The Rise Of The Spectacular Luna

Chapter 4: The Hunger Awakens

By the third period, Ella's control is hanging by a thread so thin it might as well be made of spider silk. The hallways of Millbrook High pulse with an overwhelming symphony of scents and sounds that make her feel like she's drowning in sensation. Every heartbeat around her thunders in her ears, every breath carries a cocktail of emotions so intense she can taste them on her tongue. The fluorescent lights seem impossibly bright, casting harsh shadows that move and shift in ways that make her head spin.

She can't do this anymore.

When the lunch bell rings, instead of heading to the cafeteria to meet Mia as promised, Ella finds herself walking in the opposite direction. Her feet carry her toward the main entrance with purposeful strides, past the security desk where Mrs. Patterson barely glances up from her romance novel. The elderly woman's scent—mothballs and peppermint candies—would normally be comforting, but now it's just another layer in the sensory assault that's been building all morning.

The autumn air hits her face like a blessing when she finally escapes the suffocating confines of the school building. October in New England carries the crisp promise of winter, tinged with the earthy sweetness of dying leaves and the distant smell of someone's wood-burning fireplace. Under normal circumstances, it would be her favorite kind of day—the kind that makes her want to wrap herself in oversized sweaters and drink hot chocolate while reading by the window.

But nothing about today feels normal, and the twenty-minute walk home stretches before her like a marathon she's not sure she can complete.

Each step away from school brings a gradual decrease in the sensory chaos, but it doesn't disappear entirely. Her enhanced senses seem to be a permanent fixture now, cataloging every scent the wind carries—wet pavement from last night's rain, the metallic tang of car exhaust, the green smell of grass preparing for winter dormancy. Even her own scent has changed, she realizes with growing unease. There's something wilder about it now, something that reminds her of pine forests and moonlight.

By the time she reaches the familiar white colonial that's been her home for sixteen years, her head is pounding and her hands are shaking. She fumbles with her keys at the front door, dropping them twice before managing to fit the right one into the lock.

"Ella?" Margaret's voice carries from the kitchen before the door has even closed behind her. "Is that you? What are you doing home so early?"

The concern in her adoptive mother's tone makes Ella's chest tighten with a complicated mixture of love and resentment. After this morning's confrontation, she's not sure how to navigate the careful dance they've been performing for years—the dance of secrets and half-truths that's suddenly become unbearable.

"I wasn't feeling well," Ella calls back, which isn't entirely a lie. She does feel sick, just not in any way a doctor could diagnose or treat. "I'm going to rest."

She can hear Margaret's footsteps approaching, the soft whisper of house slippers against hardwood floors, and she knows there will be more questions. Questions she can't answer without sounding completely insane.

"Sweetheart, you've been having such a difficult time lately," Margaret says, appearing in the entryway with flour dusting her apron and worry creasing her features. "Maybe we should make an appointment with Dr. Richards, just to make sure everything is—"

"I'm fine, Mom," Ella interrupts, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue. She can smell Margaret's anxiety, sharp and metallic like old pennies, mixing with the warm scents of whatever she's been baking. "I just need some sleep."

But Margaret's expression suggests she doesn't believe that any more than Ella does. Her adoptive mother takes a step closer, and Ella has to fight the urge to back away. Not because she doesn't want comfort, but because Margaret's proximity makes her enhanced senses spike with uncomfortable intensity.

"The school called," Margaret admits quietly. "They said you missed your last three classes. That's not like you, Ella. You've never skipped school before."

The admission hangs between them like a challenge, and Ella realizes there's no point in pretending anymore. Her carefully maintained facade of normalcy is crumbling, and everyone around her can see the cracks.

"I couldn't stay," she says simply. "Everything was too loud, too bright, too much. I felt like I was going to lose my mind if I stayed there another minute."

Margaret's face goes pale, and she takes an unconscious step backward. The movement is subtle, but Ella catches it immediately, along with the spike of fear that accompanies it. Her adoptive mother is afraid of her, and the realization cuts deeper than any physical wound.

"I'm going to my room," Ella says, turning away before she can see any more fear in Margaret's eyes. "Please don't follow me."

She climbs the stairs two at a time, needing the sanctuary of her bedroom more than she's ever needed anything. But even behind her closed door, with her blackout curtains drawn and her white noise machine humming, the respite she seeks remains elusive. Her enhanced senses don't have an off switch, and she's beginning to suspect they never will.

The afternoon passes in a haze of restless sleep punctuated by dreams of running through moonlit forests on four legs instead of two. When she finally drags herself downstairs for dinner, the sun has set and her adoptive parents are already seated at the kitchen table, speaking in hushed tones that stop the moment she appears.

"Feeling better?" her adoptive father David asks, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. He's always been easier to read than Margaret, wearing his emotions closer to the surface, and right now those emotions are a turbulent mix of concern and something that looks suspiciously like dread.

"A little," Ella lies, taking her usual seat across from him. The smell of pot roast fills the kitchen—normally one of her favorite meals—but tonight it makes her stomach turn with disappointment. The meat is cooked through, well-done, and something inside her recoils at the thought of eating it.

She wants it raw. The thought surfaces unbidden and so shocking that she nearly gasps aloud. She wants to tear into the roast with her teeth, wants to taste the blood and feel the texture of uncooked flesh between her jaws. The desire is so vivid and immediate that she can practically taste copper on her tongue.

"Ella?" Margaret's voice seems to come from very far away. "Are you alright? You look pale."

Ella blinks, realizing she's been staring at the serving platter with an intensity that probably appears disturbing to outside observers. She forces herself to look up, to meet Margaret's concerned gaze, but the effort feels monumental.

"I'm fine," she says automatically, though they all know it's a lie. She picks up her fork and cuts a small piece of the pot roast, forcing herself to chew and swallow despite her body's violent protest. The cooked meat tastes like cardboard in her mouth, flavorless and wrong in a way that makes her want to spit it out.

David and Margaret exchange one of their loaded glances—the kind that's become increasingly frequent over the past few days. This time, they're not even trying to hide it, and the whispered conversation that follows is just loud enough for her enhanced hearing to catch every word.

"It's happening faster than we expected," Margaret murmurs, her voice tight with barely contained panic.

"I know," David replies, his tone heavy with resignation. "Dr. Blackwood said it might, especially with her approaching nineteen. The time is approaching, Margaret. We can't deny it anymore."

"But she's not ready," Margaret protests, though her words carry the weight of someone who knows they're fighting a losing battle. "She doesn't understand what she is, what she's becoming. How can we possibly—"

"We don't have a choice," David interrupts gently. "Look at her, Margaret. Really look at her. The changes are accelerating, and if we don't act soon..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to. The implication hangs in the air like a sword waiting to fall, and Ella feels something cold and terrible settle in her stomach.

Dr. Blackwood. The name is unfamiliar, but the way her adoptive parents speak it—with a mixture of reverence and fear—suggests this person holds answers to questions Ella didn't even know she should be asking.

She continues to mechanically chew her dinner, each bite more difficult than the last, while her parents' whispered conversation continues around her. They're talking about her as if she's not sitting right there, as if she's already lost to whatever transformation they seem to think is inevitable.

The hunger that's been gnawing at her all day intensifies, but it's not the pot roast she craves. It's something wilder, something that runs and bleeds and fights back. The violence of the thought should terrify her, but instead, it feels natural, right in a way that makes her question everything she thought she knew about herself.

As dinner continues in uncomfortable silence punctuated by her parents' worried glances, Ella realizes that whatever is happening to her, whatever she's becoming, the time for pretending is rapidly coming to an end.