Family - by Tessa J. Brown

[mad_docs_of_lit]

It’s the screaming that gets to me. The blood isn’t much of a problem anymore—I’ve never been squeamish. I used to think I might make a good doctor. What a laugh.

But it’s like I said—the screaming is the worst part. The fear. All the stories tell you that a werewolf can’t remember what it’s done, that the people don’t even know they’re monsters; that’ s bullshit. When you change… It’s a bit like being drunk, really. There’s always that small part of you, sober as ever, that shouts at you from the back of your mind, that watches you lose control. Of course, when you’re drunk, it’s just watching you talk like an idiot, kiss people you shouldn’t, and then fall down—in the grand scheme of things, that’s really not so bad. Me, I try to stick to unpopulated areas, places that no one in their right mind would come to, places full of marshes and bogs and things that bite (other than me, of course). But still, they come. Stupid. There’s always some poor bastard who thinks that this fetid, pestilent swampland would make a lovely spot for a romantic moonlight picnic, or a bit of camping. There’s not much I can do at that point.

If I spot them before nightfall, I do my best to scare them off: horror stories about dead campers, tales of mad beasts and eviscerated wildlife. The clever ones don’t even need that much; they just look me in the eye and start packing up. But there are always a few… a few who listen to the stories and think it’s cool, who laugh at the dumb hick. Little fuckers; I’ve got an MA in English Lit. But what really gets me are the kids. Dragged out to the middle of nowhere by their idiot parents—they’ve got no choice in the matter, no chance of getting out. And I like kids.

They pulled up in a pick-up truck, blaring music—I don’t know what it was, but I know I didn’t like it. It gave me plenty of warning, at least. I could tell this was going to be trouble. The driver oozed an overbearing sort of machismo. I watched him get out of the truck, dropping a cigarette butt onto the ground, and grinding it out with the heel of his boot. Maybe he was just stopping for a few minutes, to stretch his legs. I waited and watched, hidden among the thick, tangled branches. He lit another cigarette, and stared around grimly. Well, I thought, at least it’s too damp for a forest fire.

He walked around to the back of the truck and pulled out a couple of bedrolls. Damn. Not a pit stop, then—and he wasn’t alone. As the man tossed the bedrolls onto the ground, I saw the passenger door open—a kid, maybe seven or eight years old, lowered himself carefully to the ground. He was so small that I hadn’t seen him in the cab of the massive truck. He was extremely pale, with wide, worried eyes; he watched the man, his father I guessed, cautiously. They had the same chestnut hair and deep brown eyes, but the resemblance ended there. The father’s eyes were cold, disinterested. He paid no attention to his son. I found myself watching the boy—as I looked more closely, I realized I had misjudged his age. He was eleven or twelve at least, and terribly small for his age. He had walked round to the back of the truck, and pulled out a large khaki green pack.

I took a breath—time to do the crazy local routine, and see if I couldn’t get them to clear off. It was about an hour to sunset. I didn’t have time for this. I stepped out of the woods silently; there’s no harm in startling them, trying to make them feel uncomfortable from the start. The boy noticed me first, but he didn’t say anything. He just watched me as I walked towards them. The man looked up several seconds later, and gave a start, then glared. He folded his arms across his chest, pushing his biceps out, trying to look bigger than he was. He wasn’t the kind of guy who appreciated surprises. All the more reason for the two of them to clear out.

I waved, as I walked up, trying to look both friendly and concerned at the same time—it’s not easy for me. I used to be a pretty good looking guy, but the longer I’m out here, the more I look like a deranged, filthy version of Yosemite Sam. Without the hat, obviously; I still have some taste.

He stepped forward, and I noticed that the boy stepped away from him, moving just slightly towards me. Interesting. I stopped about ten feet from the man, and stuck my hands in my pockets casually. All friendly here, eh?

“You folks planning to stop here for the night?” I asked—I frowned just a little, trying to send out bad-idea-vibes.

“That’s none of your goddamn business,” said the man. Aggressive. Definitely a bad sign. This guy wasn’t going to take advice well.

