Then my body started putting itself back together again. Except the bones weren’t realigning right. They were elongating, growing and twisting. I felt my skull swell and push against my scalp and I screamed. I managed to struggle to my knees and when I opened my eyes, my hands were no longer hands.
They were paws.
They were covered in black fur.
Welcome to Hell.
I pushed to my feet, all four of them, and stretched. Stretching out the pain, ridding it from my body. I felt awkward and sore. This didn’t feel right—it felt unnatural.
A sob broke from my throat, but it wasn’t a sob at all. It was a growl.
Both my parents stood there, pushed against the wall, their faces stark white and their eyes huge. I stared at my dad. He shook his head, disappointed in my weakness.
I had to get out.
I took off through the kitchen, falling and skidding because I didn’t know how to use this body. When I reached the back door, I realized I had no hands to open it. I crashed through, ripping it from its hinges.
Rain pelted me, pounded against my back. I willed it to rain harder, to somehow beat this thing out of me, to make it go away.
But it wasn’t going away.
No one could pretend anymore.
***
Dad was in the other room yelling, taking out his rage that, until now, he had held in. How could his sons have such weak genes? Why couldn’t they deny that part of themselves?
Mom was crying, sobbing about her babies. Dad said I had to go. Mom wanted me to stay. She said she couldn’t cast another child out of her house. She told Dad that this was his fault. He never should have fathered children, knowing this was in his genes. She said he never should have lied.
The smack echoed through the entire house; then silence reigned. I tore the covers away and stormed from the room. They were in their bedroom. Mom was on the bed, holding her cheek, and Dad looked like he might murder her.
“Did you hit her?” I asked quietly, calmly.
He glared at me. “Go to your room.”
I leapt forward, shoving him back against the wall, enjoying the sick thud his head made when it hit. I pulled back my fist, anticipating the blow, but Mom stepped between us. “Stop it! You won’t treat your father this way.”
“He hit you!” I cried.
“What goes on between me and your father is not your concern. Everything’s fine. Go back to bed.”
So she was going to take his side. She might want me in this house, but he didn’t. He would have to let me stay a few years like he did Sam, but then he would toss me out, too. Mom might fight for me; she just had and it cost her. I looked at the angry, red mark on her cheek and I felt all the anger drain away.
I was tired. So incredibly tired. I didn’t know who I was and no one wanted me.
There was only one other person who might understand and I didn’t know where he was.
I left the room without looking back at them. In my room, I threw some stuff in my book bag and I waited until the house was quiet and both my parents were asleep. Then I crept into my parent’s bathroom and cleaned out all the cash in Dad’s wallet. I found Mom’s purse and did the same. In the kitchen I pulled the cookie jar down that Mom kept her grocery money in and took all of that, too.
I silently went out the back door into the night.
***
I stayed around town for a while. I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I watched my house; I wanted to see if they would look for me. If they missed me.
I hoped they would come looking, that they might call the police for help.
They didn’t.
One day, I followed Mom and she went to the school… I stood beneath the principal’s window and listened to her lie—to
pretend
that everything was just fine. Apparently, I was off visiting my grandparents for the rest of the year.
You don’t need them anyway,
the voice whispered.
You have better places to be.
That’s the day I left town. I went to the place I knew Dad took Sam to, and I watched the new tenant come and go for days until I finally admitted that Sam wasn’t there. To be sure, I waited until no one was home and broke in, hoping to find some sign of my big brother.
There wasn’t one.
Before I left, I trashed the place.
I don’t know how much time passed as I wandered from place to place, town to town. Sometimes, I slept in the park beneath trees or in parked cars that I found unlocked. Other nights, I woke up in places I hadn’t been in the night before, not remembering how I had gotten there. I would walk by a newspaper, realizing that days had passed and I hadn’t marked their time. I stole, I hid, and I hated the part of me that forced me onto the streets. I hated the hellhound. I wanted him gone.
Eventually, I started pretending. The very thing I hated. But pretending was easier than being something you couldn’t stand.
I wanted Sam. He was the only one who would get me. He was the only one who could make this better. Where was he?
Find him.
I was getting used to hearing the voice. I pretended it was Sam, watching out for me.
I didn’t know where to look. I prayed he hadn’t left the state, because if he had, I would never find him.
Portland.
The word whispered through my head. Sam was telling me where he was. He was helping me find him. Of course! Portland would be the perfect place to blend in!
I didn’t know how long it would take me to get there and I wished I had a car. I wished that I could drive because things would be so much easier. I found myself walking down an empty train track, knowing that following it would lead me toward the city… at least, I hoped it would.
The sun was setting and the sky wasn’t dark yet, but it wasn’t still light, either… it was that strange in-between hour when day bled into night. The night was cool and I considered stopping to pull on the hoodie in my bag, but I decided against it, not wanting to stop even for a second.
In the distance I heard the rumble of a train, but I ignored it. It wouldn’t be close for a while so I kept walking, staring down at the tracks as they passed beneath my feet. Soon, everything around me fell into shadows and my skin prickled with cold. Behind me, the harsh, bright light of the train pierced the dark. Everything in its path was illuminated, including me. I looked over my shoulder at the train, a little startled that it was getting so close.
Now would be a good time to step off the track and grab my hoodie. Except when I tried to step off the track… my body wouldn’t cooperate. A second of panic seared me and I shook it off. No reason to be afraid, this was my body and it would do what I wanted. Again, I tried to step off the track.
My feet moved, but not in the direction that I intended. My body performed an about-face, staring up at the oncoming train. I jerked away, trying to leap from the track, but once again, I was frozen. It was like something was holding my body where it stood and wouldn’t let go.
