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Chapter Twenty-Four

Title: Checking My Face In The Back Of A Spoon

“What? Why?”

“We’ve been worried about you.”

And I shouldn’t be watching the way that Mitchell’s fingers are clutching at the door frame. White and straining.

I need to get out of here. Get to the hospital. Quickly.

I mean, yes, I want to talk to Mitchell.

To get him to explain himself.

Just get him to talk to me.

I’ve been so lonely, even if Annie has been flapping around like a mother hen.

But I need to leave.

I can feel the moon rising.

Annie’s going poltergeist again, doors are flapping and curtains and flailing.

Mitchell is straining against the doorframe.

It’s her who is stopping him coming in.

I must have missed something that was said. But Mitchell is trying to flight his way into the house.

And he’s growling. Teeth- fangs- bared, fighting the hurricane that’s stopping him entering.

Taking a deep breath I step into the hallway, avoiding the crashing of the door – that wood is going to splinter I just know it – and Mitchell sees me.

His eyes go black.

And I can feel that elastic feeling in my chest again.

I drop the bag containing the clothes in spasm.

It’s coming.

I need to leave now.

“Annie… do something.”

My voice rises to that embarrassingly high level that it does when I’m flustered.

And she does, bless Annie she does, using her telekinesis to bodily drag Mitchell into the house and blow me and my bag out of it.

“I’ll get you in the morning.”

And the door blows shut in a gust of wind.

Nothing like an eventful full moon.

There’s another spasm of pain.

I need to get to the hospital quickly.

I can sense someone behind me, following me.

It’s unnerving.

And I’m there. Inside the hospital. Thank the gods.

I can’t get rid of this feeling that someone’s following me.

This is normally my strongest time of month, I can do anything that I want, I don’t need Mitchell, normally I do.

I need him now.

I’m weak.

And although it hasn’t been spoken, I’m vulnerable.

I could…

There is every possibility that I’m not going to change back.

Death by heart attack, what the world wanted to happen weeks ago.

This transformation could either kill me or cure me.

And I lock myself in.

Pulling the door to and dropping my bag.

Never mind if I rip it to shreds when I transform. I can’t leave it outside. People might notice.

Like they would, they never notice the screams.

And I scream again.

The world encompasses pain and movement and logical thought is overcome by a primeval urge to feed.

To kill.

And that is all there is.

Other than that irritating noise.

And I scream.




And nothing.


The Human Chronicles

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