Eighteen Years Later
Darcelle's Point of View
"My name is Darcelle, but you can call me Darcy," I said quietly, the words feeling strange on my lips. I had repeated them so many times over the years, yet it still felt like I was trying to convince myself. "I was born here, in this small village, nestled deep within the shadows of a dense forest. My father and I live on the outskirts, away from the village center because... well, the villagers do not like me. They call me bad luck."
I paused, looking down at the uneven ground beneath my feet. The earth here had always seemed like home, despite the constant rumors behind my back. I had spent my whole life here, but it felt like the village had never fully accepted me. I had never truly belonged.
Soon, it would be my eighteenth birthday, and I couldn’t help but wish that I had friends to share it with, someone who could help make the day feel special. But, as always, I was left to celebrate alone, tucked away in the shadows of my father's house.
As I walked slowly through the quiet village, lost in thought, I suddenly heard a loud commotion coming from the town square. The voices were distant at first, but they grew louder, filled with anger and fear. I stopped in my tracks, straining to make out what was being said.
"Drive her away from this place! She’s the only werewolf in the village—she doesn’t belong here!" A man’s voice echoed through the streets, sharp and bitter.
I felt the blood drain from my face as the words sank in. They were talking about me. The crowd had gathered, their voices rising in a furious chorus of hatred. Panic crept up my spine, and I took a step back, instinctively wanting to disappear, to blend into the shadows where I would be safe.
The air thickened with tension as I looked around. A group of villagers stood in front of me, their faces twisted with disgust and fear. Most of them were armed, brandishing silver arrows, swords, and machetes, their blades glinting under the weak light of the afternoon sun. The edges of their weapons were coated in wolfsbane, the poison meant to kill creatures like me—like werewolves.
I knew that these weapons were meant for one thing: my destruction. They had no other purpose.
"She's cursed," another voice shouted from the crowd. "She’ll bring death to us all if we don’t act now!"
The words were a jagged knife in my chest. I had heard them before - over and over again, whispered behind my back, but to hear them spoken so openly was another thing entirely.
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The villagers began to move closer, their eyes filled with a terrifying mix of fear and hatred. They hurled insults at me, calling me vile names, accusing me of things I hadn’t done, things I couldn’t control. The crowd's jeers became a constant barrage that rattled in my ears.
My body felt frozen, trapped in a nightmare I couldn't escape. I didn’t know what to do or where to turn. My instincts screamed at me to run, to find a place to hide, but there was nowhere left for me to go. The dense forest that surrounded the village no longer felt like a refuge, but a vast, empty place where I would only be hunted down.
"Get her!" someone cried, and the crowd surged forward.
I wanted to scream, to fight back, to explain that I was not the monster they made me out to be. But nothing came. My throat was tight with fear, my heart racing in my chest. I looked at the faces around me—some were strangers, others I had known my whole life. Some of them had even been kind to me once, but now, their eyes were filled with something far worse than fear. They were filled with hatred.
I didn't know how to make them see me as more than just a dangerous creature, more than the thing they had always feared.
I had never asked to be born a werewolf. I had never asked for the curse that was passed down from my mother, the one that had haunted me for years after years. But no matter how much I wished, I couldn’t change who I was.
And as the villagers closed in around me, with their weapons raised and their voices growing louder, I realized something that made my heart ache with a pain deeper than any wound: I would always be alone.
"Am I really this bad?" I wondered silently, as the villagers' hateful shouts rang in my ears. Their eyes were full of disgust, as though I had done something unforgivable. All I had ever tried to do was stay out of their way, to blend into the background. But no matter how much I kept to myself, it felt like just being me was enough to make them angry.
I hadn’t hurt anyone, hadn’t asked for this strange, unwanted life, yet here I was, labeled a monster, blamed for things I didn’t even understand. Their cruel words felt like daggers to my chest. But then, something shifted—there was hesitation in their steps, as if their anger faltered. Maybe they were afraid, maybe unsure. But I couldn’t stick around to find out. My heart raced, knowing that staying was too dangerous.
Without thinking, I turned and ran.
The ground beneath me felt unsteady as I sprinted away, my breath coming in ragged bursts. The sound of their voices faded as I entered the silence of the forest, but the emptiness inside me stayed. Why did they hate me so much? I had never wanted anything more than peace—just to feel like I belonged.
"I don’t know why they hate me," I whispered to myself, my voice barely a breath. "But one day, I’ll find people who understand." The words felt so fragile, as if they could vanish at any moment, but even so, there was a spark of something in my chest - a small, flickering hope. Maybe, just maybe, things would be different someday. Maybe I wouldn’t always have to hide.
When I finally made it home, the familiar warmth of the cottage, and the quiet presence of my father, wrapped around me like a comfort I hadn’t known in so long. Yet, even here, the sting of their rejection didn’t leave. But that tiny spark of hope, fragile as it was, remained. Maybe one day, someone would see me for who I really was.