Painted_Indian_Horse
July 10th, 2010, 01:43 AM
Okay, so this idea has been floating around my head for a little while, and I need to write it down somewhere. I'm already on this website, and a little too lazy to open my word processor. :P
I'll warn you now, it's a werewolf story; it might get a little gory. A One-shot, probably. I might add it to fictionpress, i don't know yet.
One month had gone by. A whole goddamn month of recovery in the hospital. The gashes had been meticulously cleaned by the doctors, but infection had taken to them within hours. Doctors could only stand back and watch, appalled, as no drug or medicine had brought down the fever. It skyrocketed to dangerous levels.
That went on for days--a vicious cycle of fever, vomit, and unconsciousness. Experts on animals and the adverse effects of their attacks were consulted, but nothing shone any light on the worsening of symptoms.
Then, like magic, it all stopped abruptly a week later. If anyone had payed attention, the moment he got better was the same moment a week prior that had caused him so much agony.
They kept him under close observation, sure of a relapse. His recovery was impossible, right? It must be the sickness backing away under the constant bombardment of drugs and antibiotics they had been pumping into his system.
But, two and a half weeks later, with no recurring symptoms, the doctors had to release him. He walked out of the hospital, looking as if he had never been wheeled into the ER on a bloodstained gurney.
He returned to his apartment on the other side of town, struggling to regain some normalcy. His friends and family had been sick with worry that he would lost to them forever. Going back to work was no better; the office was full of sympathy he didn't want and prying eyes he couldn't avoid. Everyone wanted to know his miraculous story--hear it firsthand from the survivor himself.
The first few days back to the job had been that way; simply an obnoxious bore, but that was nothing new.
The weekend couldn't come to soon. His mind and body had been growing anxious and jittery since he had come home, and gotten severe that Friday back to work. He stared mindlessly at his computer screen, bouncing his legs, twirling his pen, tugging at his collar. He was sweating profusely, an icy, unpleasant feeling erupting from every pore of his flesh.
He asked for the rest of the evening off, and was immediately granted his wish by a suspiciously forgiving boss. He rushed home, deciding to walk instead of taking the metro, which was his usual transportation. At the moment, being rushed through a dank tunnel no better than a sewer by train made his stomach whirl.
The evening air cooled his flushed skin, and he nervously walked down the bustling streets to his apartment on the other side of town. When the building appeared in front of him, he stifled a sigh of relief and rushed up the stairs. Thank God, his apartment was on the first floor. He fumbled with the lock and busted through the threshold.
He wasted no time throwing his bag down by the door. It crumpled against the wall, forgotten in his hazy stupor. He stripped off his shirt, begging the air to cool his fiery skin. His complexon even looked darker. He pulled on a pair of light, loose-fitting pants and stumbled into the bathroom.
Staring at his reflexion, he did look darker. It was like his skin generating its own heat, burning him from just under the surface. He leaned over the sink and roughly splashed icy water onto his head and neck. He let out a groan of relief when the droplets wandered down his back.
It wasn't enough. He ran his shower, leaving on the coldest temperature possible, and jumped in. In his rush, he had forgotten to undress, and felt the flimsy shorts he was wearing stick to his fevered legs. He didn't care. The only thing in his mind was the cold water, balancing the irrationality of his elevated body heat.
His brain wasn't functioning like he thought it should. He longer visioned rational concepts and steps to use to proceed to a goal. He had urges that he knew he couldn't refuse. He knew his well-being was endangered if he ignored these internal commands.
Like jumping in a cold shower and forgetting to strip off his clothes, he now jumped out. The water beading his skin hissed and burned off like ice touching a stove. Forgetting the shower was still running, he ran from the bathroom. He needed to be outside.
Behind his building was a small yard. It was mostly unkempt garden, rarely tilled by the female tenants. There was a wrought-iron bench, rusted with age, rested in front of a wild-looking bush. He jumped down the small steps leading into the garden and threw himself onto the bench. He was panting now, his breath coming in short gasps. As hard as he tried to fully fill his lungs with air, it was in vain. He could only pant. If he tried to inflate his chest and bring air to his bloodstream, he was sent into a coughing fit.
