“The werewolf is generally seen as a ‘hybrid’ figure of sorts — part human and part wolf — and its hybridity and transgression of special boundaries in a unified figure is, at very least, unusual, thus the figure of the werewolf might be seen as a natural signifier for queerness in its myriad forms.” (x)
They tell her she is the one keeping them together, lending them a shoulder to cry on and a fist in a fight. The one they know they can rely on. The pillar of stone in times of need, the break of the dawn just when the night is darkest. But she knows very well that nothing she ever does for them will outweigh the great privilege she has, to be friends with them.After all, her friends have always been the best of her.
She smells of stale air in November, half way between the cold rain your hair reeks of and the last sunny day of the year. Her clothes are drenched in the smell of cigarette smoke and coffee, and yet she manages to laugh so bright you’d almost forget how sad she is but she’d rather die than have you pity her.