GNAWED

I've got to. All night, I struggled with it. I'll fall short. My struggle is pointless, much like a woman who experiences the first signs of labour and decides it's not the right moment to give birth. Nature triumphs. It constantly does. It's almost two in the morning; it's too late for this nonsense, and I need to sleep. I was worn out after four nights of cramming to make a deadline. It is irrelevant. Skin patches behind my elbows and knees have been tingling and are now starting to burn. I have to take gulps of breath because my heart is beating so quickly. I close my eyes and tighten my hands, but the feelings don't go away. I have Michael sleeping next to me. He is yet another reason why I shouldn't leave—he keeps slipping away in the middle of the night and coming back with a string of ridiculous justifications. He has a late shift tomorrow. If I can only hold out for another day. My temples start to ache. My arms and legs also experience a burning feeling that starts in my skin. I feel a tight ball of anger building inside of me that is ready to burst. I need to go immediately since I don't have much time left. When I get out of bed, Michael doesn't move. I won't risk the creaks and grunts of opening drawers and closets since there is a stack of garments stashed below my dresser. I quietly open the door and skulk into the hallway after picking up my keys and securing them in my fist to prevent them from jingling. The world is silent. The lights seem to be diminished and overshadowed by the void. The elevator creaks as I press the button, complaining that it was disturbed at such an unholy hour. The foyer and first level are both completely unoccupied. By this hour, most people who can afford the rent in this area of downtown Toronto are soundly sleeping. I curl my toes to check if the itching would cease since my legs itch and pain. There isn't. I glance down and see my vehicle keys. It's too late to travel to a safe location since the scratching has hardened into a burning pain. I enter the streets with my keys in my pocket in search of a quiet location to change. I keep an eye on the feeling in my legs as I walk, following its progression up my arms and the back of my neck. Soon. Soon. I hunt for an alley when I have gone as far as I can and my scalp begins to tingle. Two individuals who were huddled together inside a battered big-screen TV box claimed the first one I locate. The following alley is deserted. I dash to the conclusion and hastily disrobe behind a Garbage can barrier; cover the clothing with an old newspaper. I then begin the Change. My skin is flexible. As the agony intensifies, I make an effort to ignore it. Pain. What a meaningless word—agony is preferable. Being flayed alive is not considered to be "painful." I take a big breath in and concentrate on the Change before stooping to the ground and being driven to the ground. It's never simple—maybe I'm still too fallible. I attempt to anticipate each stage as I fight to maintain mental clarity and posture my body accordingly: head down, on all fours, arms and legs straight, feet and hands flexed, and back arched. My leg muscles tense up and shake. I sigh and try to calm down. My body starts to perspire profusely, but eventually, the muscles give way and untwist. The next 10 seconds are absolute torture, and I used to swear I'd rather die than go through them again. And that's all. Changed. I squint and strain. When I glance about, the environment has changed to a variety of hues that the human eye cannot see—blacks, browns, and greys with delicate shadings—though my brain still interprets them as blues, greens, and reds. Inhaling, I elevate my nose. My already keen senses become even more acute with the Change. Fresh asphalt, rotten tomatoes, window-pot mums, day-old perspiration, and a million other aromas combine in an overpowering stink that makes me sneeze and shake my head. I see warped bits of my reflection in a damaged garbage can as I turn. My own eyes return the gaze. I scowl at myself as I twist my lips upward. In the metal, white teeth are seen. I am a wolf, a light blond, 130-pound wolf. My eyes are the only thing that's left of me; they burn with a chilly intellect and a seething fury that can never be mistaken for anything other than human. I take in the sights and smells of the area as I gaze about. I'm tense right now. It smells like human faeces since it is so near and cramped. I have to be cautious. I'll be mistaken for a giant mixed breed dog, maybe a husky and yellow Labrador mix, if I'm spotted. But even a dog my size going wild is a reason for concern. I go toward the rear of the laneway in search of a route into the gritty urban core. Not because of my shift in form, but rather because of the strangeness of my surroundings, my intellect is dulled and confused. I'm lost and the first alley I walk down turns out to be the one where the two guys in the fading Sony box were when I first saw them in human form. One of them is now awake. He seems to be able to pull the shattered pieces of a filth-covered blanket between his fingers. Stretch it out to a size that will fully protect him from the chilly October night. He turns to look at me. His eyes enlarge. He begins to recoil but stops himself. He makes a statement. His voice is melodious and exaggerated, similar to the way adults talk to babies and animals. The words may be audible if I focused, but there's no point. I understand what he's saying, which is a version of "nice dog," repeated in a range of tones. His hands are extended with the palms facing outward to fend me off, contradicting his spoken language. Nice dog, please hold back. People also ponder why animals