Once my alarm clock blared, I sat up, and woke from sleep. I

yawned and stretched only to realize I was late for school.

My gaze came upon my favorite wolf sketch on the wall. It

was an all-brown fur wolf, with chisel, knife-like dentition, and offensive,

dare-devil claws. His buccal cavity yawned at me.

I winked at it, before hasting into the bathroom.

If you ask George High school about the only weakling they

have they all would point at me.

YES.ME

I am Greg, the only weakling and best artist at George High

School who was only good at sketching scary, colorful were wolves on a piece of

paper.

My parents regretted registering me in the science class. My

father, Doctor Greenfield often nagged whenever he drove me to school.

“You are a great artist. I wonder what you are doing in

science, Greg?

At some other time his nagging went thus, “Come to think of

it why do you love drawing werewolves?”

And then later, after school when I must have appeared at

dinner with a swollen cheek and a bruised face and black eyes, he would ask.

“What happened to your face? Where you bullied?”

The former question had mysterious answers; ones I couldn’t

fathom. You might ask me to sketch a cup; I might flop, but a scary, bogey

werewolf? Damn! It is a done deal. I wondered from where came my likeness for

werewolves.

Mom had quarreled me to stop seeing werewolves’ movies all

in the bid to kill my talent of sketching same.

As for being bullied, I always lied to dad.

“I had a rough play after school and I bruised my face,

dad.”

That had always been my saving lie. Naturally I was a

weakling. I often flinched at the slightest thudding sound, and those pig-face

boys used it to their advantage to dehumanize me. They hated me for being a

good werewolf artist.

Even the other day after Mathematics class, they accused me

of using my talent of drawing to snatch away their girlfriends and they beat

the Greg out of me.

Four times in a week, I often returned home with swollen

cheeks, black eyes or bruised face. I barely could mold a fist perfectly and I

was a prey to even the weakest of girls.

“Listen up, Greg,” Dad told me once the tyres on the car

came to a screeching halt, “No rough play today. Be a good boy, Greg,” he

advised me, gave me a knuckle and I dashed out to face my troubles and bullies.

I stood and waved at the only proud father I had. He was the

only person I was proud of in this life. He had a beautiful career and always

kept our heads up.

Dad was a zoologist and often than not, after work he returned

home with laboratory samples of deferent species of animals, with the aim of continuing

with his experiment in the mini laboratory at home.

Mom was a caregiver, perfectly good at wiping the wrinkled

asses of the aged, just to bring the money home.

I was raised by adorable beautiful parents who gave me

everything except protection and boldness.

Every morning whenever I came to school , whenever I saw

their deal-with-him faces, and threatening dark eyes , I wondered the day I

would become formidable and protect myself.

I was fade up of life; fade up being bullied by even the

fattest fragile kid at George High School.

What sort of fucking life is this?         

Immediately I waved at dad and swirled around to walk on,

one of them appeared at my path.

He was Kane, a red-haired Mexican brute that gave me the

first punch on my first day at George High. I would never forget that punch. To

date, I still saw the three stars that appeared in my eyes when he gave me that

punch. He was a ruthless bully and I often saw him my dreams bullying me too.

“Bring your ass over here, dog!” he commanded pocketed his

hand and held a scowled face, to hasten my weakling self to him.

I trembled, shivered like an albino-mouse and drifted my

vegetable self to him. Suddenly my lips trembled annoyingly, with endless jittering

of my teeth.

“Heh, the bitch is around. Welcome to hell werewolf artist,”

another brute, a Spanish motherfucker joined the show and hit my head.

He was Cole. A boy that forced me on my knees with mere

barking and I kissed his feet, and later wiped his sneakers with my shirt. That

was the embarrassment of my life.

Kane dragged my weakling self to somewhere between his legs

and sneered at me.

“What do you have in the bag?” Cole queried and dragged my

bag off my already sweating shoulders.

I was scared to mumble a word. My lips shivered as the

strings on a guitar. I remained humble and stared like a baby while they fondled

into my bag.

“Oh as usual, the dog has sketched new assholes.”

He was flipping through the collection of colorful

werewolves I had sketched. As though he knew, once he got to the page of the

most beautiful werewolf I had sketched and admired so much, he tore off the

page.

“What! No!” I yelled for the first time in my miserable

life.

It took me forty eight hours to sketch that particular

werewolf. Ordinarily I spent five hours to sketch a werewolf. That werewolf had

an all- brown thick fur, with a slight touch of grey fur on the head and belly.

That was the only werewolf that caught my fancy, and I

looked forward to putting it in a large frame and hang it on my wall.

I was lost in the thought of my adorable werewolf sketch

when they pounced on me as innumerable bees and beat me to a mesh.

I was left on the ground writhing in pain and weeping as a

new born baby.

Then suddenly a kid, who was all tears too, appeared at my

side. Obviously he seemed to have been weeping for me when they pounded me.

He gave me his hands to lift me to my feet…