Lunarity

Here we go again, the moon is rising. I am trapped twenty-five days out of the lunar month. It’s a rather annoying process, to look at the world and not be able to act on it. Most people cannot comprehend how it works. They see us as savage beasts, but if anyone was imprisoned unfairly for most of the time, with only three nights of freedom for twenty-five nights and twenty-eight days of seeing but not doing, they would go insane. And so, as the moon rises and the other one goes to sleep, I am given my freedom. That feeling, the skin so naked, it disturbs me: I much prefer the body once the change is over. The fur, the claws, the fangs, these are my tools: these are parts of my identity. And so I howl. We always howl to the moon. We celebrate our newly given freedom. We celebrate it by a hunt.

The pack assembles. We have a lot of catching up to do, but that doesn’t matter. We are on a mission. We need to find preys, and we need to find replacements. Every month on of us disappears, falling victim to belladonna, or some silver object. One word of warning, we are not the romanticised versions of ourselves portrayed in the media. There is nothing romantic about the primal instincts we have so little time to satisfy. As I think these words of warning to anyone who might get a chance to perceive them, I pick up a scent. It smells of strawberry and sweat. Must be a couple. They might even have a kid. Families are good food. Yes, we eat people. Get that through your thick skulls. Stupid goth kids who want to be “children of the night.” We eat them as well. Emaciated little fuckers, they got no good meat on them.

What did you expect? The kind animal trying to control itself? Face it, I love doing this. In fact, at this instant, my claws are turning a child into an orphan. Soon, my fangs will turn him to food. We are intelligent, socialized, and civilized beings. We hunt as a group, we have friendships, and some of us even fall in love. All of this is between us, you are simply food. This is what we do to you. Your warm blood, hot entrails, and slimy guts are what we desire. We are the predators that make you our prey. And sometimes, one of you is left alive. We picked that person; we want them to join us in the feast of blood. But it is never the one who wishes to join us. These idiots always get killed fast. We go for the ones you don’t expect. Who are you, people who only know us through legends and idiotic stories, to decide what is best for us?

And when the moon sets, when the other one wants to come back out, we know what to do. We are smarter than your stories say. And by the time the hunt is over, we are back in the bedrooms, back in the prisons of flesh, and hidden from all accusing eyes. Hidden in the middle of the scared population. It’s the best place to hide. Tomorrow night, I will come out again. I will hunt again. I have been doing this for years now. We have been doing this for ages. And we are not about to stop. And you will be our preys.

Finally, keep in mind this little fact: those of you who try to befriend us while we are hunting, we devour. Those of you who try to run away, we devour. And those of you who think they know what the hell we are about, we devour. So you can only pray that we are not real, that we are nothing like what you fear and that we are the neutered dogs you wish us to be. Because if we are not; then you are simply a meal that has yet to be eaten.

[A bit shorter than what I usually shoot for, and it didn't pan out the way I expected. I seem to always have this weird tone setting in, and I think I'll have to try and move away from that. Still, this was a bit of an experiment as well, and the first person narration and complete avoidance of the actual action happening was somewhat of a change, I think. And well, even if I am not sure about this, there is the chance that readers will like it. I just think I should have gone with something else than a werewolf, it's a bit of a cliché.]