New Dawn:
Shortie by Lone Wolf

~Kaboom~

	He watched from the roof of the building across the street as his home 
went up in a firey explosion. The orange ball of fire flew into the air, 
lighting up the night sky and, most likely, waking everyone in the damn 
neighborhood up. He watched it as it ran it's course, flying skywards as it 
slowly burnt out into smoke. He shut his eyes and sighed. "I should have 
been in that explosion," he told himself. "Why?"

	Because he had set it off himself.

	He grabbed his pack and hoisted it over his shoulder. The cops and 
fire department would be swarming the place soon. The young wolf knew he 
hadn't a moment to spare. He quickly jumped off of the roof, landed with the 
grace his friends knew him for, and raced down the street into the night. He 
didn't bother to turn back as he heard the wailing of the sirens.

	He stopped off at the local lake. The moonlit sky watched from it's 
perch in the sky as he knelt beside it. He stared blankly at the still 
surface. A soft wind blew through his hair, pushing him away from his former 
home. "Yeah," he muttered. "Home my ass." He shut his eyes and sighed. 
"What's a home if the family in it doesn't give a damn for you?" He looked 
at his reflection. "Tell me that."
	The reflection stared at him.
	"My parents could give less than a damn about me. They'd rather spend 
their money on that spoiled bitch I am..." He stopped himself. "Was expected 
to call a sister and her fuckin' pets. They refused to give me money to get 
my college applications in."
	The reflection seemed to grow angrier with him, but remained silent.
	"They couldn't care about me. It wasn't them. They got what they 
deserved. I was right to do it."
	The reflection seemed to nod. He smiled and looked skyward.

	The plan had gone better than he had planned. It was far too easy to 
create the bomb - a five pound device strapped to three fourty pound tanks 
of gasoline and with fuses leading to the four corners of the basement, 
where another four tanks of gasoline sat in each. He had managed to sneak 
out of the house at a quarter past midnight, about five minutes before his 
father got home from work. He had the bomb set up to go off at a quarter to 
one. That gave him enough time to watch the house and make sure that nobody 
left. It was all too glorious for him when the bomb exploded, sending his 
family to their deaths. He paid them back for all the suffering he was put 
through in a mere five seconds.

	He looked at the reflection again and frowned. He punched the still 
surface, causing everything to ripple, and hugged his knees to his chest. 
Even though he had just burnt his biggest problem into cinders, they were 
still going to cause him problems. The cops would deduce, he knew, that he 
was the one who planted and detonated the bomb. And everyone knew his face. 
He looked at the still waters again. He was marked. He wouldn't make it far 
with that face.

	He reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. It was a lovely 
little trinket he had picked up. The blade was made of stainless steel which 
he had spent many an evening alone in his room sharpening. The handle was 
made of pewter, carved with detail in the shape of a howling wolf's head. On 
the sides of the handle were painted a trio of wolves, padding slowly though 
the snow, on a hunt. He smiled, not fearing it one bit. It was a part of 
him, a very proud part of him. His brother wolves, though they be on all 
fours, were his family - not the dumb fucks he had sent into the air on a 
firey chariot.

	He opened the blade and clutched the entire thing tightly. "They'll 
recognize this face. Therefor, I must change it." He held the blade up to 
the moonlight. It reflected the light onto the lake, attracting the 
attention of a few small fish and nothing else. He shut his eyes and took a 
deep breath. "This is for my own good." He fumbled through his pack and 
pulled out two white towels. He laid the first one out on the grass. He took 
his ear with his left hand, pulled it out, and, in one quick motion, sliced 
it in half. He winced only momentarily - he was used to pain. He laid the 
severed ear in the towel and folded it up. The towel was promptly put away. 

	He looked at the blade again. The moonlight now made the bloody steel 
glow an eerie crimson. He ran his finger over the blade and put it to his 
mouth. The blood was salty, yet sweet. He then took the blade and slashed 
his right cheek open. He put his hand on the wound to see if he had done a 
good enough job. He had - the wound would scar, marring his face forever. He 
took the second towel, cleaned the blade off, and placed it onto his face as 
a pressure bandage. 
	"Now comes the part I hate," he said softly. He reached behind his 
head, gathering up all of his long, black hair. He gathered it all into a 
pony tail, put the blade at the thinest part - close enough to the back of 
his head to make it short - and cut his hair off. He could feel it hit the 
ground. He shed only a few tears - his hair meant everything to him. He 
turned and looked. His last link to his past, the long, flowing locks he was 
known for, layed on the ground in a bundle. He took it all up, spending a 
few minutes to remove all traces of the act, and tied it all up into a 
bundle. He placed it with his ear and shut the pack.

	He put his knife away and his pack onto his back. He stood up, 
stopping only momentarily to look into the surface of the lake. He pulled 
the towel away and smiled. He wasn't looking at himself anymore. He was 
looking at someone who had recently been in a fight. He looked like someone 
in a gang. But most importantly, he did not look like himself. The cops, he 
knew, wouldn't be able to tell the difference. He smiled and walked away, 
holding the towel to his face.

	The sun started to rise over the highway. He had travelled a good two 
miles down it over the course of the night. He had no idea where he was 
going. He really didn't care anymore. He knew he wouldn't be accepted 
anywhere he went. He was just a single wolf, his face scarred, his mind 
shattered, his life an enigma. He didn't care. All he could see was the 
horizon. He was going to travel until he collapsed and died. He felt around 
in his pocket. "$300," he muttered. "That'll keep me until I can find a 
quick job." He looked at the sun rising over the asphalt horizon and smiled. 
"The sun has never looked more beautiful," he shouted aloud, not giving a 
damn who heard him. "Good morning Sun!" He laughed and rushed towards it, 
ready to greet the day with a new enthusiasm.

	The caged bird, he told himself, was now free. His life was now anew. 
He had no past, no name, and no plans. But he knew that he could see what he 
couldn't before. He had the freedom to do as he pleased. He could chase the 
imposible dreams and seek the endless possibilities without fear.

	He was free.

End

This material is © Lone Wolf and <([ Lone Wolf Studios ])>