The flickering light of the candle threw slashed shadows, so much like blood, against the walls of the ruined shack. Even in the dim yellow light the carnage I brought each month was plain to see- the ripped curtains; the splintered chairs (though barely recognisable as such); the gouged claw marks that split the faded wall paper; the black spots of dried blood, congealed on the bare wooden floor boards. It seemed an appropriate description for 'the most haunted building in Britain', though sadly mistaken. If it were simply marauding ghosts which plagued the house, my life, for one, would be much easier. In fact, it held a much darker secret: me.
I sat down heavily on the only useable chair in the building, with my knees spread apart. I rested my elbows upon my knees and my head upon my hands as I waited for the sunset's red and gold to fade to the black of night where the moon ruled the sky. I sat there in this manner for hours or minutes (time is impossible to separate one feels only dread and resignation) until the last rays of light gave way to the dark and the moon.
I felt the moon before I saw it; the growing ache in my limbs and the pain of my nails extending into sharp claws were obvious signs. I got up, grimacing at the pain in my legs as I did, and went to the window to watch the full moon rising. I missed its beauty, the wonder it had held for me as a child, the last time I had seen it with human eyes. I suppose I hoped that by watching the moon's rise I might delay the horrific change which lay ahead. Of course, it did not, and never had done. Even as the first of the moonlight bathed the horizon, my body answered its call. My back arched painfully and I fell to the floor, clutching my stomach. There was no time to recover, however, before the next jolt of agony sent me reeling as the bones in my forearms cracked, twisted and extended, then healed much more. I screwed my eyes tightly shut against the wall of pain which threatened to engulf me, but the change did not stop. The vague gnawing which I had been feeling in my head became a viscous drilling as my ears grew and became all the more wolf-like. Blood trickled down my chin as I bit my lip against the pain, forgetting how sharp my teeth had become. At once, my flesh began to tingle with increasing potency until a thousand hot needles punctured my skin and thick grey-brown fur covered my body. At the same time, my feet and hands stretched into crushing paws and I found myself unable to stand on two feet- I needed my hands (if you could still call them that) to support me. Finally, the white-hot agony found my face and its cruel fingers began to pull. I screamed but my voice gave way to a howl which echoed through the shack and into the night, and my awful moonlight did not relent. From then, I remember nothing. I suppose that's when I lost my mind.
**
Five years ago, my tiny village was been bathed in moonlight, and I could hardly resist its lure. It captivated me not only with its superficial beauty, but with its origins and potential. Even as a child, astronomy and astrology fascinated me, and I relished every opportunity to observe and to ponder the stars through my little telescope, which my father had bought for me on my seventh birthday. Although I was then approaching eight, it was still in excellent condition (due to the many hours I devoted to its care), and I saw no reason not to seize the moment to stargaze with it that night. Now, years later, I wish I hadn't.
I had hoisted my telescope over my shoulder, gripping the cold metal of its base with my small hands, and peered into my parents' bedroom. They were sound asleep, which was good (or at least seemed so at the time), as otherwise I would never have been able to leave the house at such an hour. I crept downstairs as quietly as I could manage with the slight hindrance of our creaking first step, and pried open the back door. We never bothered locking it anymore- the villagers were our friends, the neighbours our family. At first, I intended to set up on the back porch, but I could not see the moon properly from there, so I ventured further out into the well kept grass of our garden. It took a while to find the right co-ordinates and suchlike, but eventually I got a good fix on the moon. I marvelled at its rugged charm, wishing that one day I could tread on its fragile-looking surface that glowed like bone through the night's black.
That was when I heard the thing in the hedge.
I tore my eyes away from the lens to observe my surroundings. There seemed to be nothing there but empty space and moonlight, but then I saw the leaves of the hedge shift again. I was no idiot, even at seven, and I did not go to investigate the Mysterious Moving Hedge, I just backed away as carefully as I could, towards the safety of the house. I knew in my gut that if I got inside as shut the back door, I would be safe. Sadly, the hedge creature did not give me that chance.
Without any further warning, the thing in the hedge pounced on me. Even if it had been daylight, I'm sure I would not have recognised the creature for what it was. With two non-magic parents, and a preference for science and fact, I had little time to entertain the idea of werewolves. Perhaps, if I had, my mother might have lived a little longer. It wasted no time, and I soon felt its sharp teeth slice into the flesh of my left shin with a pain like none I had ever felt before. However, it seemed to lose interest in me once it had administered what I know now was a horrific curse, and it simply knocked me aside with one of its gigantic paws and left me, alone and bleeding in the darkness.
