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The police and ambulance sirens grew distant as I ran for my apartment. To Cherry.

Memories collided to the point where the streets under summer night sky blurred between day and night, while buildings switched from shops to Irish farmhouses and back. I couldn't pin on why, but what I felt fifteen minutes ago started making me remember things I didn't want to remember. The fire, the blood, a desire to know where Thomas--

No. I couldn't go back there. I couldn't remember! Focus on Cherry. Don't focus on it...or Dad...or Thomas.

All the training, violence and carnage of the past seventeen years couldn't erase the memories of my old life. Of Markus Avallach. I couldn't forget the first seventeen years of my life in Northern Ireland, before the name was just another.

I was born in a town twenty kilometers northwest of Belfast, and Dad was an-ex volunteer of the Irish Republican Army during the Troubles. From what I heard, he was a dedicated Provo until he accidentally impregnated a local woman named Fiona McBride, forcing them into a marriage neither wanted. He and Mum were Catholic patriots--Dad more in particular--who believed Northern Ireland belonged with the Republic and distanced themselves and me from any Unionists who dared to show pride to the British crown.

"Them Englishmen are the devil's minions, Markus! Ya hear me? They took our culture, our honor and our identities as Irish! You're no traitor, are ye?"

"N-No, Dad! I'm no traitor!"

SMACK!

"Dad, please--"

SMACK!

Between the 'harsh discipline' I was subjected to as a cub, Dad's radical beliefs and Mum's opium addiction, we could barely afford groceries or clean clothes. We didn't even celebrate birthdays, or at least, couldn't afford them every year. I rarely talked to anyone at the local school, for fear of incurring my parents' wrath. Mum would eventually be arrested during a drug bust, and be sent to prison, leaving me on my own with him.

My teenage years were spent avoiding home beyond curfew, being forced to endure Dad's tirades against the English and sitting alone in class. Although part of me yearned to escape this life, I grew accustomed to the beatings and isolation. I felt so alone...

...until Thomas Wright appeared in class one day. He was a handsome English Bullmastiff, whose family emigrated from Winchester for job opportunities. Dad's rambling teachings, mixed with my closeted nature, prevented me from befriending him for about two months. On the third month, he befriended me by accident when we accidentally went to the same movie theater on the very same weekend.

"Hey, you're Markus A...valk?"

"Avallach, uh...actually."

"Sorry...It's nice to see you outside class. I don't see you around that much."

"...sorry. My parents...they..."

"They're strict? I understand."

"..."

"...so which movie are you going to see tonight?"

"...Britannic."

"Wow, you're going to see Britannic too? Want to sit next to me?"

"...uh, sure. Sure, I'd...I'd love to!"

So we did, and after the movie (which made us cry, even though both of us were lads), Thomas and I began to spend time more at school. We were surprised about how much we had in common, despite my lack of hobbies and his excess in them. He played football on the team, I wandered town until sundown, he wanted to become a doctor, and Dad wanted me to volunteer for the I.R.A. Still, our friendship grew since that night, to the point I talked to him nonstop before, during and after our classes. What turned into a crush became friendship and eventual yearning for the Bullmastiff by my side. I even dreamt of us committing sinful acts.

"Mfh! Ah, Thomas! Thomas, yes! You feel so good inside me!"

_ "Oh, Markus! Yeah, good wolf. Good wolf, you're doing well!"_

_ "Ahhh! Ah, Thomas! I...I love you!"_

_ "Grr, I love you too! I--mfh!--love you so much!"_

Gasping awake, I'd look under the covers and groan at the mess in my underpants.

In 1998, the Good Friday Agreement was signed in Belfast. The Irish Republican Army was no longer needed, since all residents in Northern Ireland were given the ability to apply for dual British and Irish citizenship. Yet despite the IRA's support for the historic treaty, ending decades of hostilities between Loyalists and Unionists, Dad's nationalistic anger could be felt on my bruises. He became more convinced of his radical ideals, making me further afraid of him.

However, not even I could have predicted what he would do next.

On the first day of the following schoolyear, I was surprised to wake up to find Dad (sober and) eagerly handing me my backpack after a tense breakfast. I should have realized how heavier it felt when walking into the building. Going to the bathroom before the school bell, I should have looked inside before placing it in my locker. I didn't though.

I should have known the monster would someday do this.

After the explosion, I staggered to my footpaws, horrified at the damage. While I was luckily far enough from the blast radius, many neighboring classrooms weren't so fortunate. Dozens of students and faculty were injured by the backpack bomb, while several lifeless bodies were covered in blood-soaked debris.

"Thomas? No, no, no! Thomas!"

An English Bullmastiff was one of them. Murdered by my paws.

As the ambulance sirens grew louder outside, I bolted for home and confronted Dad. The moment I saw the proud, arrogant wolf smirking in the kitchen, listening to our radio about the terrorist attack, I absolutely lost it.

To this day, I cannot remember how many times I stabbed him with a knife. However, I do remember his begging, and how he pleaded for mercy as I gutted, sliced and clawed at him until I grew exhausted. All that remained of my father, an intimidating, feared wolf, was a pile of crimson-drenched fur and flesh.

In that single moment, through the devastating agony, I discovered my new ability to kill.