The loud rumbling of an old clacking Harley Davidson motor tore to life, cutting through the serene peaceful silence of the coming morning.
As the first rays of sunlight peered over the hill they saw Clay loading his duffle bag onto an old dusty bike and checking over the relic.


Moments ago he had awoken with a splitting headache, poor recollection of the night and a strange girl wrapped in his arm. Nothing unusual there, but what he was missing was the overpowering residue of whiskey on his breath, that meant things weren't normal.

When it came to matters of the wolf Clay had learned to switch off, a defence or coping mechanism if you will. For they were different people, he couldn't deal with the things it had done, he didn't even want to know. 
He had spent over half his life running from it, drinking fighting and fucking his senses into oblivion just to hide from those blurry memories.
Like a multi hooked fishing line, when one comes to surface there are always more and deeper ones to follow. 

Clay could never risk facing them or the carnage he caused so he was quick to do the only thing he knew how to, run.
Run somewhere new where there was no one or anything to remind him of the things he didn't want to remember.


With plenty of practise, Clay had gathered his things and silently left the room.
Now Clay sat on the rumbling leather seat of the bike and twisted back the throttle, for a moment the bike let out a fierce roar that filled him with a nostalgic excitement, but it was suddenly cut short by a loud 'clack' as the bike stalled. 
Clay cursed angrily at it.