A knife rises...

There's nothing scarier than the sight of an abandoned baby stroller in the middle of the road, from a distance, you swear you can see a tiny waving hand, but as you get closer, the sounds of the baby cooing are nothing more than a raven cawing, pecking at the broken glass eye of a doll. The stroller, from a distance looking bright and colorful, now faded with time, webbing strewn from the handles to the floor. A covering a dust that's so thick, it takes many wipes of the hand before you see the cracked, stained wood underneath. your eyes trace over the thing, taking in the horrific sight. Inside the stroller, underneath the broken baby doll and the distracted raven, a blood stain the size of the average toddler, in the middle, a rather large cut in the fabric.

What kind of monster would ever dream of doing this?
That's when you see the knife in your hand, the blood long since drying up into a dark reddish brown caking, the knife showing the beginning signs of rusting over. You mind flashes to the day, the hour, the minute.
Was it you?
Were you the one that killed the baby?
Or were you the avenging parent, taking your rising vengeance upon the person who stile your babies life away before it ever had a chance to begin?

The memories fade in and out, screams, cackles, laughter all jumble around as twisted carnival music plays in the distance, almost as if some long forgotten organ grinder was slowly approaching you. But you knew the truth, there's no one traveling these roads anymore. Not since the town became like a cemetery, the windows to each of the buildings shuttered, boarded shut, the lights, only flickering when electricity dares try to pulse through the sometimes broken wires that were upended in the ensuing chaos.

You.. you had no choice in the matter. It was either them or you... Them or you.

The memories come quicker, like a video taking forever to buffer, a patch of rough edges brushing against your minds darkest corners. Locked away, deep in the dungeon of trauma, trauma from then, trauma from now, trauma from everything. It clicks, the rusted, ancient locks shatter, falling to the psychological ground as you begin to realize that the murderer... wasn't a murderer, but your brother, trying to hold the baby up away from the wolves that had begun running amok.

So many others had lost during that time, so many others had to die. They took him down, their teeth gnashing away at the fresh dinner that they had fought hard over. you scarcely had to blink before the baby was gone, in your blind rage, you run to the nearest butcher shop, grabbed the largest blade, and followed the bloodied trail the wolves left for you. Almost as if they were baiting you to be their next meal.

You knew after the earthquake that it was a total break down of society, the town cut off from the world in every sense, the order broke down, and soon, everyone had to make tough choices. The weak minded were the first to go, either becoming victim to the stronger, or their own depression. Bodies fell, and soon the sounds of heavy piles of meat hitting the ground from everywhere at once had become normal. either that or the screams of those unfortunate enough not to know better.

The wolves had planned it perfectly, you brother still screaming in writhing agony, begging anyone to just end his pain, his eyes locked onto yours, that pleading sensation, that panicked sickening feeling. The wolves would've continued gnawing away at the exposed bones in his arms and legs till they snapped and started work on his torso, you did what needed to be done, and your anger and rage stirred all the more.

you mind clicks back into place, the bloodied, abandoned baby stroller still inches away from your feet, the long knife heavy in your hand, encrusted in dried up sweat from long ago. You haven't had the strength in that hand to uncurl your fingers, to let it go. Fear, paranoia, trauma. The eyes of the wolves track your every move. Not the wolves from then.

As fast as it clicked into the present, your mind slams back to the moment when it became perfectly clear there wasn't anyway out of the situation. The wolves bared teeth, snarls, snaps, and threatening barks, their tufts of hair standing on end, they looked at you as only prey, a potential meal. And you at them as only ways to stay warm and remain fed.

The first leaps at you, jaws wide, teeth bared, eyes focused at only your throat. A quick reactionary jerking motion and you plunge the blade straight through its head, a quick whimper and it falls to the ground. The rest of the wolves launch themselves at you en mass, and you, take out many without injury, their corpses piled around you, sometimes on top of one another.

After what seems like hours, only you and the eldest wolf remain. Eyes locked, teeth bared, inhuman growls roaring. Your skin blood stained, some of it your own, most of it the wolves. The eldest wolf has scarring all over its body, telling a tale of many fights, some victories, some losses. The scar over its snout, a long tooth mark starting from the back of its ear and curving just under its chin tells the tale of a hard fought victory.

Just when you think it'll attack, its simply walks forward, its eyes cautious, locked on yours. your heart skips a beat as you imagine this last show down your last. It sniffs at your hand, growls a few times, ears flattened, teeth still bared, still snarling. Then it calms down, and licks your hand to clean it. You pause a few moments, your fight or flight instincts still screaming out and then you fall to your knees, and finally, you pass out.

When you next wake, you see the eldest wolf laying by your side, lifeless. There was no fight, but it must have passed away while you slept. The eldest wolf knew not to fight, its own time would've come sooner or later, and unlike the younger of its pack, it was in no rush.

you rest a while longer, using its body for some kind of comfort, the smell of dust and dirst and smoke filling your nostrils as you sleep.

You mind clicks back to the present, you raise the knife, unsure if you want to swing it or let it fall. Your fingers begin to uncurl from around the knife handle, the first time in months.

A knife falls...