The itch returned that night with greater, unbearable intensity. Impossible to ignore, it kept him uncomfortably awake, though he certainly tried to draw his mind from it, staring up at the painted balcony of his bed in the flat light of the full moon.
A slice of pain snapped his gaze to his arm which had been the victim of frenzied scratching. Blood began to ball and flow where he had worn through the skin, bleeding more and more until he couldn’t help but worry. Fumbling, he lit one of his bedside candles for a better look at the cut but saw, instead, the concerning nature of his nails.
They had changed colour to a deep red and elongated, hooking towards sharpened points.
Nauseating panic thumbed in the base of his skull but was smothered by an oddly drowsy curiosity, as you might feel progressing a dream. Which of course, he laughed once, must be what he was in. He carried himself up off his bed and across the room, candlestick in hand. Towards the mirror, he realised slowly.
If the itch had been unbearable before, he lacked a word to describe it now. He wanted to scratch off his skin, peel it away until all he felt was pain. He could barely think above his discomfort. A voice inside of him was screaming but he couldn’t understand the words, like a body abandoned by the mind.
His reflection looked healthy, his complexion the rosiest it had been since his near drowning. As if nothing was wrong. Two pupils flickered as if to adjust to light but held no emotion, like the rest of his slack face. It was scary, nausea stirred in his throat. Everything felt so very far away, difficult to react to, he couldn’t make sense of anything, hold on to any memories of the last second. He felt helpless.
Tears began to swell beneath his blank eyes. They were dark, blue, like his mothers he was told, he lent closer and closer to the mirror. As if he was drowning again, didn’t know which way was up. Strength seeping away.
Then, his pupils changed. Became yellow slits.
Everything was blown up in colour, the candle was dropped to the ground. It was as if he was snapped out of the trance, everything was so in focus, every detail so real: bright as if it was day.
The choice to call for help was suddenly an option. But his mouth split open too wide; the corners of lips split open, continuing jaggedly up his jaw. It felt as if someone had taken a knife to him. All his teeth seemed to swell, growing pointed and pushing each other forward and back in his aching gum for space.
Next, his skin began to change, turning leathery and dry. Breath came out in tight, panicked pants as grey fur began to sprout along his forearm and neck, shifting to a darker colour as it burst from his stomach, merging into his nightshirt as if it didn’t exist.
There was an unnatural, furred monster in the mirror and, with blind rage, smashed the mirror before logic could catch up with him.
The itching stopped, replaced by a horrible twisting pain. His back arched as if it had been snapped, he collapsed on the floor squirming pitifully.
He struggled to say something - maybe a call for help, he was too far gone to really know any action before he took it - however speech failed him; instead a melancholy, empty warbling escaped his throat, like when you ran a wet finger on the edge of a wine glass.
It was like this: whimpering pathetically on his bedroom floor that thought abandoned him entirely and he was dragged into a wild unconscious.
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