Sunday, October 7, 2012

The Taste

            When Emma came to she was lying face down on a hard wood floor. She opened her eyes, blinking a lot while she hoisted herself off the floor. Her head felt like it was going to split open any second. She sat up and saw that she was naked. As her eye sight focused she noticed that she was in a smaller room of the house; in fact it was so small she thought it might be some kind of closet of sorts.
            She looked up and sure enough saw a rack underneath of a shelf that appeared to hold clothes. The only thing that hung on it was a green and black lumberjack looking button down. She attempted to stand up, but she couldn’t and just fell back onto the hard wood floor. Her shoulder her a lot and she gently put her hand on it to feel a two deep cuts. She then turned her head to see a large bite mark that was starting to scab over. There was a small pool of dried blood on the floor where she had been lying.
            She ran her fingers through her hair and racked her brains trying to remember what had happened. All she could recollect was Hoyt driving that needle into her and then the rest was black. She ran her fingers along the bite mark again and her hands trembled. How the hell could this happen to her of all people? She should have realized that Hoyt and the Chief were the killers, she should have realized that they were werewolves. Still how the hell could she let him turn her into a werewolf?
            Panic started to grip her as her breathing grew irregular, but she tried to calm herself down. She could beat this, she could fight it, keep the beast suppressed, she told herself as her breathing was still fast and erratic. Suddenly though she stopped panicking and stood up. The effects of the drug were wearing off, her head was feeling better, and her muscles were almost back to their usual strong selves.
            She almost felt fine. But if she were turning into a werewolf wouldn’t she feel it? Wouldn’t she crave human flesh? All she craved right now was maybe a sandwich, but that was all. She had seen plenty of werewolves in her life and two during their transformation into the beast. None of them were as calm and standing up painless as she was right now.
            It was weird; except for the bite on her shoulder she felt no pain at all. She ran her hands across her naked body and felt no self inflicted marks, no bumps from her rolling around on the hard wood floor, nothing. The only logical thing was that for some reason she hadn’t turned. For some reason she was immune to this whole werewolf thing.
            She pulled the button down shirt on so that she was wearing at least something which she figured was Hoyt’s plan. He probably has removed her clothes because he thought she would rip her clothes when she transformed. She then went over to the door and tried to open it, but found it locked from the outside. He had locked her in so she didn’t lash out in her when she was going through her transformation. Well she sure showed him, not even one little fang. She even laughed a little as she thought of it. Then it struck her as she saw the tattoo on the ankle.
            “God Em you’re so stupid,” she laughed, “The spell… can’t be possessed, why would I be able to turn into anything else not human?”
            Now more than ever, she was so glad that she had gotten that spell no matter how much grief she had gotten over it. This was yet one more instance where it had saved her life. She smiled as she had her hands on the door, now she had a plan she could work with.
            She dropped to the ground and started rolling around and howling in pretend pain. She knocked hard on the floor and the door and the walls and she gripped her arms tightly. She continued this for a good five minutes until she was reduced to heavy panting on all fours. She could see through the door crack a set of feet walking closer to the closet door and she smiled as she still breathed heavily.
            She then collapsed onto the floor her arms spread eagle as she lay on her stomach. She slowly pulled off the shirt; he wouldn’t believe it if she were wearing clothes that were perfectly intact. She then pulled herself up onto her knees as she heard a lock click and the door opened. Hoyt stood at the door and she wrapped her arms around herself as he looked at her and just smiled.
            She looked up at him with fake tears of pain streaming down her face, “What do you want?”
            “It’s hard I know,” he said crouching down next to her and rubbed her back, “It’ll get better I promise…”
            “Get off of me,” she said as she swatted him away and fumbled around for the shirt.
            She pulled it on as if she were in pain and he watched her the entire time trying to see any bit of her that he could. She pretended that she could barely move, and because of this he then put a hand under her legs and butt and picked her up and carried her into the main room and put her on the couch. He then went into the bathroom and was in there for a little while, probably getting her “food” from the bath tub and her stomach turned at the thought of it.
            It was then she took the opportunity to look around for anything silver that she could find, which was stupid because why would a werewolf keep silver in his house. Wait, she thought as she stopped. Her knife. Her knife had a silver center, she almost completely forgot. She looked quickly around for it and then she saw it poking out from under a piece of paper on the table. She looked over to the bathroom door and saw Hoyt still bent down over the tub. She then quickly and quietly shot to the over side of the couch and scooped up the knife and stuck it into the folds inside her shirt.
            Emma went back to her position on the couch, pretending that she was still weak. Hoyt then came back out with a bowl in his hand. The bowl was filled with blood and guts and made her stomach turn again. He walked over to her and set it on the table next to her side of the couch. He ran his hands through her hair and then kissed her on the forehead.
            “This will make you feel better…” he said as he held the bowl under her nose.
            She tried not to breath but he held her head with his other hand holding her face practically in the bowl. Her nostrils filled with the stench of foul, rotting flesh and then felt the little food she had in her stomach come back up. She then pushed the bowl away from her and breathed in the fresh air.
            “Come on,” he said picking up the one piece of flesh and holding it right near her mouth, grasping her head firmly in his other hand, “It’ll make you feel better, it will quiet the cravings for a little while.”
            “No!” she said trying to push him away, at this point not caring if he knew that she wasn’t weak, “I won’t!”
            “Eat it!” he exclaimed and then he shoved it into her mouth.
           It was spat out of her mouth onto then floor. She then proceeded to vomit up the rest of the food that was in her stomach at the moment. He moved out of the way as she threw up onto the floor and gave her a weird look. He knew that something was up as he looked into her eyes as she wiped her mouth and then stood up walking around the vomit.
            “What the hell?!” he exclaimed, “You should be… you should’ve liked that… you wouldn’t have thrown it up…”
            “It looks like your little plan didn’t work,” she smiled, “Looks like I’m close to invisible at the moment doesn’t it?”
            She laughed as she pulled the knife out of the shirt as his eyes were still wide, then suddenly it clicked, “That fucking spell!” he yelled, “God! See this is why I hate magic, and witchcraft and all that shit! It always fucks everything up!”
            “Maybe for you…” she smiled as she wielded the knife, “But for me it’s worked pretty well…”
            “So what now?” he laughed, “You’re gonna stab me with your little knife? Great plan, considering I’m a lycanthrope and can’t die with a little poke from a little knife…”
            “Really?” she asked as she walked closer to him, “Cause I think it’s going to do a lot more damage than that…”
            He just laughed even louder this time, as she in one swift move drove the knife into his heart and then backed away, “See… noth…” he started but stopped bid word as he felt it, what the knife really was, “Shit…”
            “Do you really think that I would not carry anything silver on me? I’m Emma Carmichael …” she laughed, “I always win…”
            “Bitch…” was all the he could say as he fell to his knees pulling out the knife and flinging it across the room as he fell to the floor, dead.
            “No, I think that it’s you who’s the bitch,” she said smiling. 

