… and she was dubbed ‘raised-by-the-wolves’!



She narrowed her eyes, parted her lips, revealing two pairs of piercing fangs, and barked, “You’re always here!”
“How do you know? Are you… always here, I mean? Lurking around the kitchen?” he said hesitantly, mustering all his courage and defiance, examining the dot pattern on the kitchen linoleum, like one does when avoiding eye contact. He remembered his friend’s advice to him before venturing outside to the kitchen “never look them in the eyes, never ask direct questions, always keep your ears alert, remember their infrasonic signals, you can’t hear them but you can feel their vibrations in the air if you concentrate enough, you need to concentrate…”
Hearing his voice for the first time, she looked at him quizzically. She let out a wheezing noise, like a singer taking a breath before performing a long phrase. He felt the air becoming more and more rarified. He chocked. And then she laughed, a loud thunderous laughter that shook the window panes… small pieces of paint chipped of the walls and the ceiling, the cups rattled on the racks… she roared again, rummaging through the drawers like a rabid dog looking for buried bones… She seized the sharpest knife in her clutches, and briskly approached his chair. He kept repeating his mantra (no eye contact, no eye contact, no eye contact….) and felt frigid droplets of sweat forming on his forehead. She came closer and closer, sniffing his brow, tasting his fear.
Time froze.

He talked about her to other workers in the field. But no one had the audacity to speak their mind. No one dared to say what she did to them, when, and where… No one talked about the indignity, the shame… and the pain.
“well, maybe she was raised differently. She is not… like we are.” The older wiser woman of the tribe has said.
He shuddered, remembering that day in the kitchen. He lifted up his gaze and said to the wise one “yes, the legend has it that she was raised by the wolves!”