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The World Under the Moon

“AND THAT’S A CHOICE! NOT A CURSE!”

Seemingly bullshit rambling, a passing comment made in anger, a joke. Not the words that had become what he was forced to live his life by. Why would it mean anything? Werewolves aren’t real, right?

Mark had believed the same thing.

His childhood home had been bordering the woods, something he and his brother had loved. A quick escape. An endless stream of adventures, daydreams and challenges. A lot of injuries, but all in good fun. Mostly Mark doing things that he heavily denied to be stupid, although that was probably the case. It was sad really, ironic. The one incident that had been detrimental to the rest of his existence hadn’t been out of idiocy. Some could argue he shouldn’t have been out in the woods by himself, but he was so acquainted with the place he hadn’t thought anything of it. A young teen, storming out into the woods alone in anger. That was more accurate. Not idiocy, anger.

Mark had needed to cool off after a heated argument about something stupid he’d no longer recall. It hadn’t been important. Shouldn’t have led to everything. Sometimes he wonders if he’d just resolved the quarrel amicably if everything would’ve been better. But it didn’t matter. It was anger that had driven him to storm out into the woods one cold night. Away from everyone, as he sat alongside a body of water, throwing stones as far as he could. He made a racket with his tossing and frustrated mumbling. It had been an excellent way to let off steam, and when he had silenced and taken a moment to look around, it had been beautiful. Cold, senses alight with the smell of crushed leaf-litter and undergrowth. The world cool greys and blues, which contrasted all the heated rage that had boiled his blood moments before. A trickling stream, glowing bright with the light of the moon, almost hazy, ethereal in contrast to the dark hues around it. The scampering of creatures coming out in the night. It should’ve been a positive moment of discovery when he looked back on it. Some shit about how the world didn’t change with how you felt, it was constantly moving, that you had to take a moment to appreciate it yadda, yadda. He had been a stupid teenager, and even he could appreciate the solace of it. Alone, free, calm, quiet. Those were words that came to mind. Well, not alone. It wasn’t even quiet. Quick to discover it wasn’t even calm, or that he wasn’t free. He’d presumed in passing there to be a little mouse or something making its way through the damp, dead leaves littering the ground. On second thought, it was a lot bigger sounding than a mouse, now that it was closer, and he’d been paying attention, perhaps a stray cat? He stood despite himself, heart racing. That wasn’t a cat, hell, a dog? He could hear its ragged breathing, see the bushes disturbed across the river. Eyes glinting in the shadow, the shrubbery growling with malice. Had that, thing, been there the whole time? Stalking him? Awaiting opportunity? How had he not noticed its approach till now?

Now this, this was stupid. He ran in the opposite direction, not thinking about any particular escape plans. He hadn’t even considered running home, although that may have been more disastrous looking back now. He’d been slapped back into instincts, sudden adrenaline telling him to run from it. But there’s one thing you don’t do with a dog, and that’s run away. They consider it a game, a chase. Hell, that was probably what that monster had been waiting for. A good, fun chase. A moment of realisation where the victim bolts for it, and you get to show your strength in the hunt. Mark had reacted like prey, and, in that circumstance, he was. He was no longer top of the food chain, no longer angry and fearless. He was sprinting like a coward through the woods, unable to call for help as his brain shoved all useful oxygen into the task of running the fuck away. Immediately he heard the strong thumping of the beast following after, and that only edged him on to run even faster. He swore he heard it howl. What the fuck was it? A dog, coyote, a wolf? How the fuck would that be possible? This close to home? He didn’t have the time to explore such ideas, he had to focus on not slamming into a tree and meeting his demise through tooth and claw. He was sure this creature was messing with him, it certainly wasn’t running as fast as it could. It was luring him around in wild, panicked frenzy. Playing with its toy until it inevitably ran its batteries flat. Mark didn’t think it was possible for animals to think in such a sadistic manner, but it sure as hell felt like it when his lungs were being ripped apart with every breath and shuddering step thumping against the hard, uneven ground. Eventually he was going to slip up, and he liked to believe he put up a good fight. But adrenaline, as much as it’s a seemingly helpful high, it makes you jittery. Easy for him to slip up and trip on a stray root. He fell with little grace, body littered with cuts and bruises from the unending assault the forest had lashed against his skin, ripping his clothes. Right after he’d considered it to be beautiful. A slight, winded bitter laugh leaves his lips as he makes impact with the ground. Almost hysterical, eyes brimming with tears as the pain hits him like a blow. He can’t breathe anymore, choking silently after the impact his chest had made against the cold, compacted dirt beneath him. Mud and grime coated his front, useless attempts to spit it out leaving a pool of muddied drool and spit beneath his face. Of course, this was the dignified way he’d meet his end. The creature steadily approaching from behind, movements slow, lurking. Probably disappointed its prey had fallen so quickly, failed to entertain it for very long. Now pitiful, Mark dragged himself away, the second air flooded his lungs he flipped onto his back in a vain attempt to push himself away faster. The beast was now visible in its morbid glory before him. And it was terrifying.

