I was no more enamoured by Ruth than I had been at our first meeting. But, the footings for my therapy had now been firmly established - with a fellow werewolf, no less. Ruth's terse reminder that the correct term was 'Lycan' echoed in my mind. I chuckled.

Now, back at home, I was constantly reminded about the pending party and subsequent announcement.  My mother seemed to think of nothing else and kept hassling me at every opportunity to get involved with preparations. Quite why she bothered asking for some input, I hadn't a clue, for Mummy Dearest normally had everything in hand regardless of what was being celebrated. 

The most infuriating part, however, was the guest list. The attendees were all associated with my parents and, of course, the True Religion. None of my friends were invited. None! Then again, why would they be? I thought sullenly. They were mainstream - fangless, non-hairy, normal humans. Such 'unworthies' would only be looked upon as the party food.

The impromptu reflection caused me to laugh, but the humour was short-lived. My Mum and Dad were fiercely devout disciples, and they wouldn't approve of me belittling their deity and faith with such sarcasm. 

However, it did make me think. What would happen if the likes of my friends were invited? Mingling would be nigh on impossible for them, especially if my parents' guests spoke only of their religion and alleged shape-shifting abilities; a completely bizarre and somewhat disconcerting subject to the average mainstream individual. No, my friends would most likely bid a polite farewell and leave the party early to go and have some real fun elsewhere, making a note that my folks and their friends were nutcases and I would probably be tarred with the same brush.

I continued packing my belongings in preparation for the day after the party when  I was due to move into my own flat - a far more interesting announcement than the one my folks had planned. At least I thought so. It was something I'd planned for quite a while but the reality had never come to fruition, mainly due to not finding somewhere I really liked or could afford. 

I'd refused my Dad's help financially as I wanted to show him I could stand on my own two feet - perhaps four paws would be more appropriate, considering, I meditated. Again, I laughed, but this time, it was salty. Was it nerves about the party and pending anointment that made me so cynical and snarky? Or was it just the fact that I still thought the whole werewolf thing was nuts? 

Truth be told, after my therapy session, I was starting to think there may be something to all this nonsense. Maybe not in the way books and films portrayed it, but I had read about the 'werewolf' children. Congenital Terminal Hypertrichosis, often accompanied by Gingival Hyperplasia, a condition which was characterised by the presence of fully pigmented hair that covers the entire body - aka werewolf syndrome. 

However, my dad wasn't particularly hirsute. Thinking back over the years, I suddenly realised he'd never even been swimming with me. He'd only taken me to the pool, where a coach tutored me. And holidays? He didn't wander about bare-chested like so many guys did, or even wear shorts.  As for Mum; well, I hadn't really bothered taking much notice, but as I now probed my memories, I couldn't think of a single moment her legs were on display. Mum had always worn maxi skirts and dresses or jeans or trousers. One couldn't deny the woman had a great figure, but she didn't flaunt it, at all. Why?

Now I'm just being ridiculous! I chastised myself. They're just proud, or shy, I reasoned further.  And, I'm not hairy, either!  But, subconsciously, I found myself inspecting my arms and legs just to be sure. Nope, all seemed normal. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?

But, the seeds were now planted, and their roots were bedded firmly in place. My agitation refused to subside, and packing became erratic. I started throwing things into boxes and bags, all at a disconcerting pace. 

The exertion resulted in a strange grunt every time I launched something across the room. It evolved into a growl. Undeterred, I continued with my packing frenzy until my arms started to hurt in a way I'd never experienced. My legs, then my spine began to ache as well. I stopped what I was doing and stared, dumbstruck, at my limbs. 

They were bulging, rippling as if invisible blisters were forming under my skin and becoming painfully turgid. Falling to my knees I drove my hands into the thick carpet pile for support. In horror, I noted the skin continued to pulsate on my arms and hands. The sensation was not only alien but rapidly becoming unbearable!

As if that wasn't bad enough, the skin-deep pustules started to burst, and the contents exuding from them burned, seared, and spread rapidly up my arms, like poison ivy engulfing a brick wall. 

I heard a sharp, dry crack, causing me to scream from its intensity.  I watched in horror at the subsequent aftermath - bones twisting, reforming, extending. My spine started popping, splitting and reinvigorating into something definitely not human. I screamed again, and this time my cry was guttural, feral. What the... This unexpected and unbearable assault on my body was terrifying, truly agonising and I saw no immediate reprieve.

My mum burst into the room with my dad close behind. I looked up at my dad who was clearly concerned. I noted the panic on his face through my tormented and tear-filled eyes. Mum, on the other hand, was beaming! Positively euphoric.

"Lyall! Look! She's finally transforming!" she said gleefully.

