You had grown with your fingers twined with your mother's. Rough, calloused palms always eating at your soft and pure skin, always pulling and tugging you along, always squeezing as people came and went by.

     And always, the same sentence.

     “There are wolves out there,” Your mother would say, always between a drag of her cigarette and flip of her finger on the remote. With a snuff of the cigarette and final adjustment of channels, she would look you in the eye and finish, “Don’t go near one, don’t become one.”

     As a child, it had always confused you. The people you saw on streets weren’t covered with fur, nor were their teeth sharp and nails pointed. They always looked nice, smart, dressed in skirts or suits on the weekdays and jeans and jackets on the weekends.

     You liked people, you trusted people.

     Your mother didn’t.

It wasn’t until you was fourteen that you had gathered the courage and asked why. Your mother had looked at you with a fury in her eye that you had never known, thin lips pressed into a line as she put out her cigarette, and then – and then a swift palm to your cheek.

     “How dare you.” She had said between one slap and another, between the death of the cigarette and your innocence, your mother didn’t stop until she cried.

     “I’m sorry.” Was all you could say. What more could you.

You were helpless, a child, you didn’t understand the world but now you understood what she meant. The first day back at school, she hadn’t even bid you good morning or goodbye, and it wasn’t until your best friend pointed out your split lip that you realised how badly everything hurt.

     You didn’t tell her the real reason, just blamed it on clumsiness and thankfully she believed you – you didn’t believe yourself.

     The house was cold when you came home; the lights were all off as you stepped past the hallway and into the kitchen. Your mother was at the bench, knife in hand and all you did was ask what was for dinner.

     You were met with a clanging of metal, your mother’s face inches from yours and you watched yourself tear up in the reflection of her eyes.

     “There are wolves out there. You are starting to become one, don’t.”

     You shivered, whether from the cold or her glance, you weren’t sure, you didn’t want to be sure.

     Her eyes held no feeling. Empty, blackened pits – you could barely tell her irises from her pupils. Had there ever been any feeling, or had you imagined it all.

     When you’re in bed hours later, hearing her footsteps outside your door before disappearing, you sigh. In all your years, she had never bid you goodnight, and it’s only now that you wonder why.

     Your last thought before you fall asleep – maybe you had imagined it all.

It’s your seventeenth birthday. You had always imagined something a little grander, a room filled with people who love you, a large cake so that everyone got at least one slice, a mother who cared.

     You didn’t get any of that.

     There’s a girl pressed underneath you, her lips bruising yours in the best of ways. Her hands are soft and warm, her breath is hot and her hair is tangled between your fingers.

     You think it’s disgusting, you think you’re disgusting. Your mother would never approve of this girl; she was everything your mother despised. She was bubbly and a little overdramatic and she wore strawberry flavoured lip balm.

     She’s your best friend, and you’re both drunk.

     Somehow, you don’t think either of you will think of that excuse – or any excuse – in the morning.

     Her chest heaves against yours, her tongue laced with a mixture of vodka, rum, and sugar. It’s sweet, she’s sweet.

     Her name leaves your lips each time she touches you just right, yours leaving hers each time you sink your teeth into her.

     She cries afterwards, and so do you. It’s the good kind of cry, though, because you’re so empty and she’s so full. You balance each other out, you keep her happy and she keeps you alive. It’s a nice compromise.

     When you wake up the day after, her arm is thrown over your waist, nose pressed against your neck. You stare at the ceiling, her bedroom is much nicer than yours – her everything is much nicer than yours.

     She wakes up twenty minutes after you, presses a soft kiss to your jaw and you sink into the mattress when she hovers above you. Seconds later, you’re melting into her, she’s everything you want, you’re everything she wants.

     Damn your mother, you run your fingers up your best friend’s spine, relishing in every single touch, every goosebump, every shudder.

     You know when you get home; your mother will have questions.

     You know she won’t like the answer.

Filthy.

     Disgusting.

     Not her daughter.

     The words ring inside your head as you pack your suitcase, fill it with as many things as you can because you know you won’t be allowed home ever again. You try to pack the important things, the snow globe your best friend had bought you for your tenth birthday, after she’d come back from winter break. The framed picture of the two of you from a year ago, your sixteenth birthday, when everything was still bearable, with everything wasn’t so heavy, when you had a home to live in and only one bruise.

     There were more this time, only seventeen for a day so far, and you’ve got the matching amount of purple and yellow marks to prove it, one extra burn mark for good luck.

     You wish your mother would’ve lit you like a candle, let your burn to the ground and maybe then she’d remember that behind all that blotched skin, hickeys and filth, you’re her daughter, she raised you to believe no one was to be trusted.

     You stand at the top of the stairs, look behind you just in case she’s there and is ready to push. Maybe she is. Maybe she doesn’t think it’s worth the jail time.

     You don’t say goodbye as you leave, just a fleeting glance back at what you used to think was home, what you used to believe was a happy childhood and even happier memories.

     It was all lies; you were raised on a lie. The only truth you knew was that there are wolves out there, that’s the one thing your mother didn’t lie to you about.

She takes you into her arms the moment she opens the door, you don’t let yourself cry, just breathe in deeply and hope that her mother won’t hit you as hard as yours did.

     She notices the suitcase straight away and nods, like she’d known this was going to happen all along.

     She asks her mother if you can stay, offers to keep you in the guest bedroom if that makes it any less intimate. Her mother welcomes you with warm eyes and you see what you’ve wanted to all your life, you see affection in a pair of mother’s eyes, and you feel warmth envelop you in a hug like no other.

     It hurts, her mother is pressing onto your bruises and it hurts – but that’s not why you’re crying. You cry because she may not be your mother, but within these five minutes she’s already done a better job of it than yours ever has.

     Your best friend sneaks into the guest room – your room – that night, holds you close and kisses you like you’re air and she’s dying. You lean into her, hand on her jaw and hip, keeping her in place so she doesn’t ever let you go.

     You think she just might though, when she sees the first bruise, the one on your hip, purple and blooming and she’s angry. You tell her to stay calm but she stops you before you finish, kisses you and then kisses the bruise, lifts up your shirt and does the same to each one.

     She tells you she loves you and you can’t breathe, even with sleep-mussed hair and dressed in mismatched pyjamas you can’t help yourself to say the same thing back. Because she’s your best friend, because she’s your girlfriend, because you’re filthy and disgusting and not your mother’s daughter but she loves you anyway.

     You kiss until you fall asleep, and when her mother wakes you both up the next morning with a smile on her face – you just know that there’s only one wolf out there.

     And none of them live here, not in this home – your home.