" My chest caves in, another scream releasing. "Please." I whisper, reaching for his hand.

Flesh falls from the bone, singeing my already cracked heart.

Scream after scream releases from my lips but no one comes running.

This was pack life. The history books told it differently, but this was all I knew.

He was all I had.

I scramble away from his body, my hand landing on the ground. Something crinkles beneath my palm, and I look down.

Blood stained parchment meets my gaze and I push it away.

The words flit through my mind.

Every Lycan has the choice to join the war or be cured, failure to choose will result in death.

I rip the thought away, pushing myself up from the ground, eyes resting on the window to the outside, settling on the wall that surrounds the city.

It was there for protection, to keep the wilds out.

Or was it to keep us in?

I lift myself up, forcing myself not to look at my father's body, stumbling through to the other room, looking for anything I can take with me.

Because I can't stay here. My spine straitens, knees weak as I walk out of the only home I've ever known.

• • •

There were three options. To be hunted, bred for war, or be cured.

Nobody ever talked about the fourth option.

To run.

Because nobody ever made it.

But wouldn't it be better to run and risk dying than be used and abused, to change the core of my being for a species that will never accept me?

I had to find out.

Because life was all about choices.