[CN: Involuntary transformations; marginalization]
I own nothing.
We're just outside of Beaufort and Port Royal now; I've not been to Port Royal Island since I was little, but it's just as I remember. Even at night, I find it hot, humid, and sticky. Still better than Thomasville, though. Albany's miserable at this time of year, and it doesn't even have a nice coastal breeze going for it. Just wall to wall heat and humidity, all summer long.
This is the third night of our trip. Cassie and Bridget both had leave coming, Bridget has a car, and I'm in-between jobs again—discrimination's not as bad here as it is in Britain, but a werewolf's still got a hard time keeping down a job here sometimes. At least, any jobs I actually care to take. The only ones that offer steady employment aren't the sort I'd call "reputable." Anyway, none of us had anything to do for a good month or so, so we just started driving north and east. We'll head up to Charleston tomorrow morning. I don't know where we'll go after that. Maybe turn around, go further south and visit St. Augustine. Should've done that first, really. Bridget's going to spend a fortune in gas before this all is over.
That's where all the major magical communities are in the South, you know, in the old cities on the coast. Savannah, Charleston. St. Augustine (imagine what the Spaniards would have said if they'd known what they were bringing over with them, along with Christianity and polio) and Pensacola. Wilmington and New Bern. Then you've got Biloxi and, of course, who can forget New Orleans? Old cities with the sweet smell of decay, and brimming with old spells and enchantments, if you know where to look and you have the eyes to see it. Magical communities co-existing with the Muggle ones, even if the Muggles don't notice us there. Well, most of the times. Some of my old classmates get drunk sometimes and set off magical fireworks on rooftops in Savannah. And of course the ghosts are all attention hounds. It's insane. They want to be noticed, and all I want to do is go unnoticed.
It's easier being in those cities, those communities, even in New Orleans, still recovering from the hurricane. They tend to be the places with Wolfsbane potion dispensaries. You see, the government declared that there must be at least one dispensary in each state; it was about a year after I was infected that they did this. Wolfsbane potion isn't easy to brew and if you don't prepare it right, the wolfsbane will still be toxic, and drinking it will kill you, or at the very least send you to the hospital for a very long time. Uncontrolled werewolves are a danger to society when transformed, they say—don't I know it!—and any werewolf should have access to the potion. So there is at least one in each state. In some states, there is more than one. George is one such state. There are three dispensaries: one in Atlanta (everything's in Atlanta; get used to it), one in Savannah, and one in Albany.
These dispensaries are convenient, for me, and for any other werewolf in the country who wishes to keep their mind during the full moon.
Ten years now, I think it's been, since I was infected. I was fourteen at the time, walking home from the convenience store. Yeah, yeah, I know, witches and wizards ought to be careful and not go out on the night of the full moon, but for Christ's sake, this was downtown Albany we were talking about. It wasn't some tiny little town in the middle of nowhere. You don't walk Slappey Boulevard and expect to be mauled by an uncontrolled werewolf.
The transformations are painful. Having to look at the scars on my face in the mirror is painful. But I think the worst for me was going back to school once summer was over, and facing everyone, and knowing that they'd know what had happened to me. You find out who your friends are, I'll say that. I'll say that, and no more on the subject. I know it's been ten years, and it shouldn't hurt anymore, but I don't want to say anything more.
Anyways, it was a year after that the dispensaries opened up. You have to register with the government and get a card—Dad wasn't happy about that; he said "But what if they decide they don't want to deal with werewolves?" and I sort of see where he's coming from. You have to get this card, see, because Wolfsbane's a controlled substance and the card's the only way you can prove you're a werewolf, short of waiting for the full moon to come out and transforming right there in the front office (I wouldn't advise doing that), but you get that card, and you get the potion free of charge.
In a way, I think keeping my mind during the transformations is worse than the uncontrolled transformation. I've only experienced the latter a couple of times in my life; I never properly remember what it is I did or didn't do while I'm in wolf-form. During those times, I always came back to myself terrified that I had hurt someone, that I'd infected someone the way the other werewolf had infected me, all those years ago. I would lie there, trembling, on the floor or in the dirt, naked and bloody and crying, not sure of how I'd gotten there or (before I learned to Apparate) of how I was going to get home. I would wonder if this was all my blood, or if there was someone else's mixed in with it, and I'd gone without injuring myself, only to kill or infect another.
But I do think it's worse to keep your mind throughout the transformation. When you keep your mind, you know what's happening to you. You don't let go of awareness halfway through the transformation; your bones are aflame with pain, and you remember every bit of it. And you look down on your body, and it's not the one you wish you had. It's got fur all over it, and you walk on four legs and you can't speak. That's the worst of it, not being able to speak. Still having a human mind, but finding yourself mute. All you can do is wait until morning, and try not to howl.
I haven't told my family yet, but I think I might move to Charleston. My parents have made it clear that they'll support me until I die (because the way it is now, I'm probably gonna die before them); Dad, I think, feels guilty, and I wish he wouldn't. But you know, last year, I met another werewolf, well, two, actually. Felix and Rosemarie, good friends now. Poor Felix has it worse than us, though; he was a Muggle before he was bitten. There's a werewolf community in Charleston, and they're part of it. I want to be with other people who will age too early, find themselves with gray hairs before they're thirty. I want to be with other people who aren't human anymore.
I don't want to watch Cassie get married and have children while I stay perpetually single and childless—the longest a female werewolf's been able to keep a child was four months before she finally miscarried (Jessica Halborn in Wisconsin, I think), and you know, I don't even know if I would have wanted children, but it's rather worse, not having a choice. I think that's what I want most of all, a choice.
Me and my sister, Cassie and Helen, twisted mirror images of each other. I look at her and see me without the scars. She's how I should have looked at twenty-four, but won't. I love her, I've never known life without her, but I think I need to get away from her too. Before the wolf comes out in the daytime, when the moon isn't full, and tries to hurt her then.
Cassie comes rushing down the sand and asks if I want to wade out a bit. I look up at the sky, frowning. No moon tonight. I don't really like the moon anymore; I can feel it tugging on me all the time, cruel and merciless. But the moon's empty tonight, bereft of all light. Somewhere else, someone else like me is screaming and crying and transforming right now, but here, on Port Royal Island, the moon is empty. I wade out into the brine after her, and I see no reflection of moonlight on the glassy black water. That's how I like it best.
So it's not that bad.