Snapshots:
Disclaimer: Dan Curtis owns Dark Shadows, not me.
Author's Note: I apologise for the strange writing style, but frankly it was the only way that this would work.
This takes place… sometime in 1897 while Quentin is still a werewolf. It's a slot-in, but not around a particular episode or anything. Reviews welcome!
He remembers pain. It burns from the inside out, and he screams and twists in agony. There's the physical pain, making him feel like he's going to explode, and there's the mental pain.
He knows that something will happen that he can't prevent. He is unrestrained, but it's too late to do anything now. The pain is getting worse; it feels like he's bursting out of his skin. He is scared, he is terrified, and he is-
- filled with rage.
There are no human emotions left. There's rage – he feels so confined, and he's totally restless – so much rage that it would choke a human. He looks like a savage, and he'd be considered one.
He's moving around, roaming among the woods, moving quickly enough that the grass and leaves lash his face, and maybe they cut, he's not sure, but he thinks of blood anyway, he's already seeing red, and he wants to see it, maybe taste it –
- and then there are rivers of blood.
This is a flash. There are screams and there are he scrabbles, scratching and biting and fighting, and then there's no screaming anymore. The bloodlust calms but the red is still there, and maybe it's more prominent than before. Satisfaction overpowers him.
There are noises, human noises. Footsteps, doors opening. He knows he has to run, it's an instinct that runs right through him, and he turns –
- and he moans in pain. He opens his eyes, and the world is a blur, dancing around him as if it's running from him. As if it's scared of him too. Clarity returns.
Quentin fights to sit up. "What happened? Where am I?" he mumbles to himself, raising his hand to his head as if fighting off a headache. It feels strange. He glances at his hands, sees the red, now almost the colour of rust, and hopes this is a practical joke.
His clothes are torn. He feels like he needs to be sick. He aches all over, and the little fragments of memory seem to stick in his mind, sharp as a knife, reminding him what happened.
It wasn't him. It was the werewolf, he tells himself, but the blame still eats at him. This isn't the wolf; it's Quentin's guilt.
He stands up, momentarily disorientated, knowing that he has to get back to Collinwood. Maybe he can confide in Beth, but he doesn't think so. He can't put it into words.
Later, Quentin tries to drink away his memories with alcohol. It doesn't quite work, but it feels good, so he does it again. He starts off drinking to forget, but then he forgets why he's drinking.
And while he drinks, the memory fragments dig in deeper, unseen.