The Shadow of the Colonies

The moon is swollen, fat, round, and full. It lazily drips, like molten chocolate, a glaze of silver upon the dark forest. I sit at a cliff's precipice at the top of raggedy Millers Peak, tucked amongst reddish thorn bushes that scratch at my arms, leaving raised red scratches. I’m staring down at the flickering firelights of the small town. A sigh escapes my pursed lips without my permission, my state doleful as I sit alone while the United Colonies live, drumming like the heartbeat of a living thing below me.

The colonies here, they're something wonderful. The people are awful spirited, sticking the finger at Britain, calling tenaciously for revolution and freedom from their mother country. I guess I'm one of those people now, I was. I sailed on a rat-infested, disease-festering ship for what felt like a lifetime to get here months ago, all for the promise of a fresh start away from the bustle of London, and when I saw the autumnal green and orange-painted rocky landscape to the great Americas my hopes soared, I’ll admit. Right after we came good old king George flew us the bird right back. The Stamp Act, they called it. A tax on imports was set by parliament, and God's good earth were Americans angry. 1765 was a year full of protest to the tune of rumors that a war was brewing. Half believed it half said we’d never do something that stupid. I still don’t know which side I’m on. My wife was with me when I sailed here; Georgia was her name. Auburn hair, sparkling cornflower eyes, and smooth China-pale skin, she was as gorgeous as she was a hoot, always making me smile even after a rat nibbled my toe in a deep slumber and I wanted to hurl myself off the edge of the ship. 

When she died, almost six months ago now, I was the one who found her lifeless corpse mauled by some animal, her chest open, spilling out gore, a shadow of blood cast around her fragile, broken body. I think I knew, even then, what- or who had killed her, my dear Georgia. Since then, I've been known as a recluse, depressed, sure, but scared, some say paranoid, I say careful. You see, they never warned us what was here in the colonies. Here, in the dark shadows behind trees and the shady spots, where the lantern's golden bleed doesn't reach.

The first time I saw one, I got away by the skin of my teeth. Like illuminated rubies, its eyes glinted maliciously with pure primal hunger. It slobbered and drooled long wet ribbons of saliva like it was a rabid animal. Jet black fur was matted down hideously to its pale, fleshy skin, and there was something distinctly strange about how it ran, almost like it wasn't built for it, limping as it ran. The second time, I realized that was because its build was recognizable as human as it raced towards me. I thought I'd die, leaving my sweet Georgia alone, but I woke up with a throbbing in my left leg and the inside of my skull. 

The bite wasn’t bad. Georgia convinced me I was drunk and had seen a wolf. I almost believed her. As the bite healed, it bubbled with pus and became shiny and hot, sending pains across my leg. The doc said it was infected, but I knew better. I knew when black oozed from the punctures of that thing’s teeth that something was happening to me far beyond infection, and losing my leg, or even life, wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. Only on days when the moon stared down at me like a giant wet eyeball did I feel that bite's effects after it healed. You see, the thing I noticed was like me once, and it had lost its humanity for good. 

Regardless, that's the main reason I hide away, because those creatures, if they see me, they, don't attack. They walk past me now with a glance of their blood-red eyes. I can't be with the other settlers, can't cry for American independence, not when my life is harrowed by these things, by myself.

A scream wrenches me from my own mind, and it takes a while to realize it is my own. In a grotesque fashion and accompanied by the sound of crunching bones, my body stretches and muscles bulge. My fingers grow long and my nails sharp, my hair covers most of me, dark and black, and the pain sears through my entire body. I perceive the faintest sounds and scents: meat, berries, and scurrying. A pang of agonizing primal hunger tugs at my core, forcing me to utter a guttural growl, echoing in the night. The bones in my legs elongate as I stand on all fours awkwardly. A thick fur pelt spreads across my body, shielding me from the elements.

I am fighting to resist this, torn between the instincts of a beast and the remnants of my human self. It is a tormenting existence, a constant battle for control. Yet, this transformation has a twisted exhilaration, a perverse freedom that comes from shedding the shackles of my fragile humanity and the depression and fear that plague me. Adrenaline rushes through me with the pain, and when my back loudly cracks as my body rearranges itself, I almost hoot. As the moon reaches its zenith, the chilling symphony of a primal howl reverberates through the night. As the world loses its definition and simultaneously becomes sharper than ever, I clumsily bound down the mountain, struggling in my new form. I vaguely remember that’s why I was up here in the first place, so I couldn’t get down, but by then I’m amongst the trees. They blur past me as if I have tunnel vision. I don't know what I'm doing, but vaguely, I think… golden firelight laps the edges of my vision like a burning sun.