We stalked the halls of dead malls, ghosts before our time.
We lived by sense, taste and smell and sight, by instinct, lust and desire and rage. We were not quiet. We were not neat.
The world is a hunter of the monsters of girls, bent on filing sharp edges and shattering teeth and silencing wants and stifling impulses.
We hid in the shadows. We would not be found.
But we could not hide forever. We wanted more, wanted the world we were promised when the magic was real, séance sleepovers and mirror incantations. When the real world came after us, we transformed. We willed new selves into being, torn fingernails, picked scabs. Creation is rarely easy. We fed, feral, and, for once, we were not the ones disappearing. We grew strong.
You have to decide for yourself which rumors are true.
We stuck together, a pack regardless of the shape of the moon. When one was content, all were content; but when one suffered, all felt and shared her pain and the pain was both halved and doubled by the recognition, as it always is, as it always was, as it always will be.
They tried to separate us, to tame us, one-by-one-by-one.
They failed. A whole is always greater than its parts.
We changed, grew quiet fangs and hidden claws. We took what we wanted. We became what they feared us to be.
We became more ourselves.
Fairytales have teeth, too.
And you would be right to be afraid.