For the first time since coming outside, he noticed his surroundings. It was twilight. The sky was dotted with dark, smoldering clouds, and the air felt damp. It must be close to raining, or maybe it already had. He noticed the wet stone under his bare feet. Yes, it had already stormed.
How long had he been in the shower? Time was irrelevant, just like other things that had once mattered to him, been so important to him. Now he was consumed with the urge to simply stay outside. He felt anxious, and could tell his body was waiting, preparing for something.
His fever spiked again. He could automatically tell. He wanted to scream in frustration at the unrelenting fire overtaking his body.
His mind was vaguely aware of the clouds rolling away, leaving the indigo of the midnight sky visible in all its beauty. Barely any stars could be seen; the street lights were too harsh. But with the absence of the omnipresent cloud cover came a solemn silver glow. It enveloped the small, cramped garden and shed light on everything that was devoured by shadow only a moment before.
He felt this glowing presence on his bare back, and it cooled the fire. Everywhere it touched, he felt a relief.
He reveled in the easing of his mysterious pain for a few endless moments, giddy at the absence of fever.
But everything changed instantly. His thoughts, which had been calmed with the presence of the moonlight, instantly turned to panic. He lost control of his body as it convulsed violently and he flung himself onto the stones.
He arched his back as the pain descended his spine and spread like poison to his legs. His head tossed from side to side He grasped at the stone, clawing with his nails.
Choking back a roar of agony, he fought himself to get back to his feet. He felt himself shifting from the inside out. Another wave of pain blocked his senses and sent him spiraling onto the ground once more. Pops and cracks could be heard as his ribs moved of their own accord under his skin, making his moderately slim firgure more barrel-chested and broad. His ankles seemed to be sliding up the backs of his legs, when, in reality, his feet elongating. His big toes stayed behind towards the middle while the rest of his foot sprouted into a deadly taloned paw.
His ears felt like they were being torturously ripped from his skull as they tapered to points. Blood poured from his gums when his teeth grew and sharpened to fangs. His jaws instinctively snapped and his teeth clicked into place. His nose, as he watched in horror, was growing away from the rest of his face. It turned black.
He raked his hands across the ground again, displacing the pain, and was surprised to hear a sharp screech. His fingers had broadened and shortened, and his nails were now the opaque claws of a killer.
While all of these internal transformations had been demanding his attention, he had barely noticed the thick coat of fur that had erupted from every inch of his skin.
After a few other minor parts settled into their new and foreign spaces, he rested. His breath came in jagged gasps. He couldn't get enough air to replace the amount he had lost during his episode. He rolled over and tried to press his face against the damp stone, but his new muzzle worked against him.
His frustration made his chest rumble, and his new teeth rattled at the growl he emitted.
His mind was no longer his. He had no control over himself. His true personality was safely tucked away at the back of this beasts mind, looking through its eyes to the outside world. Like watching a movie, he had no sway over what he would see, only had to endure watching.
He got up, testing his new body. Despite the resemblance to a dog, he stood on his two hind legs, and noticed that the view was very different. he was probably two feet taller.
He could only go along as he bounded for the fence and easily leaped over it and onto the street.
Instinct ruled his mind. He stood very still, raised his head, and tested the air. Though the street was empty, he knew where all the people had gone. Most had retreated to their homes, but some were headed other places.
As he ran down the street, his balance shifted forward and he fell onto his front paws as well, and it considerably lengthened his running stride. His breathing remained even as he scoured the road for any sign of prey.
And he found some. A few men stalked down the street. They must have been conversing very intently, for they had not yet noticed his presence.
Taking the opportunity, he ducked into an alley, pacing and growling in the shadows. He saw the men walk by; there were three of them. He padded silently out of the alley and leaped into action.
He pounced on the middle human and he crumpled to the ground. Without waiting, he dove his fangs into the soft flesh of the man's throat. He let out a scream of pain and shock, but it was stifled by blood that quickly suffocated him.
He used his claws to rip at the man's stomach until the pavement was visible.
The other two men had taken off running. As a predator, he growled in the delight of a challenge and took off after them. He ate up the distance to the man running farther back, and pommeled him, tackling him like a football player.
