A.N. — I have no idea where this came from. Originally, I meant to write a piece on a vampire (I wouldn't normally have added blood in a bit about a werewolf, but it kinda fits). This is completely different from my normal style, but I sort of like it. Oh well. There are two parts, and I posted the next as a separate chapter, but it's very SHORT altogether. See if you can guess who is talking? (That's a toughie.)
Disclaimer: Yep, you caught me! This is definitely JK Rowling's work and she just decided to post it on FFNet to see how people would react to it. Uh-huh. (Just kidding.)
To Be A Werewolf
Blood.
It's bloody addictive, really. It's a bit like taking those muggle drugs – that temporary high, that momentary flash of ecstasy. But honestly, that's all it is. Temporary. Momentary. Sure, it feels great while you're there, sipping it up, but afterward . . . Afterward the feeling is horrible, knowing you've done something that horrible to another living creature.
It's frightening.
Flesh.
Okay, imagine this. You've been wandering aimlessly around a desert for days with no food and no water. You happen to stumble upon an oasis, take a grateful sip of fresh water, and turn around. There, sitting in front of you on a silver platter, is a roast chicken. You can see the tendrils of smoke curling from the scrumptious parcel. What would you do? That's what it's like for me. Like I've been starving, and flesh is the answer to all my problems. I hate it, I really do. But hey, what's a starving guy supposed to do?
It's scary.
Bone.
I can hear them crack, breaking beneath the power of my jaws. It's an entirely too horrible sound, but I seem to like hearing it. The sound of control . . . The sound of power. Is it that twisted to derive pleasure from something so — for lack of a better word — grotesque? Many would think so. What does that mean for me? Am I twisted?
It's terrifying.
Pain.
Oh! Oh, the pain! Sometimes I think I would much rather be the one being devoured than the one actually doing the devouring. The pain would be quick, I would imagine — a simple twist of the neck and . . . SNAP! Your life is over. But no, I have to go through that transformation once a month, on every cursed full moon. Some unknown, raw, completely instinctive power seizing control of my usually-reasonable mind . . . Then, I can feel my skin begin to change. It starts to stretch beyond its limit and my own flesh tears, the muscles of a much larger being taking the place of an ordinary — or, not so ordinary — man.
It's indescribable.