Down to the River
#2 of Drabbles
Wrote my main werewolf character, several years back in her history, when she's first trying to cope with the pain of shifting.
This drabble features one of my werewolf characters during a transformation. Going back a few years, she's only shifted about three times (shifting not being confined only to the phases of the moon in this modern-set universe: Instead it's influenced by emotion and the internal wolf's impulses), and she's on her own. Struggling to come to terms with what she is now, the young woman draws back on her roots to cope.
She has endured agony three times now, well enough to know what to expect, but not near enough to quell trepidation. The girl manages as best able while on her own. Sitting at the base of an old weathered tree, the anxious woman can only wait. Shoulders quiver and the human feels it rising, threatening to tear through chest and belly. First, a trickle tickles at her spine, but the beast steadily climbs. It won't be long now.
The pup sniffs as a clammy hand rubs beneath her freckled nose. Anxiety and fear build in overwhelming amounts, so she looks for comfort in the only way she knows. With no one to hold, no one to confide in, no one to listen to screams or wipe away tears... She will sing herself a lullaby.
Soft, broken notes find her throat and the woman begins to hum, for music has always been her escape. The old familiar tune starts as a low hum but quiet words soon follow. Lips whisper the lyrics deep and low. Melody intended for herself alone, but the words are just loud enough for other attentive ears to hear... If only the owls choose to listen.
"'Es I went down to the river to pray," Teeth clench as a wave of pain hits her gut, "Study'n 'bout that good 'ol way..." Fingers draw tight across her sides as the pain in the pit of her stomach builds. Nails dig into flesh. Knuckles whiten. She cranes her head against the tree at her back and draws her knees up close. Toes drag and crinkle in dirt and moss.
Tense, her spine and neck turn rigid. Red hairs catch and tangle in peeling bark. Words tumble forth, cloaked in the accent of a southern woman, born and raised in these towering Alabama pines. "Who shall wear the starry crown- Good lord, show me the way..." She adds a mewling, "Please," as hot tears pool behind lashes. Any mercy left in heaven, good Lord, grant her absolution for the multitude of sins she will commit the one night of every month. Every single month, for the rest of her life.
Gap mouthed, she gulps in a breath, "Oh sisters... let's- Go- Down. Let's go- Down..." Struggling to complete the verse, she will go down. Inevitably.
Pain intensifies and tears roll down pink cheeks. Snot trails to an upper lip, and the woman begins to fall apart. She squeezes those baby blues of hers shut tight, "C'mon down... Oh s-sisters, let's go d-own." She chokes, wetly coughs, and continues. "Lesh go down, wanna go... Down..." Her head falls to the side, right cheek falling on a bony shoulder before bobbing forward on a stiff neck. "...In the river to pray."
Words weaken, frail and wavering with each shallow breath, "as I went down to the rih-va to pray, studying' 'bout that good 'ol way... and who shall wear the robe and crown, good Lord show me the way." She swallows the thick lump in her throat, "Oh bruh-thers, lesh go down..." Grunting, something bucks in her belly. The young woman draws herself further inward, body curling protectively around her abdomen. "Let's go down, come on down. C'mon brothers- let's go down. L-lesh's go down..." A fatigued voice trails. Sweat gathers in the red strands of hair at her temples.
A fierce force rises in her gut and hitches upwards, catching and sending sharp pain through a lung. "Good Lord- show me the w-ay!" A strained voice cracks before a silent sob clutches her throat and shakes her sides. Anguish pools in her mind and melts down her spine. It sears and burns like a fat drop of hot iron. The desperate words are as much her plea as they are lyrics to a hymn.
Panting and wheezing now, simply breathing becomes a luxury she can no longer afford. "Let's go down, oh-down to the rIII-" A pitched scream cuts her off as joints pop. Bones turn brittle and mold into foreign features. Unhuman in shape, muscles pull and twist. Her spine contorts, bending and snapping as it shrinks and shrivels. Right before all sense leaves her, the girl manages a final taunt word. "Pra-y-" Strained, it stretches only to snap abruptly with the morphing of chords. Changes keep her from singing further, but the tune is the last thing on her mind as the wolf absorbs all else over the hours to come. Oh, this wretched wolf! The young woman hates it with every fiber and does not understand.
The woman should start singing sooner.
She never finishes her song.