I opened my mouth to beg for help, but the sounds I made were incomprehensible. And feral. Inside my head, I was screaming in my normal voice - "Dad! Mum! What's happening?" And yet, even without their confirmation, I knew. I fucking knew! Tears continued welling as the pain became so intense I thought I was going to black out.

"Look at her! She's - she's magnificent!" Mother rejoiced like a teenager who'd heard her favourite band was coming to town.

Then I caught sight of myself in the mirrored wardrobe door. The thing I'd refused to accept, would not, could not believe, was actually happening to me. I was changing, evolving, morphing into something preternatural. Bestial. Impossible.

And the pain!! Every pullulating snap, stretch and grinding of bone was excruciating. I could hear every rip, split and stretch and feel the insidious writhing and creeping of coarse hair sprouting all over my body, giving way to thick, rich black fur mottled with russet and grey flecks. Even my innards seem to be modifying and relocating within my once-medium build. 

"Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck!" The expletive ricochetted in my head, for the innate ability to talk, was no longer available. My mouth became a gaping maw, with long, sharp incisors sliding from my gums, the enamel, coated in fresh blood from the transformation. I wanted to tear my eyes from my reflection, but some morbid fascination kept me fixated.

Next, my nose grew into a muzzle. I was sobbing internally, but audibly, it sounded like growling, snarling and snapping; a cacophony of pain. And my eyes!! They were almost iridescent, mostly yellow, and fierce. Terrifying! An unearthly howl left my throat, its pitch both mournful and despondent.

With growing despondency, I realised I was indubitably broken and well on the road to becoming the biggest basket case in history - with fangs and claws as permanent reminders that there would be no cure, no salvation, and no hope.

"Bria!" My mother called. "Bria! Wake up!"

A sharp slap to my cheek yanked me from my tortured thoughts. My eyes fluttered open, but they were crusted with dry tears. Gradually, I realised my parents were standing over me. 

"Bria, honey, are you OK?" My dad's voice, caring and concerned, tugged me from the remnants of a truly troubled torpor. In seconds, I recalled every agonising detail of what had happened. Panic started to rise again and my hands rushed to my face, feeling for signs of the gross disfigurement I'd witnessed in the mirror. But, everything felt normal - no muzzle, no fangs, no fur. I was back to being me. The ordinary, twenty-year-old, fairly cute, but thankfully, hairless me.

"Dad?" I said in a wheeze. "What - what's going on?" I glanced around to see my belongings, most still neatly folded on my bed with only a few scattered in the immediate vicinity on the floor. Mum was already picking those items up and tidying them next to the folded ones.

"You must have fallen asleep," my dad said, smiling sympathetically. "We heard you moaning and then shouting. When we came in you were thrashing about the floor as if you were having a seizure."

"I was - dreaming?" It was a huge relief, but the vivid imagery lingered, weighted with fear and dread.

Mum knelt beside me and, belaying her usual dismissive self, she crooned, "You'll be fine, Bria. It's all part of the process. Perfectly natural." 

Still bewildered, I reached towards my dad, who helped me to my feet and sat me down on the edge of my bed. 

"I'll get you a drink of water..." he said.

"No!" I instantly protested, tugging at his sleeve. I didn't want him out of my sight at that moment. He was, as usual, the most caring. "Mum, would you mind, please?" I asked, attempting to feign appreciation.

I saw her lip twitch at the corner, a habit which frequently demonstrated her annoyance, but she nodded and left the room.

When she was out of earshot, I turned to my dad. "Is this really how it begins? With nightmares of how it'll be?"

He looked at me sympathetically. "Yes, hon. I'm afraid it is." He patted my hand, just like he used to do when I was a toddler after taking a fall and grazing my knees. I was clumsy then.

I could find nothing to say. I was fervently trying to rid the fearsome images and feelings spinning in my mind, but at the same time, from somewhere deep within, I was owning the whole episode. As if it was some sort of victory. Some strange, preposterous and outlandish victory at that. The conflict started to take its toll, and I could feel the energy draining from me. Confusion enveloped me, and I started to weep. After a moment, the tears came faster, harder, wholly unplugged and relentless.

My dad wrapped his arms around me and I buried my head in the crook of his shoulder. "Look, perhaps you should postpone moving out..."

I pushed away and my head snapped up, instantly aghast. "No!" I sniffed, almost choking on snot and salty tears. "N- no, Dad. I - I have to go. I n -need to leave." I sounded like Forrest Gump, stuttering and stumbling.

"I was just thinking with this being your first time..."

"But it wasn't! It was - it was a dream. It wasn't r-real." I wiped my watery eyes with the heels of my hands, hard, like a tourniquet for boundless tears. I took a shuddering breath. "You know, fine, I don't believe what you do." I was gradually beginning to gain control again.

"Yes, but - " 

"I'm leaving!" I insisted. "The day after the party." I held my father's gaze. I didn't mean to sound so cold or unappreciative, but this incident gave me even more reason to be on my own.

