Magic is real, and I hate it.
I hate what this is doing to my mind. And I cannot live with what the full moon does to me, to this…to whatever I am. If I’d considered it much before, I might have thought we were in some way products of the things we’ve done. But did the things I did in that shape really matter in this one? And as for actions…if I’m not myself for part of the time, where have “I” gone, and who does the thinking then?
You never really appreciate what it is to be sane, what it is to have thoughts and urges that makes sense, what it is to have control over the feelings that rush through your body, until you start feeling like millennia of primordial pain and rage are all fighting against surface tension, trying to express themselves in the warped language of a body that no longer feels like your own.
Yes, I transform. Only once a month, just like in the movies, but once a month is more than enough for me to doubt whether or not I want to continue existing.
Because I can spend 30 days living the most blameless life I possibly can, seeking to do good for my community, seeking only to eke out an existence and survive.
But every waning moon someday waxes again, and as it grows from a crescent into accursed sphere, I feel myself becoming less of what I am, and more of something which truly understands only destruction and pain and anger.
I believe in magic now. I’m not sure I really knew what magic even was before. My world made sense. Things happened in a logical way, and action followed consequence without resorting to peculiar changes, one creature becoming another for no apparent reason other than changes in a celestial body far above.
For obvious reasons, I’m writing this from a very bad place, physically and mentally. Otherwise this account would not exist, and I would not be speaking of any of these things, were I not worried that I would do tremendous harm while in a form I can only call, quite literally, monstrous.
I never asked to be bitten.
But bitten I was, and apparently, there’s something in the teeth, or in the blood.
What kind of human bites a wolf, and why?
I wish I didn’t know, but I do. Once you become a were-human, cursed to leave the ground as two proper paws turn into manipulative fingers, as reasonable thoughts of killing and mating and eating as needed turn into jumbled explosive mental gyrations of killing and mating and eating all the damn time, you begin to understand why humans hunt everything.
I have left my Pack, because I will not hurt it; and while I am tempted to seek out humans and enact upon them that which was given to me, I won’t.
It’s hard to bear a curse alone, but who would knowingly seek to infect others with madness?
…humans would. And humans can travel longer, given time, than wolves can; if I don’t take myself very, very far from civilization of Man or Wolf, then the two-legged part of me might just make it to some inhabited area.
So I wander, roaming far, and thirty nights a month, I howl with grief.
And once a month, I scream with pure, thwarted fury.
So it goes.
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Here’s my novel, “There and NEVER, EVER BACK AGAIN“.
And here’s Evil Expo, the Convention for Villains.