do not comprehend them. The stench of filth and abandonment is emanating from his body. It has a weakening odour like an old deer pushed to the outside of the herd where it will be easy prey for wolves. He smells like supper, which would make me hungry. Fortunately, I haven't started to become hungry yet, so I can avoid temptation, conflict, and repulsion. I snort and turn to lope back up the lane with condensation trumpeting from my nostrils. A Vietnamese eatery is up ahead. The building's wood structure is permeated with the fragrance of cooking. An exhaust fan on a rear extension slowly rotates, clicking as one blade snags the metal screen casing with each rotation. A window is opened underneath the fan. In the evening air, faded sunflower-print drapes billow forth. Inside, I can hear a large group of people snoring and whistling. I'd want to meet them. I want to peer inside via the open window with my muzzle. A room full of exposed individuals may be a lot of fun for a werewolf. When I go ahead, there is an abrupt crackle and hiss that stops me. The hiss becomes softer before being overpowered by a man's piercing voice and sentences that break off like icicles. I look in every direction as my radar searches for the source. He's down the street more. I leave the restaurant and go over to see him. We are naturally inquisitive. He is positioned in the middle of a little parking area for three vehicles that are jammed between two buildings. He casually rests one elbow on a brick wall while holding a walkie-talkie to his ear. His scapulae are at ease. His eyes are unfocused. He is certain of his position, knows he has a place here, and has nothing to fear from the night. Probably helps is the pistol hanging from his belt. He pauses in mid-sentence, presses a button, and stows the walkie-talkie in its holster. His eyes take a quick inventory of the parking lot and discover nothing that needs his attention. Then he moves farther into the labyrinth of alleys. This may be entertaining. I proceed. My fingernails scratch the concrete. He is unaware of it. I up my pace and dodge empty boxes and rubbish bags. I'm at last near enough. He pauses as he hears the constant clicking behind him. I peek around the corner after ducking behind a dumpster. He spins around and peeps into the shadows. He waits a moment before moving ahead. I allow him to go a few feet before picking up the chase again. When he pauses this time, I wait one additional second before running for safety. He swears under his breath. He caught sight of something, such as a brief movement or a moving shadow. As if the certainty is sufficient, his right-hand slides to his revolver and caresses the metal before drawing back. He pauses, then turns to gaze up and down the alley, realizing he is alone himself and unsure of what to do. He murmurs something, then moves forward again, this time more quickly. He walks with a wariness that verges on panic as his eyes dart from side to side. I take a long breath in, just catching a few wisps of panic, just enough to make my heart race but not enough to throw my mind into overdrive. He makes for secure prey in a stalking game. He will not flee. I can largely control my inclinations. I don't have to murder him to stalk him. I can go hungry for the first time without murdering him. I don't have to shoot him to see him draw his pistol. I won't be able to stop myself if he flees, however. I can't resist the temptation there. I'll pursue him if he flees. He will kill me if I pursue, or I will kill him. He unwinds as he goes around the corner and into the adjacent alley. Behind him, everything has been quiet. I slink out from under the cover, transferring my weight on the soles of my feet to quiet the sound of my nails. In a short time, I will be close to him. His cologne is practically undetectable next to the fragrance of a hard day's labour. Between his shoes and pant legs, I can see his white socks coming and going. His respiration is audible to me, and the minor pace increase indicates that he is moving more quickly than normal. I move cautiously toward him, getting near enough that, if I wanted to, I could leap at him and bring him to the ground before he had the chance to draw his revolver. He jerks his head up. He is aware of my presence. He is aware of its presence. I'm unsure whether he'll change. Does he have the courage to examine and confront something he can only feel and cannot see or hear? He doesn't turn, but his hand moves to his revolver. He advances in pace. He then swings back to the street's safety. I stick with him all the way through and watch from the shadows. With keys in hand, he advances to a cruiser that is parked, unlocks it, and climbs inside. From the curb, the automobile squeals and roars. I sigh as I see the vanishing taillights. It's over. I won. Though pleasant, it didn't come close to satisfying my needs. These city alleyways are much too little. Unused eagerness is thudding in my heart. I've had so much energy building up in my legs. I have to go. A blast of wind blows in from the south, carrying Lake Ontario's acrid taste with it. It's not safe for me to go to the beach, gallop over the expanse of sand, and feel the freezing water lapping against my paws. I have to get to the ravine if I want to run. It's far, but I don't have much of a choice unless I want to spend the rest of the night skulking around alleys that smell like people. I start the excursion by swinging to the northwest. I am at the top of a hill almost 30 minutes later. My nose twitches as it detects the remains of an unauthorized leaf fire that is burning in a neighbouring yard. My fur is ruffled by the wind, which is chilly