His struggles cease. Does he feel the lengthening
canines as they erupt from my gums?
The leather restraints snap at the wide cuffs. They
loosely rotate around the chafed skin and bone of my
wrists as I pin him to the bed beside me. His broad back
overhangs the narrow cot from hip to shoulder. I open my
mouth and release his hand. He looks at me paralysed, eyes
stretched wide.
I greedily drink in the sight of scavenger turned
carrion. Then I drink from his neck all that I can until his
heart arrests and his blood no longer leaps into my mouth.
The transformation within me is immediate and
incredible.
I. Feel. Reborn. Vital.
His body falls.
As I pause inside the threshold — reaching the
door before completing the thought I wanted to move —
individual blood drops land like copper pennies on the
cold tiles. Loud, metallic. My fingers trace my wet chin.
Cross my lips. As I tentatively greet my new gifts, I am
reminded of the glass case in my father’s study. The
stuffed fox. It stands in permanent yet unfulfilled victory
above the fallen grouse. Its teeth eternally bared, lips
curled back in a carnivorous snarl, showing long canines.
Perfect tools for the hunt. The kill.
For as long as it roamed free it killed.
I have become the fox. I-
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