Dad acquiesced with a small nod and a trace of a bittersweet smile. "I'm so sorry, Bria. I'd hoped you would have somehow been spared the curse. It was looking hopeful for a time."

His words surprised me. "Spared it? But, you've preached your faith to me for years."

With a heavy sigh, he responded gently, pushing stray strands of hair behind my ears. "Yes, religion and faith are one thing. But becoming what you believe in is... something else entirely." He shrugged, defeated as he couldn't quite say what he meant. But, because we were so close, I understood.

It was the first time he'd ever shown any remorse about his bizarre religion. Most unexpected. I couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. "Dad, isn't that what everyone strives for? To be the best they can be?"

A small laugh fell from his lips. "I guess so, but in our case, it has an entirely different meaning."

I took a firm hold of his hands. "I don't believe in werewolves. Remember?"

"Even now? After..."

"Here's some water, Bria, and something to calm you down." Mum was back, holding out a glass of water and a Prozac capsule. Her expression bore no compassion, no maternal affinity. Just cold and calculating. I sometimes felt she regretted having me.

I glanced back at my dad. He, as always, offered a reassuring smile. I was still unnerved by the whole incident, but gingerly, I took the medication and a drink to help it go down. 

After a while a sense of calmness wended over me, although the ghostly images, feelings, and sounds from my dream still remained graphic, and sharp in my mind.

"Why don't you rest for now? There's plenty of time to finish your packing," Dad suggested.

I nodded. The entire experience had left me drained. The soft click of the door closing told me my parents had left my room.

I lay on my bed, trying to relax, but I fought the onset of sleep. Strange scenarios continued to play in my head. It was impossible to shake the dream, and it had inadvertently altered my reluctance to accept my parents' religion. Ruminating was a dangerous pastime. I couldn't allow my logic to be questioned by nothing more than a dream; it was ridiculous. My mind drifted back to around the time my parents, very delicately but sincerely, introduced me to their True Religion.

As a child, I'd never been scared of things that 'go bump in the night', and I'd found it strange when my friends voiced surprise that I was allowed to read or watch anything involving monsters and horror. Some admitted they were jealous because their parents strictly forbade them watching or reading anything linked to that genre. But, it fascinated me, and, much to my teacher's surprise, I even researched witchcraft with its different nuances and practices as part of a school project in my final year at Primary School. 

Mum and Dad embraced my interest and must have viewed it as good fortune considering their faith. One night, when they found me watching Underworld; Rise of the Lycans, they seized the opportunity to bring me 'into the fold'.

Alas, I didn't take them seriously. How could I? I'd been hooked on the genre through the Hammer House of Horror collection and I knew Lon Chaney Jnr, Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee amongst others, were just portraying some of the world's most prolific literary monsters. They weren't real, I knew that. I shook my head and chuckled at the sheer stupidity of such an idea. 

I didn't sleep much that night. Not because I was scared, but because the look of annoyance and disappointment in my parent's eyes hurt me deeply. I knew it was because of my reaction to what they'd told me, but, that look haunted me to this day. 

Some of my friends came from broken homes, and I'd witnessed first-hand how their lives had been impacted when their parents went their separate ways. Granted, their troubles were usually linked to drink, drugs, or affairs, or just that their parents fell out of love with each other. But still, I didn't want anything to steal me away from my dad because he was a good father, and he loved and supported me. So, I never disclosed what my parents told me that night to anyone. I was savvy enough to know that certain agencies may have viewed their bizarre beliefs as a threat to my well-being. 

It was also around the same time I learned that my friends and their families were referred to as 'mainstream'; those not of the lupine persuasion. And so began an education which left me feeling superlatively isolated within the body of friends around me. I simply couldn't discuss my parents' peculiar theology with anyone outside my family. 

From then on, both Mum and Dad tried on many occasions to convince me that their werewolf life was true. They'd throw in a comment about something that happened years ago when they were in their lupine form, or tell me about one of their friends' experience within the werewolf universe. Oddly, they never chose to prove themselves by the most obvious means - a transformation. Why that didn't cross their minds I have no idea. However, they were fastidious in their belief even though it was beyond my comprehension. But, I kept my parents' secret well under wraps, and no matter how insistent they were, I still didn't mention it to anyone, not even my bestie, Kerry.

So, for the best part of seven years, I lived with this extraordinary dilemma. No one could ever know what went on behind closed doors.

******

𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙴: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝙺𝚛𝚊𝚘 𝙵𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚒 (1876 – 16 𝙰𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚕 1926) 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝙷𝚢𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝙰𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚊k𝚒𝚗g 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚗 19𝚝𝚑-𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝙽𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑 𝙰𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙴𝚞𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝙻𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝙷𝚞𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚜 𝙶𝚞𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚘 𝙰𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚘 𝙵𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚒, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎.

Word Count: 2860

Running total: 6970