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Monday, May 21, 2012

A Play in Four Acts

            Dark shadows splayed across the beige walls. Shadows of “I’m sorry,” “He was a good man” “It was just his time.” I huddled in the corner gripping the new leather shoes he had bought me just weeks before.
            The funeral had been like play in four acts. Wake. Service. Cemetery. Reception. They all said the service was beautiful, the flowers were beautiful, he was in a better place now and that was beautiful.
            I never answered them I just stared up at them, with wide pulsating eyes. I didn’t know them but they pretended to know me, introducing themselves, offering their empty sympathies.
            I didn’t want to be here, I didn’t want to see them, I didn’t want them to see me. I got up and trudged into the kitchen. It was littered with casseroles, salads, jellos, and a pound cake that glared at me with one thin slice cut from it. It mocked me, and I inched closer to it.
            I palmed the plate, carrying it up to my shoulder. I looked at the nice, beige wall and hurled it at it. The plate smashed and someone screamed. Remnants of the squashed cake floated down the wall. Someone rushed in and gathered up the plate in silence. Another came in a swept up the cake in silence. I hated the silence even more than I hated the shadows’ empty sympathies.
            I wanted the silence to go away. I turned on the radio over the sink and switched it to high. An old country western song blared loudly echoing off those beige walls. No one said a thing, no one switched it off; they just let it play.
            The shadows left one by one, leaving the house empty except for her. She finally switched the radio off as another song started. She was calm and I hated her for it. I took my nice leather shoes and hurled them at the wall near the phone. The shoe polish left black streaks on the walls. She remained calm. She started to wash the dishes, ignoring me.
            I suddenly burst out, breaking the silence, “Why are you so calm?!”
            There was no answer.
            “Answer me!”
            There was no answer.
            “Answer me dammit!”
            There was still no answer.
            I screamed out loud and ran upstairs to my room. I plopped down on my bed and stared up at the blank, beige ceiling, tears now burning my eyes. They poured down the sides of my face following the creases like a flowing river. I lay there and cried. I never stopped.