Little red riding hood
She feels the painful (sweet) transformation cracking her spine, slipping into a hazy anger when it reaches her ribs and she is almost afraid to move because - this is not fucking her and she is not her sister but, but, but. She is hungry and she can already taste the blood on her teeth and the slip into the deeper parts of her mind with darker desires of hot blood and bones and breaking and sexrapewhat'sthedifference.
Something inside of her, a fragment of what she once was, bares it's teeth, remembers some of it's old human intelligence, arms itself with that as efficiently as it's (her) claws and teeth and strength and anger and hunger.
Little red riding hood went walking through the wood, she thinks, regaining human consciousness but the pain is warping her mind into what the werewolf is. What her sister is. She can see her sister, red hair streaked with white, sullen face bored and cynical, mouth forming sharp words - B, don't you want this? You should try this sometime. It feels so -- good letting go
Then the mind that has taken over, intelligent and crueler than Bridgitte's ideas could ever be, makes her hands crack and pop and shriek, bone against bone, and Bridgitte's shrieking too deep down, but this is too far to stop now.
Her hands grip the trees, and she swings down, awkward and unabashed in her new, beautiful, strange wolf-yet-not-wolf form. She lopes towards the trailer-park scent of cookouts and oil and gasoline and metal, lingers in the brush closer to the people.
The scent of the people sends the taste of blood in the back of her mouth, on her teeth, and the gnawing, painful hunger, but she is not stupid - to hunt is to not get fucking killed, and Ginger looks on with mild approval, crouched next to her. She sees a man wander away, drunk, shouting that the call of the wild had phoned him and he was going to go into the woods to heed it, answered with loud laughter.
The hunger did not discriminate, and the hunger did not ease, and she had to eat and she had to eat now because Ginger was smirking, a cruel slash of her mouth, hand on her hip in the confident way that she gained after the bite, after the blood and the quick, sharp breaths she took in that room covered in blood and being tended to by Bridgitte.
And Bridgitte was screaming inside, angry and helpless and cold because she did not know how long her werewolf change would be, if she would ever become human again to frantically get wolfsbane and the semi-cure.
The man was soft with that hard undertone of a camper, just the way It liked soft meat and tender muscle, and that thought made it's stomach hurt with the Hunger, because the hunger was insistent and demanding and it would not be satisfied with a single man (why not all of them and then some)
He was wearing a red shirt, and that made it lurch forward in almost-surprise and want, and it shone easily through the woods - he made it fifteen feet before she fell on him, heavy and loud (he was too drunk to hear her claws scraping and the thud of her paws on the branches and the creak of the branches and then switching to the ground) and -
AND SHE TORE AND RIPPED AND -
And when she was done, his shirt was still red and so was the rest of him.
And the hunger was not satisfied.