When I was little, my dad worked in The Werewolf District.
He told us—and we honestly believed him—that there was an area in downtown Dallas called The Werewolf District, where real-life werewolves lived. He said it was dangerous. He said, you should never go there at night because that’s when the werewolves came out.
A few times, we visited his office on weekends, and he’d point them out to us. They sat at bus stops. They walked under bridges. Large, hairy men; we were safe from these burly creatures from inside our chevy. He could spot them, he said, even though we couldn’t. I had absolutely no reason not to believe him.
Mythology
The mythology from my childhood is full of these stories. Vampires writing Anne Rice novels. Pretend imaginary kingdoms my best friend and I could travel to. A secret lab hidden under my friend’s bed. Light-as-a-feather, stiff-as-a-board. God.
Then, I grew up. My mythology crumbled. Yours probably did, too. Your parent’s misguided attempts to control you are revealed. “Don’t drink coffee, it stunts your growth.” “Don’t have pre-marital sex, it’s a mortal sin and you’ll go straight to hell when you die.” It’s safer to dress modestly. You’ll fall in love and live happily ever-after.
What’s hidden is so much darker
Why do we lie? Do we tell ourselves stories about the future to cover up the past? The present? I’m getting older. I’m walking straight into the werewolf district and I don’t know the way. I know they’re out there. And, I know I’m lost. I can tell myself a story about it. To feel better. But, it doesn’t have the same power anymore.
The world is still full of dark and terrible things.