I shrugged, palms open, slightly gormless grin plastered over my face. This used to be my aren’t-I-a-sweet-guy expression, but I’m afraid it’s looking a little more like aren’t-I-fucking-crazy these days.

“No offence intended, sir,” I said, “I just thought I’d let you know we’ve had some animal attacks in these parts lately. A couple of people got killed a few weeks back, and nobody’s been able to spot the thing that did it. Sleeping rough’s a little risky.”

The man’s lip curled into a sneer. Damn. I should have tried reverse psychology, but it’s never been my strong suit and besides, this guy struck me as the sort who would take anything that I said as a challenge of one kind or another. He reached into the back of the truck and pulled out a shotgun.

“Don’t you worry about us,” he said, “We can take care of ourselves.”

I very nearly rolled my eyes. This wasn’t the first time some idiot had shown up with a gun—hell, if he managed to pull it out in time, it wouldn’t even be the first time I’d been shot. I don’t know whether the silver bullet thing is a myth or not, but it’s a moot point—I’ve never run into anybody who carries silver shot. Bullets sting, but they don’t do much more than that, beyond getting my attention when I’m in that state. I don’t know if a bullet would kill me when I’m human, but I wouldn’t bet on it. I shrugged, my hands open, my smile still on the gormless side.

“Plenty of folks around here carry guns,” I said, “but it hasn’t been doing much good. If I were you, I’d head back into town.”

He glared at me, holding the gun loosely.

“If you’re so worried about it, maybe you should head back into town,” he said, “It’d be too bad if you got into trouble out here.”

Great. I glanced down at the kid—he looked anxious. Hell. There was still some time before sunset. Maybe I could get far enough away from their camp that I wouldn’t find them during the night. It had worked before, though usually with more time to spare than I had then.

“Suit yourself,” I said, and walked back into the woods. I paused for a moment when I was out of sight and glanced back at them. The boy stepped towards his father tentatively.

“Dad,” he said, “Maybe we should listen to him.”

His father looked down at him contemptuously.

“Shut up, Calvin,” he said.

Shit. Strike three. I could feel energy coursing through me as nightfall approached. I turned and ran into the woods, racing away from their camp, leaping across streams and fallen trees, trying to put as much space between me and their camp as I could. The sun was setting, a vivid red light filling the woods. What was I running for? I couldn’t remember—I felt as though my head were stuffed with cotton wool. My legs were shifting underneath me, my body closer and closer to the ground. Too soon. I wasn’t far enough. Far enough from what? I fell onto the forest floor, and the first convulsion ran through me. I whimpered. The strange, fuzzy detachment of my mind did nothing to numb the bright, clear pain as my bones snapped and reformed. You’d think, after all these years, that I’d be used to it, but it hurts just as much every time. I’ve never had a particularly high pain threshold—before all of this, just stubbing my toe was enough for at least fifteen minutes of self-pity and recrimination. But this… every full moon, my body rips itself apart and reforms. Every full moon, all the bones shatter and heal again in new, unnatural forms. It feels as though they’re going to rip through my skin, and my skin is already on fire—the hairs pushing through it feel thousands of tiny needles digging into my nerve endings, each one a unique, unbearable point of pain. It’s no wonder it leaves me in such a bad mood; I just wish I could control that temper. And the hunger. Some part of me remained detached: I could hear myself screaming—a strange, high-pitched sound, somewhere between a wail and a howl, utterly inhuman, and utterly pathetic. The sound of an animal in pain—couldn’t someone put it out of its misery?

And then it was over. I was relegated to a small corner at the back of my mind, trapped behind my own eyes. I could smell everything. This part… this part I love. It’s as though for the rest of the time, I’m completely colour blind, unable to see any of the richness and variety in the world. Even as I write this, I can’t really capture what it’s like to smell like that. It’s a faint memory, a vague sense that right now, there’s something missing, that there’s a whole world that I don’t have any access to ordinarily. If this had never happened to me, if I had been able to carry on and live the life I had planned, I would never, ever have been able to imagine anything like it. And some part of me almost thinks that would have been worse than becoming a monster.

