Feral

by Melissa Darcey

We’re trapped in a maze of tract homes lined with identical green lawns and red mailboxes, white minivans freckling cement squares: the picture of domestication. It’s no surprise we don’t fit in. The lone wolf, as they say, only not by choice. Our kind aren’t meant to be alone, have no desire to sit with our thoughts in silence. When we find one another, we form our own pack of packless females. No moms, no dads, no siblings, and especially no males. Those are the rules. 

Awake and hungry, we stalk sleeping homes at night, rummaging through refrigerators. The purr of the condenser blankets the sound of our mouths masticating a three-day-old pork chop, teeth puncturing the tough meat, overcooked and dried out. We destroy the remnants of a family dinner we weren’t invited to because you are a bad girl, because you have no manners, because you need house training. Momentarily satisfied, we paw at our faces, erasing the remains of grease and mustard, before creeping out the back door. 

Only in the middle of the night are these streets private. No Mrs. Nichols frowning and picking up the phone when she sees us roaming the cul-de-sac. They’re back, causing trouble again, she’ll say to the voice on the other end of the line. No Mr. Rankle shooing us out of his yard, threatening to spray us with the hose next time if we come back. No one likes the wet dog look, he laughs. 

We snarl, ears pulled back, but everyone knows our bark is worse than our bite. So we reserve our neighborhood prowls for those hours after dark when we can finally have some peace and quiet without the fear of being hunted, chased down, and leashed. Scavenging trash cans, we excavate treasures and yip in delight at our findings: crumpled receipts from adult video stores (surely Mr. Rankle’s), coffee-stained love notes from Mr. Nichols addressed to a woman who isn’t his wife, uncorked wine bottles. Forgotten sips sit at the bottom of the bottles, and after lapping up the last drops of a pinot noir, we whine for more. 

Playful and warm from the wine, we dart across front yards. Trampling flower beds and scratching hoods of parked cars, we’re desperate to displace the bedlam that burrows into our brains, to transplant it to the external world. In soft patches of grass, we roll onto our backs, submissive only to the moon, the one entity we dare let inspect us up close. We’ve learned the hard way about the dangers of vulnerability. We trust no one, not even ourselves, so when we confess our secrets and fears and desires we never offer one another advice; just listen and nod. The words hang heavy in the silence. 

When the awakening sun paints the inky sky pink, we creep back into bedrooms wallpapered with posters. Half of them are pieced back together with translucent tape, the rips reminders of our sharp claws, of the mess we can make when instigated. Collapsing in bed, our nocturnal selves crave rest. We don’t bother to bathe, don’t mind the stench of sweat and hormones. All we want is to disappear into dreams until the moon replaces the sun. But mothers push bedroom doors open, cutting short our sleep, to bark commands. It’s almost noon, what’s wrong with you?

So many things, we want to say. Instead, we growl, drag duvets over our heads, chuck Converse sneakers and swear-laced insults like grenades at our intruders until we’re alone again in our dark room, this cage we walk willingly into each day because it is our territory. The only place in this world where we are alpha. 

Teenage girls don’t have to be raised by wolves to be feral. We grow up right here in the suburbs on diets of Cheetos and self-loathing and a hunger to make sense of this world where so much seems out of reach, on too high a shelf. We remain restless and low to the ground, orange-crusted fingerprints staining miniskirts and lip gloss tubes, marking what is ours.

This is just a phase, our mothers reassure one another over brunch.

Published October 24th, 2021