Behind the Door

Feral Confrontation

Agonised cries are calling to me, the pain and terror cause my heart to constrict and all of a sudden I'm running, then I'm no longer my human self. Sniffing at the cold damp earth between each step of my scruffy golden paws, I haven't been my other self, my Lynx self, in months; I had felt the pull but kept it at bay so I could keep working at The Book Worm, a second hand book shop on the corner of the hospital and the ‘Hot Fix’ coffee shop.

She cries out again, I can hear them dragging her around, the leaves rustling beneath her and the growls of the savage beasts that have her. Her pain is so real, so raw I can tell exactly what they're doing to her, tearing and ripping her flesh, biting different bits all over her body to allow her to bleed out, tormenting her and probably tugging her between them until she loses consciousness. Then the real tearing can begin.

I'm close now, so I'm slowing to calm my breath, I can't catch them if I’m out of breath. They come into view and there are three of them, wolves, real pack animals, I'm lucky that they haven't yet reached maturity... Makes killing them less of a risk for me. They hear me and each head pops up from a different section of body: shin, hip and shoulder. Instant alert hits them as they smell my scent so I stalk into the clearing. The problem with wolves is that they come as a kind of package deal, you take on one... Well you can never take on just one. The two dark ones, located at her hip and shoulder, are now poised for action - teeth bared and protecting their 'meat'. I swipe at the closest one, a smaller-than-the-others light grey female, and I catch her flank. As my unsheathed claws connect it is like an explosion of blood and raw flesh and the others immediately react, surging forward as one. I must have given one hell of a hit because she drops instantly and then time slows as they hurl me away through the bush behind me. We're rolling away when my teeth connect with the largest male's back leg - the greatest howl I have ever heard comes from his muzzle as teeth connect with flesh, followed by muscle, followed by bone and then whatever is beneath as I feel snapping and grating.

...

He is overcome by the two wolves. The one who is injured is still snapping mere inches from his face and the other has latched itself onto the fur on the scruff of his neck, dark red blood is seeping through its teeth when all of a sudden it makes a wrong move and tumbles, pulling him down with it. There's a moment of shock where the wolf loses his grip but that's all he needs to spin around and bite through the wolf's throat, tearing a can sized chunk from it. Leaving it on the ground pumping the final few pints of blood from its unmoving body he pounces upon the last wolf.

...

As I reach the bright foliage of the clearing once again, muzzle covered in blood, I can instantly smell her beautiful aroma; flowers and fruit, with an undercurrent of metal. But then I smell something just as alarming. The scent of a presence past the poor torn girl, seeping from within a dense hedge, spreading across the open space; one I only detect by chance. It consists of dirt, musk, and all of the smells that indicate a serious predator. It is the smell of a bear. There’s a hint of something else...something unexpected and more distressing – the smell of human. Unlike those pups from before this threat is like me. It’s a realisation that sends tiny electrical shocks through my animal form, instantly putting me on edge.

I don’t doubt he’s across the clearing watching me, or that he knows of my presence and intentions, because I’m watching for him and I know his intentions. So with my heart hammering against my rib cage I move forward once more... but so does he. His black/brown muzzle, large sharp teeth on show, is the first thing to pass through the brush, snarling as a show of dominance and ownership of her. A warning roar following his snarl that doesn’t affect me in the way it should, I slow my pace but she will be mine. His stride doesn’t cease until he is practically on top of the indistinguishable mass of torn flesh, blood and dirty leaves. He’s big; I’ll give him that, and is clearly trying to be intimidating. He, like I, knows that beneath the horror lies a natural beauty just from hearing her heart and smelling her scent.

As he lowers his face to hers every muscle in my body becomes tense and every sense becomes heightened (a reaction that slows down the world in order for me to accurately take down my meal). I would give anything to be that close to her limp body, feel her smooth pale skin, smell the fragrance I had never smelt before today – sweet but creamy, a scent as individual as she is. She calls to me the way no other ever has. It’s like she is meant for me alone and every part of me aches to be with her, I have to fight all of my instincts not to just run to her side.

So I edge my way across the expanse separating me from her, from him. I think to myself - if I move quietly I can get to her, if I move slowly (hopefully) he will disregard me, he’ll know I just want to be close to her, to help her. The leaves are soft, sliding beneath my steps, the damp frictionless coating still covering the earth after the rain a few days ago. The beauty of this natural occurrence had lost its meaning when such beauty had fallen within it.

I reach her feet as he notices me, acknowledging my presence with a nerve tingling roar. His eyes are surprisingly human, narrowed with suspicion, as he looks at me from feet to face. I attempt to show all of my concern and care through my very animal features and implore that he let me help her... ‘Please!’ I repeat in my mind, hoping he will back away. And he does. Though he never turns, never takes his eyes from my eyes, I can tell his attention is on her. As he reaches the tree line and hedge he originally appeared from I imagine a slight nod of his head, an acknowledgement and acceptance of my help. After this he could have disappeared from the universe for all I knew... I only knew her.

Her laboured breaths sound raspy as her eyes remain closed, looking closely I can see them fluttering ever so slightly. The splashes of blood that have touched her face look harsh against such a pale background, the red on her cheeks not present to show warmth and life but the leaking out of it. Staring at her time seems to slow; at least I’m not sure how long I’ve been staring at her but I notice the little bumps appearing on her pallid skin. So I quickly transform into my human self picking her up once it’s through.

Moving through the trees is harder in this body than in my other body and I find my bare feet snagging on rocks, trees and sharp stems stretching across the wild terrain. I find my furless form reacting extremely to the bitter outdoors, with the stiffening of joins and prickling of skin.

...

He moves quickly, though not as quickly as he would in animal form and not as skilfully or gracefully; tripping over unseen branches that seemed friendly and in tune with his lynx side, that now feel defective to him. They seem to have turned against him, reaching up to grab his ankles at every opportunity.

He is automatically moving south toward the run down and dilapidated outbuilding hidden from the town by rows of trees and hedges. Left to rot discarded and concealed on the other side of the main road. It is also the building that he stays in during the months he spends mostly in lynx form, filled with food and provisions such as medical kits.

It takes him just over twenty minutes to reach the all too familiar purplish red bushes masking the wooden structure and another two minutes to fight his way through the branches to get to the wonky and faded yellow door. Pushing his way through it, back first, he fights his way over to the wooden bench that is currently pretending to be a settee. A settee which, for this purpose, is pretending to be a table on which he can start tending to her wounds.

‘There’s so much blood! So much broken porcelain skin!’

After what feels like long, arduous hours he has managed to clean and stitch a large percentage of the tears, bind the minor cuts and grazes, as well as icing her bruises. And in that time he has cleaned out two buckets of reddened water, used his entire stash of thread and emptied two full bottles of antiseptic solution. He stands back, never turning his back on the unconscious girl but, looks down at his hands now tinged pink with the life force of one so perfect and delicate.

...

Looking at her sewn up with my primitive stitching she looks like a little ragdoll, as unmoving as one but in a lot more pain. She looks translucent instead of her natural pale of our initial but brief encounter nearly three hours ago, which suggests she needs warmth, but more than that, more than a blanket from above the temperamental boiler, more importantly she needs blood – something I have previously had no need of.

She gasps and her eyes flicker open ever so slightly, and I find that I’m instantly hovering over her; hands outstretched to help her in any way, to tell her not to move, not to hurt herself any more than she is all ready. I’m waiting to tell her she’s safe and that she needs a hospital, well what classes as one in such a small town – a three story building housing GPs, Dentists and an entire hospital with operating room (yes, singular). But she just returns to the way she was... passing out from the pain I expect.