Were We Tearing Ourselves Apart?

A freaky flash fiction

A response to Labyrinthia Mythweaver’s prompt—a story inspired by the image. Albeit a new writing style for me, keep in mind this writing transformation only happens once a full moon 👀

I’m either venom or a hero. Wretched or corporate and clean. The extremes take a toll, erroneous classification. It’s ripping off my shirt, shredding walls, limbs, whatever’s in my way, and howling at a neon moon.

So that’s what I did. I cleared my head, canceled meetings on my schedule, and headed outside. The full moon blazed ahead of me. The evening air was dry and warm, the smog toxic and my palms clammy. I crossed a lot and found myself on a bridge. My neck pricked, and I swished my brown hair from side to side as I shook my head. It was a matter of minutes—or less—before the changes would begin. I didn’t think I’d make it to the clearing in time. My body was aching, my muscles tearing apart from within. Veins seemed to lasso my body, tighten around my legs and abdomen and suffocate. My lungs felt as though they grew and popped. This sensation was not new, but it was never quite the same.

I stopped short of the park, downtown Los Angeles towering before me. My head was splitting apart, my vertebrae coming undone, heartbeat slowing. My city would know who I am now. The freeway taunted me from below, jammed with traffic that honked. I feared humanity was staring at me as I watched it.

This city hadn’t quite felt like home to me. I breathed, the air stuck, and sometimes people understood me here. They only thought they knew. Seeing me was impossible. Especially now.

I didn’t worry about being spotted as the external changes started to take place. My hands stretched, eyes bulged. I tried to run and fell to my knees instead. I bellowed and writhed. It was happening in front of everyone. Nobody stopped their car from the freeway below, got out to gawk. My life as a beast was inconvenient. I metamorphosed, unsure if my body bled from the stretching, bones contorting and puncturing. I was tethered to the spot, and I torturously transformed. I refused to look at myself, incapable of belief. Thick fur grew to cover every inch of my skin.

After I had crackled and crunched, itched and burned, I tried to stand. I used the chain-link fence to hold me as I steadied, but the metal broke open beneath my paw. My perspective shifted. Rage surged. My eyes were feral, laser-focused. I caught every millisecond of movement, a predator, prowler. I wasn’t accidentally grasping at the fence. I was purposefully obliterating the links with my paws, removing what trapped me.

I fixated on the moon, rising, and fell again to all fours. I felt taller, more muscular, sensed flowing blood everywhere, the scents overwhelming. Life was no longer for the living—it was for me to take. The moon seemed to stare back, sense my rebirth, as I ran and howled. The pain ceased. My clothes were gone. I tried to stop running. Adrenaline had me, and prey was to be found.

I no longer saw, heard, or spoke. I sensed, hunted, and tore. The human inside me whimpered, but the werewolf feared no creature.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.