Christina shook a little in her jacket, the sleeves were just a tad too big and she watched as they trailed ahead of her trembling fingers. She knew what was coming; she knew that one day it was going to happen, yet why was she so scared?

The fear's pathetic she thought, she was no longer that timid girl that hung quietly behind the twins, no that had changed a long time ago. Now the world was different, now there was only one thing that existed, the wolf. She was still there, she thought, somewhere deep and fading, but still there. The wolf had taken her though, it had entered her veins and became her very essence; draining the humanity out of her petite frame. Her thoughts hadn't been her own since that day in the forest, she noted. Now every word her mind let escape were laced with blood and urges.

She had memories though. And sometimes when it was late at night and she was at that spot in life where one is dreaming yet is awake all at once, sometimes she could go back and remember her old self. It was a scary thing, seeing herself walking through the halls at school, that silly little worn leather notebook glued to her arms, her long untamed brown hair curtaining her face. She remembered the kids in her class; she remembered stupid childish jokes and profane images scribbled on the backs of others binders. She remembered days spent shadowing the twins and nights played out laughing at gossip that seemed so utterly human now. Those memories would always erupt ghosts of feelings in her. Sometimes she would cry silently, and sometimes she'd grip the blanket around her, knuckles flashing white, until the feelings past. It didn't matter anyway, because the next day she would walk on autopilot through school, a corpse of herself playing the Christina that once lived. Except this new Christina would look at her classmates, but she wouldn't see them... she would see their blood. She would see their blood, dark red and heavy, pouring from their screaming mouths. She would see gashes in their bodies and their frantic eyes darting around as teeth cut through their bodies. Her teeth, that little was clear. She would feel the sensation of fangs scraping bone and shrieks piercing too quiet night air. She would smell their life pouring out onto the grass as she left them there to be found and cried over.

Yes, she would see all that while the teacher mulled on about insignificant test scores. And when she came across someone whose blood screamed at her, she would know. Her wolf would know. That'd be the next body to be found. She would dig her nails into her palms and bite her lip until her own blood spilled out, maybe it was the old Christina fighting it, or maybe it was just the excitement of it all. And when the twins' blood curdled in their scent and drowned her nose Christina knew that their throats would be the next ones to hang from her teeth. This one her old self tried to fight,however. This one had the human Christina clawing at nothingness from the pits of her own body. The twins were her best friends, her sisters. They had done nothing, they had cried for her when she had nightmares, they had helped her get a date with the boy she always looked at admiringly during class. Yet the wolf saw none of this. The wolf manifested a hate of their very being. Of the way they walked confidently through the hallways, twirling their blonde hair between their fingers. The way they giggled at everything, or the way they cared too much about what shirt they should buy next. And then before she knew it Christina had her teeth sunken into Alexa's shoulder while Alyssa shrieked a terrible noise from the corner. And then it was quiet.

And then there was no one.

And now she was her, shivering in her pajamas, in a jacket one size too big with Peter, the man she never seemed to stop loving, preparing her death. Part of Christina was scared but ready, ready for the world to rid of her new self; the killer she became. She thinks that must be the real Christina. The other part of her wants to tear Peter apart and let all the sickening stupid human souls in this room spill their blood. She fought both sides and sat, paralyzed, her tounge sitting heavy in her mouth. Her hair hangs white now. White from the wolf's blood coursing through her body, white from the sleepless nights screaming and yet making no sound at all. Peter turns to her now, his dark green eyes never fail to send her heartbeat flying she notes, even now. He doesn't even have to say anything, Christina already knows. She follows him; surprised her legs can even still carry the sinning body that has embodied her. He wants to know, she realizes. He wants to know how, he wants to know why. Why she went from the prying sixteen year old odd ball wondering the forest to the murderous werewolf that stole lives at night. He wants to know when she died and when this Vargulf had consumed her. And so, despite feeling like her mouth would never twitch again Christina told him everything. She laughed dryly a little here and there at the insanity of her own self. The real Christina seemed to watch this all play out, silently, crying invisible noise. She told him about how she had found him outside his ratty old trailer one night, passed out peacefully on a tattered hammock. She told him how she was curious, always always so curious. She couldn't help herself; she harbored a crush on the man since she first locked eyes with his. Christina told Peter how she had leaned over cautiously and stealthy, like a cat, over his still sleeping body and had planted the ghost of a kiss on his lips. She remembered the taste of the kiss; his lips had traces of beer and mint laced together. It was wonderful. Afterward she had felt so grown, so experienced, just like a future novelist should be. He was her first kiss, after all. She told him in shaky unbelieving words how she was in love with him, how she felt it deep inside herself. And then how she couldn't ever stop wanting more.

Curiosity killed the cat

The wolf giggled through Christina, laughing at the pettiness of it all.

That stupid fucking cat

Christina shook with blood red hate filling her vision. That cat was she, and that's how she died, she noted. The old Christina recounted doing endless research on werewolves. On the feeling of the yellowed paper pages of mythology books between her tired fingers. She recounted finding how one would become a werewolf. She explained in light broken words of finding Peter's paw print that day. Of unscrewing the cap to her dark red water bottle, and pouring water into the small indent with shaky hands. And then she had drunk. Just like the book told her to.

Stupid, stupid, stupid Christina.

She just wanted a story of her own. Everyone had such vibrant, colorful and intriguing stories to tell. And she was to be a writer after all. She wanted her own story. That's all.

She could still taste the water from she drunk from the paw print in the back of her mouth as she revealed this to Peter who started at her with stone green eyes, his expression paralyzed in disbelief. Christina could taste the bits of dirt that floated with the water as she reluctantly swallowed. She could remember praying that night, pressing her hands together so hard in plea for it to work. She didn't think it'd happen, but part of her belived that maybe their really was some magic in the world.

And then there was no more Christina. And then there was the wolf.

The end of the story had her breathless, her hands shook more than ever now, she felt a hot tear slide slowly down her paled cheeks.

The wolf was coming. She could feel it, she could taste it's blood filling her mouth. She fought the contrains that the transformation put on the real Christina, but it was to no avail. Blood was to be spilled, that she was sure of.

TO BE CONTINUED