almost freezing and energizing. Traffic rumbles over the bridge above me. Sanctuary is located below, a beautiful oasis in the centre of the metropolis. I launch myself forward and off. I'm finally running. Before I reach the bottom of the gully, my legs begin to move with the rhythm. I briefly shut my eyes as I feel the wind slicing over my snout. Tiny darts of agony run up my legs when my paws strike the hard ground, yet they make me feel active, like being startled awake after a long slumber. The muscles move in perfect unison as they contract and expand. Each stretch is accompanied by muscular discomfort and a rush of physical pleasure. My body is rewarding me for working out by giving me bursts of almost narcotic adrenaline. I feel lighter and more pain-free when I run as if my paws are no longer contacting the earth. I feel like I'm still racing downhill as I dash down the bottom of the ravine, collecting energy rather than using it. I want to keep moving until all the stress in my body is released, leaving just the current feelings. Even if I wanted to quit, I couldn't. I don't want to, either. My paws feel the crunch of dead leaves. A quiet owl hoot may be heard somewhere in the woodland. After completing its search, it relaxes contentedly without worrying whether anybody knows it is around. A rabbit darts out of a tangle and onto my path before realizing its error and darting back into the bushes. I proceed to run. My heart is racing. The air seems ice-cold and stinging as it rushes past my nose and into my lungs in contrast to my increasing body heat. I take a breath in, relishing the jolt it gives me within. I'm moving too quickly to notice any smells. I can smell freedom in the tangled collage of fragrances that flit across my mind. I eventually give up, skid to a stop, throw my head back, and wail. My chest starts to pour forth music in a visceral expression of unadulterated ecstasy. They all know I'm here because it resonates down the valley and rises to the moonless sky. This place is mine! I finish, lowering my head while panting from effort. When a sound breaks through my self-absorbed stupor, I'm standing there gazing down into a smattering of yellow and red maple leaves. It sounds like a frightening growl that is mild. There is a rival for my throne. A brownish-yellow dog is standing a few meters distant as I glance up. No, not a canine. It takes a moment, but my brain eventually spots the animal. the wolf. It takes a moment for recognition to occur since it is unexpected. Although I've never seen one, I've heard the city has wolfs. The wolf is also perplexed. Animals are unsure of how to perceive me. They perceive wolves even though they can smell humans, and just when they think their nose is deceiving them, they glance into my eyes and detect humans. When I come upon dogs, they either attack or flee. The wolf makes neither choice. It raises its mouth to smell the atmosphere before bristling and pulling its lips back in a prolonged roar. It's half my size and hardly worthy of my attention. I let it know this by slackerly growling, "Get lost," and shaking my head. The wolf remains still. I linger over it. The first to break eye contact is the wolf. I snort, shake my head one more, and then take a step back. A flash of brown fur flies at my shoulder as I turn halfway. I roll out of the path by dodging to the side and then jump to my feet. A wolf growls. I snarl as if to say to the dog, "Now you're driving me crazy." The wolf maintains its position. It desires conflict. Good. My tail bushes out behind me as my fur stands on edge. I lay my ears flat and droop my head between my shoulder blades. My lips retract as the growl tickles its way up through my throat and out into the darkness. wolf refuses to give up. A forceful blow to the shoulder knocks me off balance as I squat and prepare to attack. I trip and turn to face my assailant. A second grey-brown wolf, with teeth driven into the bone, hangs from my shoulder. I get to my feet and fling my weight to the side with a howl of wrath and agony. The first wolf charges directly at my face while the second wolf escapes. I grab it in the neck by ducking my head, but it squirms away because my teeth are clenched on fur rather than flesh. I jump at it, causing it to retreat into a tree as it attempts to back away for a second lunge. To get out of my way, it rears up. I make a neck cut. This time, I'm in control. My mouth fills with thick, salty blood spurts. On my back, the wolf's mate settles. My legs give way. My skull's slack skin is penetrated by teeth. I feel new agony coming through. I maintain my hold on the first wolf's neck by concentrating hard. I maintain my balance before releasing it briefly, just long enough to make the deadly slice and rip. Blood splashes into my eyes, rendering me blind as I draw back. I violently swing my head, slitting the wolf's neck. I chuck it away once I see that it has become limp, and then I collapse to the ground and rollover. Surprised, the wolf on my back yips and releases its grip. I leap up and turn in the same motion, prepared to eliminate the competition, but the other animal scrambles up and dashes into the undergrowth. It vanishes in a flash of a wire-brush tail. I observe the dead wolf. The parched soil underneath greedily slurps up the blood that drips from its neck. A tremble like the last shiver of satisfied passion rushes through me. I shudder and shut my eyes. I'm not to blame. They started with me. The silence in the valley echoes the peace that has filled me. not even a cricket chirps. The world is quiet, in the dark, and dozing. I make an effort to check and treat my injuries, but they are out