Girl In The Red Coat

Constantine and Magnus, they never woke up from their dreams. Their parents found their bodies in their own beds, covered in blood. Constantine was bleeding from his stomach and Magnus was bleeding from his chest. No doctors could ever explain how or why they had both died or how they had received such terrible injuries.

Chapter 2.
I was just like any ordinary teenage girl, hating having to deal with changing from a child to becoming a woman. I could not stand that my body was transforming. Like my friends, I had to get to grips with the idea of what lust and love actually was, that boys would be going through similar changes themselves and dealing with matters differently to girls. I had often heard of strange theories that some boys and girls who went through this change would develop animal-like instincts, even becoming wolves! But as far as I was aware, this hadn’t happened for centuries. An ancestor of mine had left a journal from her encounter with one of these human-wolves – a werewolf – and told of how he protected her from an evil clan of wolves that wanted to take her purity. The victims of this particular werewolf clan were chosen selectively, carefully. This event in my ancestor’s life was the last time that it was known that a werewolf had existed. But I was never convinced that this was true at all. I know how terrible events can manipulate the mind to believe something is happening, but it isn’t quite how they remembered it. Who would have thought that people turning into werewolves could actually happen!
But. I could not have been more wrong.
Looking back at what happened still haunts me and I imagine that it will for the rest of my life. But it has made me the stronger person that I am today.
And if it had not happened, I would not have him, my protector.
I still remember, as if it was just yesterday.
My name is Grace Kennedy, and this is the story of what changed me.
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It was Friday the 6th of September, a warm and hazy Indian Summer Day. The sun shone brightly in the crystal blue sky with shimmering white, cotton-like clouds. The faint smell of freshly cut grass lingered and a soft breeze blew through the air. Even though it was lovely and warm I still chose to wear my favourite red coat. The material was not that thick, as it was made from nylon. It had big, red, solid buttons on the front along with a lovely red belt to tie around my waist. My favourite thing about my red coat was the deep hood that covered my hair, fully.
My grandma gave me the red coat for Christmas, and I felt safe and secure wearing it. She presented the coat in pink, glittery wrapping paper with a silky golden bow that was tied beautifully around the present and I instantly fell in love with it. I treasured the red coat as though it was of huge value and wore it only on rare occasions. One of these occasions was my first day of college, which felt auspicious enough. I knew it would be scary starting somewhere that was so unfamiliar and that the coat would comfort me.  I was new to the town as my parents lived on a farm in the middle of nowhere, so as you can imagine I was nervous on that first day.
As soon as I walked into the classroom where I would be studying a course in dance, the other students nicknamed me ‘Red Riding Hood.’ The remark was not nasty at all; it felt more like a friendly welcome. I smiled at the students who called me this new nickname thinking that this would be the best opportunity to make new friends. Each one in turn introduced themselves and made me feel very welcome. Although I had told them my own name, I would always be called, ‘Red Riding Hood.’
The classroom was a huge, open space with a big oak floor. The walls were all mirrored to practice any dance steps as you watched yourself. Along the centre of the mirrors hung vertical, recently carved wooden bars for ballet dancers and for doing leg stretches for warmups. I instantly loved this classroom, it was just so open and spacious, and I knew right away I would fit right in, this would be my safe haven to run to.
My tutor was a middle-aged woman. The first time I saw her I felt petrified as she had such a stern look on her face. Her jet-black hair was tied up into a bun, with a huge baby blue bangle surrounding it. Her hazel eyes were always focused as though she was trying to catch us out on any mistakes and to admonish students who were misbehaving. Her frame was well-toned, and she had long flowing legs; it was obvious she had many years behind her as a ballet dancer.
‘Hello everyone, my name is Miss Hogg and I will be your tutor over the next two years of your Diploma in Dance. I will teach you the many variations of Dance and how you can move your bodies in the way you never could before.’ Her voice was high-pitched but friendly.
During Miss Hogg’s introduction speech, I remember looking over at the classroom door and seeing a figure gazing through the window. I could make out the person was male, but I could not see much more of him as it was quite dark on the corridor outside the classroom. For a moment I thought he was staring at me, perhaps maybe he was or maybe just looking at the person next to me. Yes, he must have been looking at the person next to me, as I did not have a clue who he was, especially as I did not know anyone around this