His rage and instinct took its tole on yet another body, and then he stood up to his full height. The third plaything was nowhere in sight. With one last glance at the corpse below him, he ran down the street once more.
A loud gunshot cracked the still air, and he tumbled to the ground, skidding to a stop on the pavement with a trail of smeared blood.
He stood up, feeling the throbbing pressure of the bullet in his thigh. He howled his rage into the night, a mournful, agonizing bellow that made the third man come from his hiding place to look out of curiosity.
That was all that was needed. He caught sight of the man, holding a smoking revolver, and his muscles tensed. He bared his impressive teeth before opening his mouth to release a powerful roar. Thoroughly shaken, the man took off down an alley.
He wasted no time in the chase. He was in the alley in seconds, scanning the puddled, dilapidated space with his golden eyes. His gaze flicked up at the sound of creaking metal. In the dusty moonlight he could see his third piece of prey scrambling up a fire escape ladder.
He bounded over to the base of the ladder. Glaring up at the man, he sank down to the ground. Then, like springs under pressure, his legs extended, propelling him upward. He reached up with his claws, opened his deadly jaws, and grabbed for the man. His claws raked through his back, while he sank his teeth into the man's calf. The man screamed and fell from the ladder, twenty feet down to the brick alley. His spine snapped on impact, laying him helplessly at the claws of a monster.
He knelt down over the helpless human and growled, pulling back his lips to reveal his teeth. The man shivered and winced and whimpered like a baby. Instead of completely destroying this man's body, he swiped one clawed paw across his face, deep enough to go completely through his cheek and rip through his tongue, and broke his jaw in the process.
Ignoring the cries of pain and fear, he bounded from the alley, on the hunt once more.
Watching from the back of his own mind, feeling the instinctive urges overpower all else, he came to the realization that he was monster. But the rage and power felt too good to pass up. He was weak to give into such petty temptations, but the rush was too unique to be explained. He didn't think that he left three souls in his wake. If the last one survived, he would be lucky enough to experience the outflow of energy that was now his gift. It was not a curse.
I'm much too tired to proofread this. Please excuse any typos, i apologize. that took longer than i thought to write, but i'm glad it's all there. I would love some feedback, if you can spare it. :yes:
I'll warn you now, it's a werewolf story; it might get a little gory. A One-shot, probably. I might add it to fictionpress, i don't know yet.
One month had gone by. A whole goddamn month of recovery in the hospital. The gashes had been meticulously cleaned by the doctors, but infection had taken to them within hours. Doctors could only stand back and watch, appalled, as no drug or medicine had brought down the fever. It skyrocketed to dangerous levels.
That went on for days--a vicious cycle of fever, vomit, and unconsciousness. Experts on animals and the adverse effects of their attacks were consulted, but nothing shone any light on the worsening of symptoms.
Then, like magic, it all stopped abruptly a week later. If anyone had payed attention, the moment he got better was the same moment a week prior that had caused him so much agony.
They kept him under close observation, sure of a relapse. His recovery was impossible, right? It must be the sickness backing away under the constant bombardment of drugs and antibiotics they had been pumping into his system.
But, two and a half weeks later, with no recurring symptoms, the doctors had to release him. He walked out of the hospital, looking as if he had never been wheeled into the ER on a bloodstained gurney.
He returned to his apartment on the other side of town, struggling to regain some normalcy. His friends and family had been sick with worry that he would lost to them forever. Going back to work was no better; the office was full of sympathy he didn't want and prying eyes he couldn't avoid. Everyone wanted to know his miraculous story--hear it firsthand from the survivor himself.
The first few days back to the job had been that way; simply an obnoxious bore, but that was nothing new.
The weekend couldn't come to soon. His mind and body had been growing anxious and jittery since he had come home, and gotten severe that Friday back to work. He stared mindlessly at his computer screen, bouncing his legs, twirling his pen, tugging at his collar. He was sweating profusely, an icy, unpleasant feeling erupting from every pore of his flesh.
He asked for the rest of the evening off, and was immediately granted his wish by a suspiciously forgiving boss. He rushed home, deciding to walk instead of taking the metro, which was his usual transportation. At the moment, being rushed through a dank tunnel no better than a sewer by train made his stomach whirl.