Meanwhile, the massive steel train was barreling toward me at a speed that couldn’t be matched. The circular light on the front blinded me and I threw up an arm to shield my eyes. I had to get off this track! It wasn’t slowing down; the driver probably couldn’t see me.
I struggled to jump off to the side, and once again, my body would not obey. What was wrong with it—with me? Why wouldn’t it do what I wanted?! As a hellhound I was supposed to have lightning-fast reflexes and unparalleled senses. Couldn’t the hound in me sense that I was about to be torn apart by this train?
Adrenaline was surging through my body, and my heart felt like it might explode from exertion. Sweat dripped from my hairline and onto my shirt and all the muscles in my body were quivering.
Is this how I would die?
Would I feel the impact, the crush of my bones, the heat of the metal? Would the pain be so inescapable that I pass out immediately or would I just die instantly?
The whistle on the train blew; the high-pitched sound pierced the night sky and my ears began to ring.
Move, get off, run!
I tried to order
my body, to warn it of the danger, but to no avail. I couldn’t move.
Break,
the voice whispered.
Yes!
I answered.
I am going to break! Help me!
With one last futile effort, I looked back at the train, so close now I could make out the gears moving behind the steel. I could smell the breaks trying to slow and see the conductor way up in the driver’s seat as he waved and screamed for me to get out of the way.
I started to cry. To sob, really. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want any of this. My vision began to dim, and I knew that I was going to pass out. I knew these were my last thoughts, my last moments alive.
Submit. Let go of the control,
the voice whispered.
I didn’t understand. Was I supposed to stop fighting? Was I supposed to just accept my death? Accept being demolished like this in the middle of nowhere? Would anyone even notice or care that I was gone?
Steam from the train’s chimney flooded the air around me and I felt like I was choking on smoke, being suffocated. I began to cough and wheeze.
Give in.
Yes,
I thought.
I give in. I submit.
Just like that, my body was flung to the side. The hot metal of the train actually brushed against my shoe as I was thrown out of the way. So close. So incredibly close. The noise it made as it rumbled by was overwhelming and I thought for sure my heart would never recover. I pushed my face into the hard, cold dirt on the ground and covered my ears with my hands. I let out a scream, a tortured wail, that was drowned out by the rushing train.
I was alive. I wasn’t dead.
I don’t know how long I lay there, catching my breath, feeling my heart pound, but eventually, I couldn’t hear the train anymore. Even still, I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t move from this safe spot.
After a while, my brain began to work again; I could form coherent thought. And the thoughts that came rushing at me were confusing. Was I finally able to move, to jump from harm’s way because I gave in—I submitted? How can I submit to myself? I couldn’t.
Unless the hellhound in me thought that it was going to take over.
That would
not
happen. My father’s words came rushing back to me.
I expect you to be strong enough to handle yourself, to know who you really are.
But what if I wasn’t strong enough?
The thought left me drained. I was exhausted and I didn’t want to think at all. Thankfully, I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I was in Portland. I had no idea how I got here and I didn’t really want to know. I was still a little shaken up from the incident so I decided just to explore the city for a while. It turned out that Portland was a good place to blend in. No one seemed to notice a fourteen-year-old wandering alone, living on the street. I found this park; it had a fountain in the center and it called to me. I couldn’t understand why I felt so drawn to it, but I went there anyway and sat on a nearby bench just watching the water fall. Someone approached me from behind and I pulled my backpack into my lap. The streets were tough and people wouldn’t think twice about stealing from you. I knew because I stole from people all the time. I waited for the footsteps to move around me, to lead away.
They stopped behind me and I felt the presence, just standing there, stalking and staring.
I ignored the person, practically inviting them to try something. I clenched my fist, ready to strike out at the figure behind me when my attention was caught by another person on the other side of the park. This one seemed to be focused on me as well, changing his path to put me directly in it. He was wearing a big jacket, with the hood pulled up. Then more people seemed to swarm out of the shadows until I was surrounded by five people.
It wasn’t the first time I had fought on the street. I never lost.
But it was never five against one before.
You can take them. Never back down.
I burst off the bench, tossing my bag into the air, distracting them, kicking out my leg and taking out the footing of the two people closest to me. They fell in a tangle of limbs and that was it for my distraction. My bag fell and one of the men caught it. Rage filled me. That was
my
bag—everything I owned—and they were not taking it from me.
With a roar, I launched myself at the one holding my bag and hit him from the side, knocking him off balance. We both went down and I landed on top. As I began choking him, the hood had fallen off his head. He had dark hair and eyes. I stared into those eyes and gave him “the look” that I had long since learned so well. His eyes widened and he began to struggle. I tightened my hold on his neck and he began to claw at my hands.
Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.
I would have killed him. But one of his friends came to the rescue and knocked me away. Before I could stand, I was grabbed from both sides and my arms were pinned. The guy I was strangling stood, hands at his throat, and he sneered.
“Whatever’s in that bag must really be something if you’re willing to fight for it so bad.” He picked it up and shrugged it over his shoulder. Then on his way past, he buried his fist into my gut. I doubled over in pain and the two holding me released me, thinking I would go down.
Make him pay for that.
I reached out, grabbing the two men closest to me and smashed them together, spinning away as they crumpled to the ground. I went after the one with my bag, but two more guys stepped in my path.
I started fighting with them, taking punches, throwing them. Until one of the men pulled out a knife. Its silver blade glinted beneath the moon.
I crouched low, ready to face my opponent when a flash of black shot over my shoulder. A huge animal lunged at the two men. Their screams pierced the night, high, terrified wails that were abruptly silenced by an equally deafening growl. One of the men swayed on his feet and I thought he might fall, but then he found his footing and shot forward, desperate to get away.