It’s Saturday, which means it’s time for our Resident Author to come back and share with us. Hi Taylor Anne Vigil, what delicious morsel do you have for us this week?
It’s a very personal essay, a look into her soul, but it also ties into her Guardian novel. I don’t know about any of you, but I’d love to see another chapter from that book! What do you good folks say?
For You Only
When I wake up, the other side of my bed is cold. My fingers grope for his fur, his paws, his tail, but all I can feel is the soft cover of the mattress. I sit up and reach to turn on the lamp that sits on my bedside table. A soft noise catches my attention. Standing there, in the doorway of my room, is my wolf. His presence, so sweet and wonderful, fills me with a sense of safety and affection. Until I see the blood. His body, his beautiful pelt, is covered with deep gashes and wounds. I tremble all over.
“I’m alright.” he says, very quietly.
He wags his bushy tail faintly, but I’m not fooled. I can see the pain echo across his bright amber eyes. He walks up to bed and leaps into his spot beside me. Now that he is closer, I can see the extent of his wounds. The worst is the bloody open wound on his neck. It is as if something, or someone, knew how to kill him. I reach up and touch his bloody ruff, wanting to comfort him, but not knowing how. I stroke his ears, his head, his back, my fingers tracing the old scars beneath his fur. He sighs with pleasure and leans his giant head against my side, his glorious eyes closed. The blood on his coat has dried and caked into his fur. It kills me to look at him, but I can’t stop. He has been with since birth, this wolf, guarding me with his life.
I love him for it.
I hate him for it!
“Why do you keep doing this?” I ask in a whisper. “Why do you keep throwing yourself in danger for me?”
His brilliant eyes open. His ears prick as if he hears something far from here. By now, his wounds are healed and have taken the form of ugly scars, adding to the ones he already possessed. I can’t stand the silence.
“Ember,” I say again, a bit louder this time. “Why do you keep hurting yourself for me?”
Finally, he looks at me, his eyes sad, his ears tilted back in a guilty sort of way.
“I do it for you,” is all he says.
It’s all he says, because he knows it’s all he needs to say. My wolf knows me better than anyone, perhaps even better than I know myself. He knows I understand, that I don’t want to understand, that I can’t bear the idea of him choosing my safety over his own. He is my angel, a guardian sent by God to keep me safe. Ember lived for me and for me only. I couldn’t bear it, yet I had to bear it. Because, as much as it hurt to see him hurt, I couldn’t imagine my life without him.