Although hunched over, the monster had to stand well over 6 foot. Not a dog, human height. Its eyes glinted amber in the trickling moonlight. Cunning, but crazed. Famished. Dark, misshapen pelt, short and bristled. It crept closer on clawed paws. Its limbs long, gaunt, yet riled up to deal a blow that would undoubtedly gut him. And its face, wolfish, jagged teeth visible through its long muzzle. The fur twisted and sticky with the rabid spit forming along its lips as it bared its teeth. A creature he’d never forget. Burned deep into his memories, his nightmares. There was a pause, predator and prey eyeing each other down, before the inevitable lunge. Mark cried out, violently shoving himself backwards, the claws of the monster missing his vital organs, instead raking slightly down his hip and ending on his thigh with short, deep gashes, blood quick to pool and stain his pants that unending red. In an act of a blessing and a curse, the ground gave way into a gully behind him, and he toppled down into a ditch, his shoulder taking the blow with significant force. But nothing was broken. Adrenaline growing to mask the throbbing pain, he stumbled away again in a desperate haze. The creature should’ve been upon him. He couldn’t hide, he was shambling, loud gasping breaths, blood leaving a perfect scented trail to his location. But as the beast clawed its way down the gully to pursue him, it froze up, its head snapping to the side. A long pause of sniffing and whines, it howled out again, disappearing up out of the ditch once more. Mark left alone as he stumbled home in a frenzy, pained gasps through gritted teeth, heart palpitating in his ribcage, adding to the pains of his bruising. Unsure of the fucking miracle that had blessed him with his life, although looking back now, perhaps it wasn’t such an outstanding turn of events.

Mark hadn’t told his family, or his friends. He snuck back to the house as soon as he’d figured out where he was. In through the back window. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence for him to do this after an argument. A shower, with the towel shoved in his mouth to keep himself from screaming as the water met his bruised and bloodied skin, filling the gash with water, blood clearing to reveal a horrific sight. The wound felt as if it was burning, every fibre of his being screaming out in unison as he bit down harder, tears making sticky paths down his face. It wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, he told himself. Could’ve been bitten, torn apart and devoured. He doused the wounds in a tube of antibiotic cream he’d found in the first aid kit, wasting bandages in his pathetic wrapping of his wounds. A weekend to hide in long shirts and pants, wasting the family’s already limited medical supplies. All because he was selfish, angry and stupid. Why hadn’t he told them, you might ask. Because in his dumb fucking teenage mind, he feared the reaction. He might not be allowed in the woods ever again. He might be given a big fat ‘told you so’ as they wrapped up his wounds, or forced him to the hospital, wasting already limited money on something so unforgivably stupid. It wasn’t as if going to the hospital would’ve changed anything in the long run. Who was going to believe what he saw? A monster, a beast in the moonlight. All he’d hear was that he was in shock, that it was some dog. The wound certainly didn’t do it justice. But in his limited, generally unbelieving mind, he knew what that thing had been. The one definition his description fitted as he replayed the events over and over. That had been a werewolf. Except that was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. They were mythical. He wasn’t going to turn into some monster after getting a cut on his leg. He’d go about his weekend in silence, noting that the wound was in fact healing. Despite how his veins seemed to burn, there was no sign of infection. It healed up almost too quickly over a week, left with scabs and scarring. But he was irritable, quick to lash out, quick to break, quick to rant and rave and growl. He was scared at the change, and any dumb talk about puberty wasn’t going to cut it. It was stupid, Mark had thought, the idea that he was changing because he’d been scratched by a fucking werewolf. Mythology, not real. Even as he grew more and more hypersensitive as the month progressed. Even as the sight of the moon sent him into jitters, nights slowly growing more restless, filled with insomnia. Even as the wound despite everything seemingly being fine continued to pain him more, his veins alight with fire. It was just an unfortunate injury.

Something he could no longer believe that first night his body irrupted with spasming, unending agony, unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Hands clamped within his mouth, mauled and bitten and bloodied to silence his cries. Body shifting and growing and rewiring. Face pushing outwards, his clawed hands clamped into a fanged muzzle, covered steadily in dark brown fur. Joints snapping back and forth, as his arms and legs elongated. In a way that made him vomit to look back on, once the pain had died down, it had been glorious. The anger morphing into something new. Of course, the moon hadn’t forced anything, didn’t mean anything. When he was out in the woods, everything scampering to escape him, only to feel creature snap and flop lifeless in his jaws, metallic blood enlightening his sense. It truly was beautiful, the world under the moon. He wanted to be like this, he chose to transform every month, and in his moments of anger. He chose to be like this, in a hazy, glorious state. It was a blessing, not a curse. A choice. When weak little Mark made his way home for the first time, filled with constant guilt and shame and fear. Hands bloodied, mouth filled with the taste of his latest kill. Clothes ruined, dirtied, bloodied. It didn’t matter. It was a choice, not a curse. He’d chosen this, in his anger. Nothing was wrong, he was alive like he’d desperately wanted when he’d fled his attacker. He was more alive than ever. Teary-eyed, locked in his room, hands ripping his hair. Heart racing, pained, and never more alone. It was a choice, not a curse. When his life kept moving forward, when he started to control his transformations just a little bit more. A choice, not a curse. When he was still successful, even with his dirty little secret clutching over his life. In his anger, in his desperate need to justify murder.

It was a choice. Not a curse.