I turned my head this way and that, testing the air, searching for something, anything that might sate the hunger burning in my gut. In the back of my mind, I whispered desperately, hopelessly, Stop, wait, find a rabbit, a deer, a bear, anything, just don’t turn around. And then the wind, the goddamn fucking wind, shifted, and my nostrils were filled with the smell of humans and of cooking meat, rich and savoury and irresistible. Without the slightest hesitation, I turned and raced back towards the camp. The woods went past me in a blur, and the scent filled my nose, getting stronger and stronger—I was so hungry. I was so angry.

I reached the edge of the clearing in seconds. I stopped at the tree line—somewhere at the back of my head my humanity was still screaming at me to stop, to turn back, to do anything but go forward into that clearing. I never had a chance. I paced along the edge of the woods, looking out from between the trees. I’ve always been a cautious animal. They had lit a fire a few feet away from their truck, and the man sat staring into it, eating messily from a small pot of stew. His son sat several feet away with his chin resting in his hands, waiting for his turn with the food. A low growl built in my throat. I didn’t like fire, but it wasn’t going to stop me, either.

I could feel my hackles rising. I padded around the clearing, getting as close to them as I could before revealing my presence. I saw the boy glance up, frowning. He looked around at the trees, peering between them as though he heard something, felt something. Run, I shouted at the back of my mind Get in the truck, get up a tree—run! He stood up slowly, and took a step towards the truck.

“Where the hell are you going?” his father said, and the boy stopped, frozen by indecision.

No, damnit! I thought as I burst out of the trees. The man jumped up, the stew falling from his hands and into the fire as he stared at me in dumb horror. He gave a shout and ran for the truck, leaving his son alone in the middle of the clearing. I stalked forward, snarling. The boy didn’t move. His father had locked himself in the cab of the truck and was fumbling with the ignition. For once I felt no sympathy for a human I was about to kill—he had abandoned his son entirely. The kid was absolutely still. I inhaled deeply and let it go in a huff. My lips pulled back from my teeth and a string of saliva dripped down onto the forest floor. God damnit, I screamed silently, Why don’t you go after the bastard in the truck?

Just then, the man finally managed to get the keys in the ignition and the truck roared to life. It spun in a wide circle, and then headed for the road. The distraction was enough. I knocked the boy aside and bounded after the vehicle with a howl. Its tires spun uselessly on the gravel road and it fishtailed out of control. I launched myself at the windshield—I went through the glass as if it were paper. I was in luck this time; he only had time to scream once.

I climbed out of the cab of the truck and licked my chops. The boy was nowhere to be seen. His scent led me to the base of a large, ancient tree. Its thick trunk was bare of branches for at least the first 20 feet: how he got up there I’ll never know, I guess adrenalin can do a lot. He stared down at me from about fifty feet up—he looked more confused than anything else. I paced beneath the tree for a while, growling, but I wasn’t hungry enough to try scaling it anymore. Eventually, as dawn approached, I lay down and went to sleep.

When I woke up, he was back on the ground. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t gone anywhere near the shattered truck that held what was left of his father. He stared at me with… what? Fear? Concern? Sympathy? He’s not a talkative kid, and I’ve never been much of a mind reader. He wasn’t running or screaming, anyway, which I’m pretty sure would be the natural responses. There was a small scratch above his eye, and my heart sank. Maybe it hadn’t been me. Maybe it had happened when he was climbing the tree, or maybe he had bumped his head on a rock when I bowled him over. But I could feel it: inside of him, things were shifting, changing. By the next full moon, he’d be as much a monster as me.

He’s sleeping now. I took him back to my little cabin, got him some food. I don’t think he’s afraid of me. Maybe he’ll come to hate me for what I’ve done to him, if he doesn’t already hate me for what I did to his father. But maybe… maybe when he sees the world as I see it just that one night a month, when he can smell all of the colours, see the beauty that comes along with the madness, how bright everything is, how it shines and how little we realized it before we were irrevocably changed… Maybe he’ll forgive me, just a little.


Copyright

Tessa J. Brown

"Family"

© 2011, Tessa J. Brown
Self Published
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