June 22, 2016 Leave a comment
I was struck by a muse and started writing a story. Partly to get it out there, and partly to force myself to finish it, I’m posting the first half of it here. I’ve reproduced the first scene here; you can download the full PDF (18 pages) to read the rest.
I’ve never considered myself a “people person”. It isn’t that I don’t like people; I just never find the right thing to say, or end up doing something I later look back on with cringe-inducing horror. I mention this only to give you a notion of how deep in over my head I was from the moment I heard the faint knocking at my door.
It was a Friday, right around 8pm, and the last rays of dusk were filtering out of the sky. It started almost as a scratching, then escalated to a weak yet persistent tapping by the time I had navigated from the kitchenette, through the tight space of my apartment, to the front door.
I wasn’t expecting visitors, and the door’s peephole was non-functional (I had never worked up the courage to call a repair service), so I wrenched the door open knowing in the back of my mind that there was a roughly 30% chance that whatever stood on the other side wanted to kill me. But instead of a combatant, the body of a young woman, bloodied and weak, slumped through the doorway onto my carpet.
So four things quickly filtered through my mind in this moment. First I thought “oh shit.” That was quickly followed by the sinking realization that I was going to miss the TNG marathon later tonight. The last two came as I appraised the situation: it was no mere coincidence that this girl had chosen to rap on my door, and that literally the last thing I should do at this moment was phone the police.
I kicked into action. Although my interpersonal skills may be lacking, I do know a good amount of first-aid. I dragged her body into the cramped interior of my apartment and laid her on my couch. As I fetched my first-aid kit, I winced at the blood trail soaking into my carpet and upholstery.
Claw marks raked across her arms and back, and a gash on her scalp hinted at a treacherous fall. Fortunately for me (and her), it didn’t look like there was much internal damage besides maybe some fractured ribs. It would hurt to move and breathe for a few weeks, but she would recover. Judging by the head wound, she might also have suffered a light-to-moderate concussion. At least on this count, I thought as I started tending to the wounds, things could have gone a lot worse. I didn’t relish the idea of driving a half-dead girl with no relation to me to the hospital.
Of course, that was the least of my concerns at the moment. I mulled over several pieces of information that pointed to a whole lot of strife for me in the near future. First, she was a werewolf. I could smell it on her as clear as day. Second, she had been attacked by other werewolves – lingering scents pointed to a single pack. Third, after somehow escaping, she had – bleeding, in shock, and near-death — decided to head straight for my doorstep. If this didn’t already sound bad enough, it was made 10 times worse by the fact that I was a werewolf.
Read the rest here.