THE WHITE WOLF

By John Thomas Tuft

The first time was when Jackson was five years old. Lying in the bottom bunk because the top one was too high up, he tried to hide his quivering lip, holding back the river of fear that washed through him at night. The dread of the first footfall on the stairs, the stale smell of beer and cigarettes wafting before the shadow looming in the doorway. The slithering sound the belt made as it was pulled through the loops and the inevitable, ungodly sigh of “Why do you make me do this?” Born addicted to cocaine via his mother’s placenta, Jackson…