His sister said it wasn’t mine. The story—this story. She said it wasn’t mine to tell.

March 28th, 2014, 11pm

It was 5.6°C. The breeze was light.

She said it was his story and that all I would do is make it my story, and that it didn’t belong to me. She said I would confuse things like I always do, that I would say the wrong things, use the wrong words. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this story shouldn’t begin the way that it does, or end the way it does. Maybe it’s not a story about me at all, not about drugs or sex. I’m not trying to apologize or hedge or whatever—fuck, I’m even messing this up! What I want to say it that maybe I am the Wolfboy, and maybe the bumper-stickers are wrong. Maybe wolves don’t belong … not here, or anywhere … not anymore.

Elisa and Cassandra said thanks.

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Adrian Darb

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