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Sam…
Chilled by the damp morning air, Sam woke up with a jolt from a vivid, lifelike dream. In his sleep, he had been trying to leap over a hedge of blackberries as he chased a rabbit. Sam had jarred himself awake. Disoriented by the dirt, trees, and lightening sky, he was slow to orient to where he was.
The ground was cold and damp underneath him. Definitely not his own bed. His hand brushed across his bare chest and felt wetness and the faint scrape of dislodged leaves. Sam looked down at his body streaked with dirt and blood. His heart raced as adrenaline thrilled through him. Did he change? Had he done it?
There was blood smeared across his hands. Had he cut himself? Was the change the taste in his mouth? A thick fuzziness coated his teeth and tongue, the taste of pennies. He pushed himself to seating. Somehow, he had lost a toenail, and the exposed meat throbbed with the pulse of his heart.
The dream lingered. The aroma of rabbits had been a beautiful pink ribbon threading through the air. He’d followed it with such joy. During the dream, Sam had brought his focus to one specific rabbit, a tawny doe with a black spot on its ear. The doe’s heart beat staccato against his tongue when he caught it with his mouth.
The crack of its little bones he’d felt through his elongated jaw. The useless, frantic strikes of its nails landing on his chest doing no harm against his thick pelt. There were remnants of a real rabbit scattered around him. Tufts of fur. Entrails lay in the grass. So little was left. His excitement beat back the chill in his body. Some part of the dream had been real.
He was one step closer, a real step. Sam laughed out loud, not caring who heard him. His recipe wasn’t right yet, not perfect, but this was a start. He licked his lips, his teeth, tasting meat, marrow, and blood. He’d had a taste, a real taste. Elated, Sam threw his head back and freed his best imitation of a wolf’s howl.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
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Red…
Red didn’t even thank his coworker when he let him out in his mother’s yard. He was so sore from his first days back at work that it took all of his will to make his right leg take each step. Teeth gritted, he forced himself forward until his coworker drove away. When the car was out of sight, Red sank to his knees and wept.
There was no shame in the pain. Sometimes there was mercy in the release. The bullshit some people said about crying being weak was stupid. Stopping was for the weak. Numbing yourself was for cowards. When he could bare it, when the screaming in his body lowered to repeated shrieks, he crawled to the front door. When there was less moon, he would change and take some relief from the constant pain.
His heart shape had always been his most reliable shelter, and he longed to slip his skin and slide away from this broken body. Only a fool or someone suicidal changed during the full moon. How stupid could you be? Why not just change in broad daylight? Better to just go down town, where every stupid idiot could see you. Red would wait as long as he could. Until the dark moon, if he was able, when the night sky was satin black and full of stars like cinnamon on his oatmeal. Blessed were the darkest nights. Even the clumsy could pass unseen into neighbors gardens.
Red rested on the welcome mat, catching his breath, taking his time. He’d wait. He had to. No one in their right mind would willingly return to this broken shape. He thought of the brat and her laughing, sparkling eyes. When he remembered her walking into the shop, all theater and sass, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He could think of one reason, a stupid fucking reason, but a reason. The screen door lightly touched his hip, and he looked up at his mother.
She smiled down at him. “I thought I heard you come home. Are you hungry?” Their mother made no mention of the fact that he wasn’t standing. She knew, though. Her face was turned right toward him. When she changed shape, could she see as a bear? He’d never asked her. She released the door, so he could move it how he liked. She said, “I made a venison roast. Time to get it out of the freezer. Gotta make room for what you hunt this next year.”
“Mom, I don’t think I will be doing much hunting this year.”
“Bull poop, Son. I know you better than that.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Come on inside before things get cold. I don’t mind you being late, since you had to get a ride. Now that you are home, get washed up. Your chair was in my way in the hall, so I put it by the front door.”