The evening air cooled his flushed skin, and he nervously walked down the bustling streets to his apartment on the other side of town. When the building appeared in front of him, he stifled a sigh of relief and rushed up the stairs. Thank God, his apartment was on the first floor. He fumbled with the lock and busted through the threshold.
He wasted no time throwing his bag down by the door. It crumpled against the wall, forgotten in his hazy stupor. He stripped off his shirt, begging the air to cool his fiery skin. His complexon even looked darker. He pulled on a pair of light, loose-fitting pants and stumbled into the bathroom.
Staring at his reflexion, he did look darker. It was like his skin generating its own heat, burning him from just under the surface. He leaned over the sink and roughly splashed icy water onto his head and neck. He let out a groan of relief when the droplets wandered down his back.
It wasn't enough. He ran his shower, leaving on the coldest temperature possible, and jumped in. In his rush, he had forgotten to undress, and felt the flimsy shorts he was wearing stick to his fevered legs. He didn't care. The only thing in his mind was the cold water, balancing the irrationality of his elevated body heat.
His brain wasn't functioning like he thought it should. He longer visioned rational concepts and steps to use to proceed to a goal. He had urges that he knew he couldn't refuse. He knew his well-being was endangered if he ignored these internal commands.
Like jumping in a cold shower and forgetting to strip off his clothes, he now jumped out. The water beading his skin hissed and burned off like ice touching a stove. Forgetting the shower was still running, he ran from the bathroom. He needed to be outside.
Behind his building was a small yard. It was mostly unkempt garden, rarely tilled by the female tenants. There was a wrought-iron bench, rusted with age, rested in front of a wild-looking bush. He jumped down the small steps leading into the garden and threw himself onto the bench. He was panting now, his breath coming in short gasps. As hard as he tried to fully fill his lungs with air, it was in vain. He could only pant. If he tried to inflate his chest and bring air to his bloodstream, he was sent into a coughing fit.
For the first time since coming outside, he noticed his surroundings. It was twilight. The sky was dotted with dark, smoldering clouds, and the air felt damp. It must be close to raining, or maybe it already had. He noticed the wet stone under his bare feet. Yes, it had already stormed.
How long had he been in the shower? Time was irrelevant, just like other things that had once mattered to him, been so important to him. Now he was consumed with the urge to simply stay outside. He felt anxious, and could tell his body was waiting, preparing for something.
His fever spiked again. He could automatically tell. He wanted to scream in frustration at the unrelenting fire overtaking his body.
His mind was vaguely aware of the clouds rolling away, leaving the indigo of the midnight sky visible in all its beauty. Barely any stars could be seen; the street lights were too harsh. But with the absence of the omnipresent cloud cover came a solemn silver glow. It enveloped the small, cramped garden and shed light on everything that was devoured by shadow only a moment before.
He felt this glowing presence on his bare back, and it cooled the fire. Everywhere it touched, he felt a relief.
He reveled in the easing of his mysterious pain for a few endless moments, giddy at the absence of fever.
But everything changed instantly. His thoughts, which had been calmed with the presence of the moonlight, instantly turned to panic. He lost control of his body as it convulsed violently and he flung himself onto the stones.
He arched his back as the pain descended his spine and spread like poison to his legs. His head tossed from side to side He grasped at the stone, clawing with his nails.
Choking back a roar of agony, he fought himself to get back to his feet. He felt himself shifting from the inside out. Another wave of pain blocked his senses and sent him spiraling onto the ground once more. Pops and cracks could be heard as his ribs moved of their own accord under his skin, making his moderately slim firgure more barrel-chested and broad. His ankles seemed to be sliding up the backs of his legs, when, in reality, his feet elongating. His big toes stayed behind towards the middle while the rest of his foot sprouted into a deadly taloned paw.
His ears felt like they were being torturously ripped from his skull as they tapered to points. Blood poured from his gums when his teeth grew and sharpened to fangs. His jaws instinctively snapped and his teeth clicked into place. His nose, as he watched in horror, was growing away from the rest of his face. It turned black.
He raked his hands across the ground again, displacing the pain, and was surprised to hear a sharp screech. His fingers had broadened and shortened, and his nails were now the opaque claws of a killer.
