'Last Quarter' by Wyst (in progress)
Last Quarter
-11:00 pm-
I never know when it's going to happen.
Trying to contain it doesn't work. Ever. It is what it is, I guess. But the moon has naught to do with it.
I don't really have an explanation for it. Of course, pop culture and literature have their perspectives; but unless you mix them all up into a witches' brew and pick out the bullshit, it's pretty much just speculation. As is most of perceived reality, I'd say.
There's a coppery taste in my mouth, and my vision is distorting a bit. The onset. I know it's coming now. I have to get out of the house, out of town. Away from civilization before the walls start to breathe, and the eyes of others follow.
I pack a small tote with an extra shirt, pair of jeans, a pair of sandals and a travel-size bottle of shampoo. I would've grabbed the mouthwash too, but by now my ears are ringing. It's getting a little late.
Driving is now out of the question. Now what?
The bike.
It's a blue 12-speed Ross touring bicycle. It's relatively old, but it's fast and has Kevlar tires on it to fend off brambles and rocks, if need be.
-11:47 pm-
Things are getting frantic. At least I'm ready to split. Ha, irony. Wait - the bike is locked ?
Panic.
Okay, deep breath. No matter who did it, we need to assess the situation and calmly find a remedy. A remedy...
I'm holding the bike lock in my bare hands, examining it carefully. It's about 1/2" thick gauge galvanized steel coated in a thick layer of plastic. A cheapie, but I suppose it does its job. The lock is a simple padlock. I don't have time to try to pick it. Son of a bitch.
A sudden, insurmountable, surge of adrenaline-laced energy rises in me like the carbonation of a freshly shaken soda. A violent - albeit momentary - episode of thrashing overtakes me. I wouldn't know from experience, but I'd say it was akin to a seizure. I hear a loud 'clink' over the turmoil, and after several deep breaths, I come out of it.
Upon retrospect, I never would've given credence to the whole 'supernatural strength' thing. But in the in the grip of a physiological and psychological change of this magnitude, one should allow for the extraordinary. I look down into my hands. My vision is beginning to swim, but I can plainly see that I've snapped the chain apart at the padlock. No time to wonder. I'll be lucky if I make it halfway to my destination - a remote lake nestled in the nearby state park.
I toss the chain into a bush up against the house, grateful to be on my way as I hop on and pedal out of the driveway. And then it hits. Another electrifying rush ensues as I reach mid-pedal and I hear another loud break. This time it's the bike's drive chain. Great.
More panic. I've only made it a couple yards from the mouth of the driveway, and the sound of my breathing is noticeably different. It sounds deeper, more hollow on the exhale. There is a pressure building in my sinuses. My eyes water. By now, I'm fucked. Royally.
-12:09 am-
There is nothing like the fear. Paranoia of someone seeing or hearing and making the dreaded phone-call.
The bike is out of commission, and it's a good ten miles from here to the lake. My teeth and joints begin to tingle. It's coming on fast now. The hallucinations are intensifying. Ultraviolet-hued rings make themselves evident around streetlights. The grass undulates and changes color. Maybe a cigarette will help calm my nerves.
I retrieve a fresh, machine-rolled filter from a hard case in my tote and bring it to my lips. The tobacco has taken on an aroma strongly reminiscent of figs.
I cup the lighter against the air current and ignite the tip of the smoke shakily, and with great concentration. Oh, how I was wrong.
My first drag causes me to choke and retch violently. A potentially fatal mistake, since the metabolic demand of this ordeal is colossal. Fortunately, I've packed on a few 'unnecessary' pounds since my last little journey.
After a few good heaves, it's out of my system. That really didn't do anything for my already sorry state of psychological affairs. Okay, let's try to do something constructive, shall we?
Think.
There's no way I can do this in the house. The cats would die of fright. I have to figure something out, with all due haste. I compose myself as best I can, and make my way into the driveway with the bike. As soon as I'm out of plain view, I fling the bike into a leaning position against the side of the house and dodge into the shadows toward the garage.
My neck is creaking. I can hear it as I dig in my tote for the rawhide I'd stuffed in there earlier. Airing on the side of caution, I assess my surroundings in a hurry. The unmistakable bassy thumping sound of a subwoofer coming from two houses up the street is amplified by my rapidly improving auditory abilities.
Punk house. As I direct my gaze toward that general vicinity, a pungent reek of pit-bull shit, masculine aerosol deodorant and beer-vomit bombards my olfactory department. I exhale sharply through my nose and mouth to banish the stench. Tonight, like it or not, these 'party animals' are my friends - providing ample sound and scent cover.
For the time being, anyway...
-12:32 am-
Success! A brief swell of joy emerges as my trembling fingers stumble upon the sought-after chew-hide. At this point, the tension in my jaw is causing me to grit my teeth. My gums itch badly. In short, gnawing at the rigid piece of dried cow-skin is bliss. The rich, smoky aroma and flavor don't hurt either. Mmrf.
Now back to the pressing issue at hand. As I continue to occupy my jaws, I struggle to maintain reason. No time to attempt excuses as to why I didn't have a contingency plan. No time for anything but action.
The onslaught has begun. My skin tingles and my bones hurt. My spine is popping and aching, as are my other joints. The rawhide is scant comfort now.
Maybe I can ride this out in the backyard...
It's getting perceptibly more difficult to sustain a human gait as I stagger toward the darker part of the back yard. I slump down into the grass against the cold, enameled outer brick wall of the garage. I'm safely hidden from street traffic now, at least.
Do I proceed to disrobe? Is it that safe?
It's nearly impossible to focus long enough to review my environment. Nonetheless, I bear the pain and frustration, and proceed to investigate.
The rural, small-town plat of residences surrounding my home shrouds my back yard from the glare of streetlights. At this time of night, there is little to no traffic, save for the occasional underage partygoer to or from the punk abode. The windows of most of the neighboring homes are dark, and those who dwell within are sleeping soundly. The only outdoor-kept pets are a pack of three somewhat neglected dogs, rounded up in a poorly homemade fence-kennel; they're generally ignored, since they bark all the time, at everything. Another turn in my favor, since they're barking like mad presently.
As I lose my garments and place them on a dilapidated lawn chair, I feel a prickling sensation along my back and at the base of my spine. Although this night's air is brisk, the chill air isn't the cause.
The change now advances rapidly. The bones of my feet elongate, slowly and forcefully. An intense fever rears its head and sweat pours in rivulets from my body. My sternum and ribcage crackle, snap and finally reshape. I hear a loud shriek, coming from off in the distance. It sounds like my own voice. Somewhere, I know it is.
By now, I'm on my side in the grass, writhing against the unconquerable, indescribable pain in my head. The bones of my face and skull are contorting and forming a toothy, imposing maw. My grunts and cries are now distinctly canine.
Fur sprouts at a moderate rate