Curing the Werewolf

 

We always had a dog while I was growing up, and the more I think about it, the more I think it is how it took me so long to realise I was a Werewolf. I think we all have those half-memory, half-dreams from when we were a kid – those nights where we woke but didn't quite wake up, a parent putting us on the toilet or the house making a strange sound that rustles us from our slumber but the spark of conscious thought only half-penetrates the twilight of our minds. For me, it was memories of playing with our dogs, wrestling them, chasing them, running with them in the pale moonlight – running on all fours. When I recounted these night-time adventures to my parents they would smile politely and then retell my tales at family engagements whilst sharing knowing winks with my relatives. It wasn't until I was about fifteen, an age by which I had long learned to stop telling my parents everything, when one night I was aware of helping my dogs out into my yard – there we climbed a fence to where our neighbours kept a pen of bunnies. The next day our dogs were taken away, but I still had the memory of that hunger I had felt once under the full moon for the first time. I still had the carcass of that bunny I had brought back to my bed as a trophy.

I never felt right about my dogs taking the blame for that night, yet a certain amount of dissociation from my night form was necessary to not be crushed by guilt as it would get worse...much worse. As I hit adulthood, so did the wolf inside me. The town where I went to college was struck by a spate of brutal animal attacks. Late night joggers and students returning from bars were set upon by what they described as a dog that walked upright like a bear. Local wildlife was blamed but I knew the truth.

Aware that it was only a matter of time before my hunger would result in someone's death, I went in search of a cure for my affliction. You can find anything online if you know where to look, and I found Genevieve – a self-confessed sorceress who specialised in relieving chimera of their dangerous bloodlust. By then, I was well past the denial stage of my werewolfdom and drove the five hours to visit her.

I was comforted by the fact Genevieve seemed to recognise something inside me as soon as she saw me for the first time. Maybe she had just seen a lot of were-people or perhaps she really did have an eye for it. In any case, soon enough she was sprinkling me with sage and chanting about exchanging monstrousness for beauty. I couldn't tell then if it worked, but I drove home feeling changed.

I never really felt different in my Werewolf form. I think it is because I grew up with it and internalised the sensations that came with being such a creature. The next time I transformed in the moonlight, I certainly felt the change. My body reconfigured, remoulded into a slender feminine form – long hair, breasts, a tight butt and long graceful legs. Parts of my mind folded to meet it too – I sought out clothing for my new body, sexy, shiny outfits that fit the contours and oozed desire. I glowed in the full moon as I prowled. And yet the woman that is my new night form has every bit of the animal instinct that the wolf did. I still have the hunger, but I no longer have the bloodlust. No, it is a different bodily fluid I lust after. And when I wake up, I remember everything...