While all of these internal transformations had been demanding his attention, he had barely noticed the thick coat of fur that had erupted from every inch of his skin.
After a few other minor parts settled into their new and foreign spaces, he rested. His breath came in jagged gasps. He couldn't get enough air to replace the amount he had lost during his episode. He rolled over and tried to press his face against the damp stone, but his new muzzle worked against him.
His frustration made his chest rumble, and his new teeth rattled at the growl he emitted.
His mind was no longer his. He had no control over himself. His true personality was safely tucked away at the back of this beasts mind, looking through its eyes to the outside world. Like watching a movie, he had no sway over what he would see, only had to endure watching.
He got up, testing his new body. Despite the resemblance to a dog, he stood on his two hind legs, and noticed that the view was very different. he was probably two feet taller.
He could only go along as he bounded for the fence and easily leaped over it and onto the street.
Instinct ruled his mind. He stood very still, raised his head, and tested the air. Though the street was empty, he knew where all the people had gone. Most had retreated to their homes, but some were headed other places.
As he ran down the street, his balance shifted forward and he fell onto his front paws as well, and it considerably lengthened his running stride. His breathing remained even as he scoured the road for any sign of prey.
And he found some. A few men stalked down the street. They must have been conversing very intently, for they had not yet noticed his presence.
Taking the opportunity, he ducked into an alley, pacing and growling in the shadows. He saw the men walk by; there were three of them. He padded silently out of the alley and leaped into action.
He pounced on the middle human and he crumpled to the ground. Without waiting, he dove his fangs into the soft flesh of the man's throat. He let out a scream of pain and shock, but it was stifled by blood that quickly suffocated him.
He used his claws to rip at the man's stomach until the pavement was visible.
The other two men had taken off running. As a predator, he growled in the delight of a challenge and took off after them. He ate up the distance to the man running farther back, and pommeled him, tackling him like a football player.
His rage and instinct took its tole on yet another body, and then he stood up to his full height. The third plaything was nowhere in sight. With one last glance at the corpse below him, he ran down the street once more.
A loud gunshot cracked the still air, and he tumbled to the ground, skidding to a stop on the pavement with a trail of smeared blood.
He stood up, feeling the throbbing pressure of the bullet in his thigh. He howled his rage into the night, a mournful, agonizing bellow that made the third man come from his hiding place to look out of curiosity.
That was all that was needed. He caught sight of the man, holding a smoking revolver, and his muscles tensed. He bared his impressive teeth before opening his mouth to release a powerful roar. Thoroughly shaken, the man took off down an alley.
He wasted no time in the chase. He was in the alley in seconds, scanning the puddled, dilapidated space with his golden eyes. His gaze flicked up at the sound of creaking metal. In the dusty moonlight he could see his third piece of prey scrambling up a fire escape ladder.
He bounded over to the base of the ladder. Glaring up at the man, he sank down to the ground. Then, like springs under pressure, his legs extended, propelling him upward. He reached up with his claws, opened his deadly jaws, and grabbed for the man. His claws raked through his back, while he sank his teeth into the man's calf. The man screamed and fell from the ladder, twenty feet down to the brick alley. His spine snapped on impact, laying him helplessly at the claws of a monster.
He knelt down over the helpless human and growled, pulling back his lips to reveal his teeth. The man shivered and winced and whimpered like a baby. Instead of completely destroying this man's body, he swiped one clawed paw across his face, deep enough to go completely through his cheek and rip through his tongue, and broke his jaw in the process.
Ignoring the cries of pain and fear, he bounded from the alley, on the hunt once more.
Watching from the back of his own mind, feeling the instinctive urges overpower all else, he came to the realization that he was monster. But the rage and power felt too good to pass up. He was weak to give into such petty temptations, but the rush was too unique to be explained. He didn't think that he left three souls in his wake. If the last one survived, he would be lucky enough to experience the outflow of energy that was now his gift. It was not a curse.
I'm much too tired to proofread this. Please excuse any typos, i apologize. that took longer than i thought to write, but i'm glad it's all there. I would love some feedback, if you can spare it. :yes: