Hybrids are a sin against nature's perfection. I know it in my bones before my eyes even open: the world splits neatly between lambs and wolves, prey and predator, order and chaos. But me? I'm both. A grotesque compromise. And every morning is a reminder that I don't belong in either camp.
I wake with a jolt, fist connecting with the cold metal of my alarm clock. Its jagged edge bites into my knuckles, an unplanned baptism in blood. I taste copper on my tongue and wonder if it's real or if my body's tricking me—another cruel twist. The room is murky, the dim glow of a streetlamp sneaking in through the gap in my blackout curtains. Shadows crowd every corner, as if they've been waiting all night to swallow me alive.
"Shut up," I hiss at the clock, voice hoarse, as if I've been screaming in my sleep. Maybe I was. The dream still claws at my mind: a lamb clinging to innocence, a wolf sneaking in the orchard's shadows, the rustle of leaves before the knife of fangs. And the hybrid—me—born from a monstrous union. A birth that should have never happened.
I swing my legs over the bed's edge, feet brushing against the frayed rug that's lost most of its color and dignity. I can't trust this body. Coat of wool so pristine that everybody treats me like a walking blessing. Soft curls that scream "innocent lamb," designed to lull predators into a false sense of security. But that wink of darkness behind my eyes? That they can't see. Not yet.
I shuffle to the bathroom, every step measured because I'm afraid my tail might twitch and give me away. The hallway lights flicker as I pass, and I swear they're trying to see through me. I reach the cracked mirror—my own funhouse horror—thousands of spiderweb fractures multiplying the reflection of a girl I barely recognize. Every splintered shard shows a different version: a terrified child, a snarling wolf, a stuck-up princess who thinks she's better than everyone. Which one is me? None. All.
"Good morning, sunshine," I whisper, leaning too close. My breath fogs one tiny fragment of glass—maybe because I'm cold, maybe because I'm dying. I examine my eyes: the whites are tinged with red, veins like the branches of a dead tree. Am I sick? Is this from the poison ivy I deliberately munched last week to look more "vulnerable"? A dry cough, a constant hack—I love how people nod sympathetically when I cover my mouth, never suspecting I laced myself with toxins just to feel something other than this gnawing emptiness.
I open the medicine cabinet—its door creaks like it hates me—and find the stash I've bled for: pills borrowed from kids I bullied into compliance. Steroids from one, antipsychotics from another whose body I fat-shamed until he cried enough to hand them over. Their names are smeared on the bottles in my chicken-scratch handwriting: "Take 1? 4? 5?" I can't even remember. Doesn't matter. More is better. I tip five orange capsules into my palm and shake them down like dice in a desperate gamble. The bitter coats my throat. Already, a hush settles over me, as if the world is too polite to interfere while I slip back into my safe, dopey haze.
In the mirror again, my teeth are still a little sharp—even after meds—but my lips curve into the sheepish smile that fools everyone. I practice it until it's second nature: gentle, demure, just enough pink to remind them I'm harmless.
My uniform hangs on a hook: a crisp blouse stitched with the academy's crest, the hem reaching indignantly toward respectability. The skirt and knee socks I leave for the boys to stare at—objects to be ogled, nothing more. I've learned that blending boyish chic on top with girlish softness below is the perfect camouflage. It says, "I'm one of you," while whispering to the real me, "Don't fuck this up."
My paw—no, my hand—hovers over the buttons. I tug at the collar until it sits just right: loose enough to hide the tension in my neck, tight enough to suggest propriety. I smooth down my hair, though I know in a second it'll get mussed by my tail's restless fidgeting. I patch the hole in the sleeve of my blazer with a scrap of matching fabric, careful to hide the cheap stitch. If anyone sees that, I'd lose my rep. My rep is all I have. My rep keeps me alive.
Down the hall, the elevator dings. I almost don't press the button—too loud, too attention-seeking. But I need to get to class before sunrise. It's only 4 a.m., that early? The hall clock reads "04:00" in harsh red digits. An hour before I usually crawl out of bed. Fantastic. Two hours of precious sleep gone. That's fine. I'll survive. I've survived worse. The academy's corridors are empty, the silence so thick I can hear my own blood pounding in my ears. I tell myself I'm being cautious. They could be watching. Every echo, every shiver of light across the linoleum seems like a debt collectors' footsteps.
I count the floors—one, two, three—willing the elevator to stop. Down to the lobby. The scent of mildew from last night's rain seeps through the vent. My stomach knots because I'm going to breakfast alone. How many eyes will examine me? My heart hammers against my ribs. I picture their faces: pity, hunger, curiosity. I don't know which is worse. Sometimes I think they want to rip my wool off, just to see if I'll bleed lamb's blood or wolf's.
The doors slide open with a pneumatic hiss that sounds almost orgasmic. I pause, breath held. I half-expect a guard to step in, asking for my ID, my muzzle, my papers. But it's empty. The lobby's long benches are empty. The early sun is a pale crescent in the window, making the marble floor look like a frozen lake. I'm the only ripple. I force my legs to move forward.
Each step cracks under me. I hate this building—the way the windows glare like broken teeth, the way the walls feel too thin. Everywhere I go, I sense judgment pooling in the corners, like poison waiting to drain me dry. But the cafeteria is the next stop. People will be there soon, making small talk, exchanging gossip—plans for the fall formal, who got the best grades, who's dating who. And here I come, the perfect sheep, all innocence and fluff. They won't suspect I'm a wolf. They'd lose interest if they knew. I'd lose everything.
I can almost taste the cottony lies waiting for me: smiles, compliments, the hollow "good mornings." I'd kill to believe any of it was real. But it's all smoke. The truth is I'm a monstrosity, an accident of nature, living on borrowed kindness until it runs out. And one day, someone will see through me. And when that happens, this façade will shatter like the mirror—every fragment showing a different lie, a different danger.
Until then, I play my part.