Where to turn

Dirty paws carried the dirty boy across the dirty landscape. Beat was covered in so much soot, dirt and burs that he wasn't even white anymore. He was a miasma of brown and grey with muddy bits clinging to the longer fur of his stomach, tail and elbows. There was no reason to take care of his appearance. He wanted people to stay away from him. It was for their own good. If they came close... they would die like all the rest.

As the youngling walked along, head lowered in a constant state of defeat, he couldn't shake the overactive, undulating mind of his. Like a mantra throbbing to the beat of his heart, he was never free from his inner monologue taunting him. 'Your fault. Cursed. Dead. Dead. Dead. All your fault.' He couldn't even sleep, despite being in a constant state of exhaustion. The ghosts of his family hovered over him. They didn't speak, they simply watched. Any time he shut his eyes, they were there. When he began to doze off, they infiltrated his dreams. A constant reminder that he had killed them. And so he didn't sleep.

On top of not sleeping, the child had neglected to eat. He was skin and bones. A strong wind could blow him over. Hip bones and elbows jutted out like spires. His face was sunken. He looked more like an old man than a young pup. Twig left food for him outside the den often, she claimed, but he was rarely home and couldn't be bothered to hunt. His stomach gave up growling long ago.

With no particular heading in mind, Beat walked, paws dragging over the ground with each monotonous step. He didn't even realize that he was coming upon the pair of wolves until he was close enough for them to see him. The boy stopped in his tracks, head lowering more. Ears tucked back against his skull and his tail drew up against his skinny belly. Beat froze. This was the alpha. He didn't know what to do. Teal and purple eyes went wide and he simply stood, staring.