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The Three Wolfish Sisters

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after the three witches in Macbeth 

 

My sisters trust me, complicity. I’m a third strand in a weaved plait: an
integral part of the braided whole. Without me, they wind around
themselves, coiling and twisting with malevolence. As a duo, they are
serpentine oddities, blindingly pointless.

Sometimes I muse whether they would smudge the other out like a
messy charcoal marking. Could they eliminate their own symmetrical
shadow by cursing or poisoning the other, blaspheming our sisterly vow?
Defying it would splinter it as the charred wood that bursts to mere
shards when set ablaze beneath our cauldron mind of collective
concoctions.

 

Am I the glue that joins our pack? Is it possible that I am the balancing
center around which they bend?

 

Yet, what could I be alone?

 

My power is greater. They know, having sensed it since conception in
Lucifer’s pulsating womb. Even within inky, shadowy walls, our triplet
differences shone. I remember them judging me with two pairs of unblinking
black-glass eyes, endeavoring to fathom my supernatural strength. I
sat enwrapped as a fleshy snail, endearing myself to them: forging a
tightly knit covenant as spun wool into yarn.

 

The whispers started near to birthing. Mere discontented ribbons, to
begin, echoed within Lucifer’s tinny womb. Within weeks, whispers grew

in stature as Hyde’s violent tyranny, breaking bounds of decorum.
Hissing, snarling, and chanting bloomed fruitfully from forming lips as
pitch-black orchids. Curses sat unmoving. Heavy anchors pulled
immorality to cruelly crack. As cubs their tongues were lethal daggers;
sharp points bled my skin.

 

As grown wolfish women, we still thrum together, pretending our
convenance is strong. Duping grown male wolves who believe in
otherworldly pacts, intimidated by strength in femininity.

 

Yet the truth is, I yearn for goodness. I always have. They know it,
keeping twisted lips pursed, cursing me with silent, unsaid words.