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You like men. You think. You're old enough to know what you like, you're old enough to feel like there's nothing you can't do, and who's to say you can't kiss a boy? You like the boys at school, they make you blush when they say you're so smart or so brave for chasing after criminals when your aunt's store was robbed last weekend. So you like boys.
There's a man who comes by the store every day when you work there after school, and you think you like him too. He's so old, (you giggle at the thought, twenty-seven, practically a dead man walking) but he's so handsome, with a gun on his hips and a rugged beard and sharp canines peeking out when he smiles and the way his eyes gleam when he talks to you. He invites you to see his guns one day, claw-like hands on your shoulders making your cheeks heat up, and you're just barely old enough to vaguely guess what it means, so you go.
(It hurts, but you don't think too much about it. He tells you it hurts just because it's your first time, but you'll learn.)
(You'll learn.)
Your cousin really hates him, probably because you two are doing something immoral. He's always telling you that a man that old is bad news for you, always sending your friend death glares from the sidelines when the man makes you laugh and treats you to a cold drink. So you start avoiding your cousin, because he can never know you're a—a freak. A fag. Something weird and wrong and monstrous. You both went to sunday school together. Not that you believe in it anymore, but you're sure he does. Who doesn't?
(It's okay, you tell yourself. Your friend reassures you he knows how ugly you are deep down, but that's just fine, because he's ugly too. You can be ugly together. You're safe when you're with him. Just him.)
(Just him.)
(And you're such a goody two shoes, of course you can keep a secret.)
The man stops coming by after a couple of months or so, he says something under his breath you can't quite catch, something about how your family ruins everything. You probably fucked something up, between you and him, because suddenly he's cursing your family name and baring his teeth like he's dying to tear you apart, and you think he could kill me and throw my body in a ditch with a temper like that. Your cousin gradually stops talking to you as well, flinching at hearty meals and your friend coming by and making weird noises of discomfort at night. Now you're sure you must have fucked up.
You throw yourself into hunts with Grandpappy because if there's one thing you do well, it's shooting. You're such a damn good shot, forget ten paces duels, you can win at a hundred paces. You can do anything (except kissing boys and talking to your cousin because you fucked up, it's all your fault), you can ride a horse and you have the eyes of a hawk and the mind of a snake. You can be a lawyer or a sheriff or anything you want (except a sinner). And maybe if you're good enough people will ignore the monster in you.
Your cousin slips out of the house every now and then when he thinks you're asleep, just as you once did for your stupid little rendezvous. You itch to talk to him, to confront him with what he must have found out by now, to scream at him to do something about it already. Get it over with now.
His shadow slips into the forest. You follow, as you always do.
There's a wolf in the forest. There are always wolves in the forest, but your grandpa raised you right and taught you to tell apart wolves and monsters, and you know by the unnatural twitches that this one is no mere wolf. You raise your rifle and of course you shoot it down. Missed the heart but you got it in its hind legs, and you go in for the finishing kill, prove your worth and make everyone proud of you so they'll never know what a freak you are, and suddenly there's no wolf anymore, just a dead man and your cousin, your no-longer-friend is dead on the floor, face of a man and claws of a wolf and throat torn out, your cousin whimpering like a dog—like a wolf—and wagging his tail—he has a tail, oh god—and canines dripping with blood and so so scared because you're holding a gun to his head and I'm holding a gun to my cousin's head my cousin killed my boyfriend my cousin killed my friend who hurt me and I'm holding a gun to his head—
(He's a monster. I'm a monster.)
You're Claude McAvoy, you're fifteen, and you've never felt so helpless before.