Short story: The Werewolf

The pain. Oh God, the horrible, excruciating, mind-numbing pain. I feel as if a thousand knives have been jammed into every joint in my body. I look at my hands and see my hair growing at an accelerated rate. It’s silver. My entire bone structure is shifting position, my back is losing its posture, my legs are getting more stout, my hands are becoming claws. I want to die. I beg to die. Then, as quickly as it started, it stops. I pause and take some deep breaths, then I come to a realization. I am alive. Everything up to this point has been a complete and utter lie.  For the first time, I can see, I can hear, I can smell, I can feel. I’m invincible. I could do a hundred triathlons and be completely unphased. I can feel my new muscles, almost bulging out of my skin. My sleek, furry skin. I look at the giant moon in the October sky, and let out an unexpected howl. It is strangely satisfying, so I do it again.  I am aware of a million things at once, like that squirrel that just ran away, or that leaf that just hit the ground, or that couple approaching in the distance. Which reminds me: I’m hungry. And not just for any old thing, I need meat. I’m not just talking about regular, animal meat either, I need real meat, human meat. Why not? I could do it. The couple is getting closer now, so I hide in the bushes. Tonight, I am the werewolf. And now, I hunt.