Bread and Wine: A Dark Twist on Little Red Riding Hood
Lupar knew exactly what needed to be done. The bitter taste still lingered on his tongue—vile, yet strangely sweet, like a bizarre blend of prunes and moisturizer. He sighed deeply as he felt the presence of the old woman settle in his stomach. She had agreed to his daring plan, but only on the condition that he give her a knife—should anything happen to him, she promised she’d have the courage to cut her way free from his belly. Though frail with age, Lupar trusted her grit and determination.
Next, Lupar rummaged through the wardrobe, searching for clothes to disguise his fearsome form. His first choice was an old sundress adorned with faded floral prints. He pulled it over his furry torso, partially concealing his tawny fur. Adding a turtleneck beneath the dress, he inspected himself in the mirror. Not bad, but then reality struck: who ever wore a sundress over a turtleneck? A scowl crept across his muzzle. He hastily removed the outfit, already sluggish from carrying the grandmother within him.
His gaze landed on a pink nightgown and matching nightcap. It covered much more of his form, and he pulled the garments on tightly. Still, his disguise was imperfect. Opening his mouth, he attempted to communicate with the grandmother, who seemed to understand his guttural noises. She handed him a pair of spectacles, which he carefully wiped clean with the nightgown before placing on his head. The world blurred through the lenses, further complicating his deception.
A knock sounded at the door—no time for further adjustments. Lupar leapt into the bed just as the grandmother let out a soft whimper, unsettled by his movements. He prayed she would stay silent long enough.
“Come in, dearie,” he called in a trembling elderly voice, pulling the covers to hide his snout as the visitor entered.
Standing there was a girl of about thirteen, her long black hair framing sharp blue eyes. Draped in a red cloak—so the stories said, to hide the blood—her hood was drawn tightly around her head. She exuded danger.
Lupar’s mind flashed to the packmates he’d lost, the lives claimed by this very girl. He could faintly smell the steel of a knife tucked inside her cloak, though his fuzzy vision made it impossible to see clearly. He strained to peer over his glasses.
“Nana, I brought you bread and wine!” she announced, voice sharp and excited.
Lupar raised an eyebrow—what kind of guardian let a child carry wine? Still, he feigned warmth. “Bring it here, dearie. My stomach’s rumbling with hunger.”
The rumbling came not from hunger but from the grandmother’s anxious whimpers. The girl approached the bed, tilting her basket to reveal the half-empty wine bottle. A mischievous hiccup escaped her lips.
“Nana, let me cut some bread for you. It’s fresh, and smells so good… Nana? Are you alright?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“What do you mean, dearie?”
“Your eyes—they’re so big today.”
“Oh, just these glasses. They make everything look larger.”
“But you always wear them. Today they seem especially big.”
“Well, maybe I’m feeling a bit ill. Come, feel my forehead.”
Lupar immediately regretted the suggestion—foolish detective that he was. The girl’s gaze sharpened as she reached out.
“My, Nana, your forehead is so furry!”
“Young lady, I assure you I am not furry! Perhaps you’re unwell and seeing things wrong. Let me check your head for fever.”
She shook her head, hand drifting toward the knife at her belt. “Nana, I have something for you.”
Lupar’s heart pounded, a silent prayer to every god he knew. If his end came, at least the grandmother would survive. She had always been the true target.
The girl stepped to the bed’s head and extended her arms. “Nana, give me a hug?”
Summoning all his courage, Lupar nodded. “Come here, dearie. Hug your Nana.”
As she embraced him, he felt the swift movement of the knife being drawn. He tried to push her away, but she was stronger than she looked—trained for this moment. Her knees pressed firmly against his elbows, pinning him helplessly.
He watched in horror as the knife plunged into his abdomen. A muffled scream escaped him.
Only the tip of the blade protruded—bloodied and shining. The grandmother’s knife, thrust from inside, had found its mark. The girl collapsed, clutching her wounded arm, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The wolf opened his mouth wide, and the grandmother crawled out from his gullet. Both were bleeding badly, but alive.
Lupar reached beneath the bed for his first aid kit, binding his wounds to stem the bleeding. He tended to the girl’s injury as well, who sobbed quietly in shock at her own actions.
Struggling to stand, he cuffed the girl’s wrists. Known among the wolves as the Red Ripper, Little Red Riding Hood would now face justice. He saw fear cloud her eyes, the dawning realization that she would never again feel freedom. A wolfish grin curled across Lupar’s lips as he collapsed back onto the bed, knowing that, at last, the nightmare was over.
Moral of the Story
True courage is not measured by strength alone but by the willingness to protect the innocent and face the darkness within. Even when trapped, hope and bravery can carve a path to freedom.
