Love is a fleeting thing.

People like to pretend otherwise. They say it is the deepest sort of bond, that it is a feeling that reaches across distance and time to connect people. But that’s a lie. The truth is that love comes and goes in a blink. Gone before you can realize it’s started to fade, leaving only emptiness.

I used to be loved.

My village was small but bonded. We looked out for each other, and we were looked out for in turn. But all that care (all that love), could not keep danger from our door. Enemies and raiders—some looking to take our land, others just looking to burn it—ravaged us. We grew weaker by the day. People could barely take care of themselves, let alone each other. Something needed to be done if we were to survive.

I was the one who volunteered. I agreed to shed my softness for savagery; I traded teeth for fangs and calloused hands for claws. I learned to love the taste of blood in my mouth, hot and pumping. I fed on the flesh of men who stared at me in horror. I closed myself to their humanity, like they had done to us.

After each raid, my community surrounded me in celebration. They tended to my wounds and praised my strength. I was their protector. I was loved.

Slowly, peace returned to our village. Fewer raiders came our way, whether due to more desirable targets or the stories carried abroad by those who escaped my fangs. People slept easier at night; they no longer checked over their shoulders during the day. I continued patrolling our boundaries, ensuring nothing endangered home.

Each time I returned to the village, I noticed a growing unease among my people. Their eyes scanned my violent form before falling away. I had no wounds to tend, only unsightly scars. There was no praise of my strength, only an unspoken fear that it might be turned toward them.

I tried to reclaim my place. I did my best to be soft and gentle, but what I had done could not be forgotten. To the old, I was a reminder of a pain that could not be erased; to the young, I was a monstrous vestige from a time they could not comprehend. I stayed away, making the dark corners my home. I hoped, with time, things could go back to what they used to be, but it was impossible. The more peaceful the village grew, the worse I fit into it. My avoidance and knack for hiding in the shadows only led to more twisted stories. I was no longer a protector, but a monster.

My sadness warped into anger. I resented the sunny smiles of the people who had done nothing to protect themselves. How dare they abandon me? How dare they cast me out now that I was no longer useful?

I had promised to be what the village had needed. So now, I sharpen my claws on stones and tree trunks. I lick the spit from my fangs and watch the village. Any time someone strays, gets a little too close to the boundary of light and shadow, I take them. I’ve long since learned to enjoy the taste. Let them cry and scream and curse. It means nothing to me.

I used to love. Now, I hunt.