It wasn't until the following morning that my parents found me, lying barely conscious on the dew-soaked grass. Naturally, they took me straight to Accident and Emergency (the muggle equivalent of St. Mungo's) and had the bite on my leg looked at by a doctor. In retrospect, this was the only time I regret not being of wizarding parentage- if my parents had been magical, then perhaps they would have recognised the bite for what it was, and disaster might have been averted. Sadly, that was not the case. When asked what had happened, I said that I was attacked by a big dog, which seemed true enough to me and my naivety at the time. Though it was a nasty wound, I was quickly dismissed with a neat white bandage wrapped around my leg and a short course of antibiotics so that the doctor could move on to the next patient (an allergic reaction to a bee sting, if I remember rightly). When I was home, I was put straight to bed by my overly caring mother, and told to rest and to get better. I lay in my bed for days and days on end, getting up only to use the toilet or to pick up a different book from the ample selection on my shelf. No-one knew that all the while, the beast was growing inside me like a hideous virus.
It was only when the full moon rose the following month that we realised the true horror of the situation. By then, it was too late for my mother. As I had sat on my bed, feeling feverish and restless though I was not sure why, I felt the first splinter of change caress my spine, like the needle of a syringe. It was only moments before it came again, stronger this time, forcing a short gasp out of my mouth. It was not long before the pain became constant and unrelenting, surging sporadically through my limbs and twisting them to a crueller purpose. I could no longer hide my distress, and an agonised cry was ripped from my taut lips. The last thing I heard were the frenzied footsteps as my mother tore up the stairs before I succumbed to the blackness that had been tempting me since the pain began.
**
I had come back to myself at sunrise the next morning in the sitting room, with blood staining my teeth, my nails, and the once-pleasant peach wall paper. The splatters of gore were everywhere- I couldn't find a single surface in our spacious lounge that hadn't been touched by it. But there was no corpse in the room, though traces of it were everywhere. Still weak from the change, I had stumbled out of the room, partially on my hands and knees like the animal I had become, in too much shock and confusion to do anything else.
And then I found her, sprawled across the kitchen floor, in more than one piece. She was barely recognisable, her face mangled by unrelenting jaws. Deep cuts made by animalistic claws marred her entire body. To my horror, the marks were an exact mirror of my own bloody hands, which shook uncontrollably when I held them against the wounds. I might have thought it was my father who lay dead on the floor, if it weren't for the matted clumps of reddish-blonde hair nearby, not quite attached to her scalp. It was only then that the full force of what I had done hit me. It was like a battering ram, and I fell to my knees beside her, gripping the sides of my head as it felt as though it would split in two with the grief. I let out loud, ragged sobs of anguish and self-disgust.
I was so absorbed in my bereavement that I did not hear my father approach from behind me, a shotgun cocked against his shoulder. Only the slight click of steel against silver as he loaded the gun alerted me to his presence. I did not turn around, even as cold metal of the barrel pressed to the back of my head, slightly above the nape of my vulnerable neck.
"You... killed her. My wife! Your own mo-" his voice choked off into a cry of pure agony and the barrel of the shot gun slipped from its position, clattering metallically to the floor. I did not even try to suppress the tears, and they joined the others already sliding down my face.
"I'm so sorry, dad. I- I didn't mean to. I couldn't help it! Just-" I could not bring myself to meet his eyes, not knowing what I would find in their depths, so I whispered my own death sentence to my knees. "Just kill me, dad."
He did not speak, but his wails pierced the air, which was thick with the stench of fresh blood. With another pang of guilt and self-hatred, I realised how much more strongly I could smell it than normal, even in comparison to the sheer quantity of it. All of my senses were much more acute than they had been before the transformation, before the bite, before the loss of my humanity.
Eventually, his piteous weeping ceased, and his next move surprised me more than the gun barrel had. His arms, strong from the hard hours of work he did as a blacksmith, wrapped around my thin frame. I whimpered into his shoulder, his breathing not quite matched to mine, in disgust of what I had done. He held me, not leaving go for even a moment, the gun that had come close to ending my life laying abandoned on the tiled floor of the kitchen, until my sobbing also stopped, then whispered in my ear. His breath was hot on my head and neck, but nonetheless more than welcome.
"We'll find a way out of this, son. A cure for this nightmare."
Despite his kind words, my eyes stung with fresh tears of shame. I was surprised that I had any tears left, in the back of my mind, but they slid down my cheeks and into my mouth. I welcomed the hot salty taste, because it was not the blood that was grimed between my teeth and the blood that I could smell everywhere. I let them flow. I clung to my father, terrified of letting go, terrified to hold on. Terrified of having to face another moonlit goodbye.
AN: So... much... angst... *evil grin*
I hope you enjoyed it- please review and tell me if you did. Or you can send hate vibes through the review box. I don't care that much