Night.
I look at my wristwatch.
Eleven.
The moon beckons with its silver hand. The thing inside me, I still do not know what it is, but it fights. It fights my very soul to emerge, to wrench itself from the very body that it dwells, so that it can reach out to the moon, to the darkness of the night. I cannot fight it for long. It’s too strong. I can feel myself fading away, my consciousness giving way to the primal mind that is slowly enveloping my own.
Eleven-thirty.
Where am I? My hands are smeared with blood. I do not remember the past half an hour. I seem to be in a barn of sorts. Animals lay dead around me, their guts strewn and spattered all over the barnyard floor in a river of blood that seems to flow freely from them. Dread creeps up my spine and my eyes grow wide. It is happening again, and I can do nothing to stop it. That animal, that…that thing inside of me. It did all this. I did it. But I am no killer. No. It doesn’t make sense. How can I possibly do such a thing? My hands aren’t strong enough to rip animals apart. And yet, I feel no pain in my hands. I do not feel pain at all. All my senses have numbed. All my emotions gone. I feel no remorse, no pain, nor do I feel sick. I can feel something throbbing in my breast. It seems to be eating, feasting on my life-energy. I feel drained. Faint. Darkness throws it’s blanket over me. I wish I could wake from this dream once and for…….
Twelve.
The sheer intensity of the pain searing through my body wakes me from my short slumber. It is unbearable. I can feel it in every inch of my body. My hair stands on its end. I feel my spine crack and I throw my head back in a silent scream. The pain is unbearable. I can feel a thousand knives cutting into each part of my body, slowly, pressing into my skin, rupturing each vein, twisting around inside me, churning my guts. My heart pumps irregularly. My body convulses forcing me to vomit. I barely see a mixture of my dinner and blood spattering the floor before I fall face first into it. Writhing on the floor, I try to cover my face with my hands wishing the pain to go away. My hands. I cannot not see my hands. Rather I cannot see what I know as my hands. The soft tapering fingers have gone. I can only see grey hair, all over arm, my palm, my fingers. All over my body. My fingers are longer, thicker. I can feel my nails harden, breaking and gripping the skin and flesh around it. Blood pours out of my ruptured veins and down my body. Loud cracks overwhelm my eardrums and with each crack I feel my bones rearranging themselves. Growing. Dislocating. Joining back. Muscles grow around it, pushing away the scraps of flesh left from my human form. A sharp tug from between my legs followed by a strong push on my buttocks off the ground forces me to turn over and lie flat on my stomach, thrashing on the floor. I feel only a sharp prick running through my deformed body before darkness envelopes me.
I open my eyes. The pain has gone. My vision clearer, better than it has ever been. I sit up, clenching and unclenching my fists, my claws clicking against each other. I feel muscles rippling through my form, and swish my tail. I feel no surprise at my changed form. Only satisfaction. And power. Power that I can never know in that feeble human form that I possess. I can smell fresh meat and blood all around me. I know I did it, and it feels right. This is how it should be with the world at my feet and me, the supreme predator. I look around and skywards. I can see no color. The world around me is black and white with the moon; the glorious moon the whitest and brightest of all, shining upon me. I arch my head back and send out a long and powerful howl, a welcome to the moon and a challenge to all those who dare tread in my path tonight. I can hear deer in the forest running away and human babes crying for their mothers. Ha! No mother can save their precious babe from my claws if I so wish to hunt them. But I have no such wish. I feel hunger of a different sort. A hunger for fresh meat. The mountainside is always full of game and I smell a fresh kill. With long loping strides and speeds to match a galloping horse, I bound towards the mountain forest on all fours, ready for game, and whatever this glorious night may bring forth.
I look at my wristwatch.
Eleven.
The moon beckons with its silver hand. The thing inside me, I still do not know what it is, but it fights. It fights my very soul to emerge, to wrench itself from the very body that it dwells, so that it can reach out to the moon, to the darkness of the night. I cannot fight it for long. It’s too strong. I can feel myself fading away, my consciousness giving way to the primal mind that is slowly enveloping my own.
Eleven-thirty.
Where am I? My hands are smeared with blood. I do not remember the past half an hour. I seem to be in a barn of sorts. Animals lay dead around me, their guts strewn and spattered all over the barnyard floor in a river of blood that seems to flow freely from them. Dread creeps up my spine and my eyes grow wide. It is happening again, and I can do nothing to stop it. That animal, that…that thing inside of me. It did all this. I did it. But I am no killer. No. It doesn’t make sense. How can I possibly do such a thing? My hands aren’t strong enough to rip animals apart. And yet, I feel no pain in my hands. I do not feel pain at all. All my senses have numbed. All my emotions gone. I feel no remorse, no pain, nor do I feel sick. I can feel something throbbing in my breast. It seems to be eating, feasting on my life-energy. I feel drained. Faint. Darkness throws it’s blanket over me. I wish I could wake from this dream once and for…….
Twelve.
The sheer intensity of the pain searing through my body wakes me from my short slumber. It is unbearable. I can feel it in every inch of my body. My hair stands on its end. I feel my spine crack and I throw my head back in a silent scream. The pain is unbearable. I can feel a thousand knives cutting into each part of my body, slowly, pressing into my skin, rupturing each vein, twisting around inside me, churning my guts. My heart pumps irregularly. My body convulses forcing me to vomit. I barely see a mixture of my dinner and blood spattering the floor before I fall face first into it. Writhing on the floor, I try to cover my face with my hands wishing the pain to go away. My hands. I cannot not see my hands. Rather I cannot see what I know as my hands. The soft tapering fingers have gone. I can only see grey hair, all over arm, my palm, my fingers. All over my body. My fingers are longer, thicker. I can feel my nails harden, breaking and gripping the skin and flesh around it. Blood pours out of my ruptured veins and down my body. Loud cracks overwhelm my eardrums and with each crack I feel my bones rearranging themselves. Growing. Dislocating. Joining back. Muscles grow around it, pushing away the scraps of flesh left from my human form. A sharp tug from between my legs followed by a strong push on my buttocks off the ground forces me to turn over and lie flat on my stomach, thrashing on the floor. I feel only a sharp prick running through my deformed body before darkness envelopes me.
I open my eyes. The pain has gone. My vision clearer, better than it has ever been. I sit up, clenching and unclenching my fists, my claws clicking against each other. I feel muscles rippling through my form, and swish my tail. I feel no surprise at my changed form. Only satisfaction. And power. Power that I can never know in that feeble human form that I possess. I can smell fresh meat and blood all around me. I know I did it, and it feels right. This is how it should be with the world at my feet and me, the supreme predator. I look around and skywards. I can see no color. The world around me is black and white with the moon; the glorious moon the whitest and brightest of all, shining upon me. I arch my head back and send out a long and powerful howl, a welcome to the moon and a challenge to all those who dare tread in my path tonight. I can hear deer in the forest running away and human babes crying for their mothers. Ha! No mother can save their precious babe from my claws if I so wish to hunt them. But I have no such wish. I feel hunger of a different sort. A hunger for fresh meat. The mountainside is always full of game and I smell a fresh kill. With long loping strides and speeds to match a galloping horse, I bound towards the mountain forest on all fours, ready for game, and whatever this glorious night may bring forth.
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1 comments:
now thats called passionate writing!.. you are so talented :)
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