My Name is Werewolf
I never told anybody this, but…I am a Werewolf.
The moon, or as I liken her, the Goddess, calls to me like a siren beckoning sailors to their doom, and perhaps, this is true. I seem to die every time I transform into what some may call a monster. Each time she is round, full, and glorious in the night sky, my skin pulls tight across my bones, and my senses begin to quicken, to the point that I am able to hear mice, rabbits, and other game running through the nearby field. I can smell their blood pulsing through their veins, and this sweet aroma drives my cells into a frenzy, causing them to mutate, my bones to elongate, and strands of fur to sprout from my body, replacing the defeated human hairs as if they are a retreating enemy force.
Pain is the price of this change though. As my bones are formed and reformed, the pain engulfs me, sending tidal waves of agony throughout my body, in a never-ending symphony of suffering.
Will this ever end?
The pain seems to go on forever, and I ride this wave, cresting it to the point of fading away, and then…
It is done.
As I stand in a clearing, the Goddess’ light raining down onto my true self, I do not feel fear. No. I feel elation, triumph, and overwhelming power. I revel in what I was intended to be.
I am a Werewolf, and this is good.
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She stands in the forest clearing, bathed in silvery moonlight.
Her form is tall, powerful, and lean, with muscles so taut they ripple underneath the skin. And, oh what skin it is! The flesh is mottled brown and dark black in irregular patches, mixing with the coarse fur she wears like a badge of honor. This fur is her mantle, her display of power and grace. The long fur, which varies from female to female, is hers alone. None of the rest of the PACK has this exact shade, texture, or glossiness of coat.
As the Alpha of the PACK, Alex stands an extra foot taller than her sisters. Her taloned fingers flex and tense, as if remembering hunts from days gone by. Her hands resemble human hands due to their shared lineage, but the fingers are twice as long, and lethal; one swipe from her claws can disembowel a person. Her long legs resemble her wolf cousins, but are elongated and more muscular, giving Alex and her kind the ability to lope or run upright as men do, although faster than the world’s best sprinters.
Her canine ears are pointed skyward, spinning this way and that, as they pick up and transmit tiny bits of information from the environment around them. Alex can hear dogs howling miles away, vehicles driving back and forth on the highway overpass, mice and other rodents on the edge of the clearing, and the whisper of the wind dancing through the grass below and branches above.
Alex’s eyes, one silver and one flecked with green and gold saw deep into the darkness of the woods she loved. To her eyes, everything is tinged with an amber hue, reminiscent of the sunsets she used to love when she was still human. The way Alex views the world is different than the PACK; they endured the CHANGE when they were just a few years old, but Alex did not turn until almost thirty years old. Thus, Alex’s physical form and mental acuity are unique among them, as if she were born to lead.
Alex, the werewolf, turns her face up to the Goddess Moon, opens her mouth with her long canines, and unleashes a howl of pure delight, pleasure, and joy.
This is where she belongs.