of my grasp. I flex and evaluate the discomfort. Two significant wounds that just slightly bled, matting my fur. I'll survive. I do a U-turn and begin my ascent out of the valley. *** I change in the alley, pull on my clothes, and dash to the pavement like a drug addict who was discovered shooting up in the night. I feel frustrated. It shouldn't have ended this way, in the thick of the city's trash and filth, grimy and covert. It should conclude with me spread out in a clearing in a forest, clothing abandoned in a thicket, enjoying the coolness of the ground under me and the night air teasing my exposed skin. I ought to be dozing off on the grass, drained of all mental capacity and with just the haze of contentment circling in my head. I shouldn't be alone, either. I can see the others sleeping on the grass around me in my head. The usual snores, as well as the odd giggle and whisper, are audible. A barefoot that is looped over my leg and twitching in a running-related dream is pressing warm flesh against mine. They smell like perspiration and breath, mixed with the smell of blood and the remains of a deer that was slain during the pursuit. The picture vanishes, and I find myself gazing into a*****e window and just seeing my reflection. I find it impossible to breathe because of the profound and total loneliness I'm experiencing. I rapidly turn and lunge towards the nearby item. With the strike, a street light trembles and jingles. My arm is pierced with pain. Welcome to reality, where you'll be scurrying back to your flat via alleys. Living in between worlds is a curse for me. Normalcy is on the other side. On the other hand, there is a place where I can be who I am without worrying about repercussions, where I can murder without anybody batting an eye, and where I am actively urged to do so to preserve the purity of that world. But since I left, I am unable to come back. I won't come back. My rage burns the concrete as I make my way to the apartment. As I approach, a lady who is snuggled up behind a stack of filthy blankets peeks out before immediately retreating into her nest. Two males emerge as I round the corner and assess my potential target. I barely manage to control the temptation to growl at them. When I move more quickly, they seem to conclude I'm not worth pursuing. I have no business being here. Instead of skulking about downtown Toronto at four in the morning, I ought to be in bed at home. A typical lady wouldn't be at this place. Another confirmation that I'm not like everyone else. Not typical. Looking down the pitch-black street, I can make out a sign on a phone pole fifty feet away. Not typical. I smell fresh bread coming from a far-off bakery that is just commencing production. Not typical. I approach a shop and flex my biceps while holding a bar over the glass. The metal in my hand squeaks. Not typical. Not typical. I mentally repeat the sentences while I flagellate myself. The rage only intensifies. I pause at my apartment door and take a big breath. I can't let Michael get up. If I do, I must make sure he doesn't perceive me in this light. Without looking in a mirror, I am aware of how I appear: taut skin, high cheekbones, and eyes blazing with the wrath that always seems to accompany a Change now. Undoubtedly abnormal. His deliberate breathing can be heard coming from the bedroom when I eventually enter the flat. still in bed. His breathing becomes laboured as I get close to the restroom. "Donna?" His speech sounds groggy from lack of sleep. "I'm just using the restroom." He is sitting up and looking at me with his nearsightedness as I attempt to sneak into the threshold. He smirks. He asks, "Fully dressed?" I left, I said. He sighs while running his fingers through his brown hair. "It isn't secure. Donna, I swear. We have spoken about this. I'll accompany you if you wake me up. "I need solitude. to consider. It is not secure. "I know. I apologize. I enter quietly and linger there longer than required. I wash my hands with enough water to fill a Jacuzzi while pretending to use the bathroom, then I discover a fingernail that requires intricate filing. I eventually conclude that Michael has slept off again, so I make my way to the bedroom. The nightstand light is lit. He's spectacles in place, his head resting on his pillow. As I approach the door, I pause. I find it difficult to walk through the door and get into his bed. I despise myself for it, yet I am powerless. I feel out of place because of the lingering memories of the previous evening. Michael crosses his legs over the edge of the bed and sits up when I don't move. He apologizes, "I didn't mean to snap." I'm anxious. I'm trying, but I know you need your independence. He pauses and wipes his lips with his palm. His words pierce me to the core. I am fortunate to have found someone as patient and understanding as Michael, but I am wearing through that patience at breakneck speed and all I seem capable of doing is standing back and waiting for the final crash. I know he doesn't mean them as a reprimand, but they serve as a reminder that I'm messing this up. He reiterates, "I know you need your freedom." But there must be an alternative. Maybe you could leave early in the morning. We could drive down to the lake if you'd like it at night. You may go for a stroll. I could watch you from inside the automobile. Perhaps we could stroll together. Keep 20 steps back or whatever. He can grin wryly. "Or maybe not. The middle-aged man who was pursuing the stunning young blonde would probably be apprehended by the police. He stops before bending forward. "Donna, this is your signal. It's your responsibility to remind me that forty-one is not even close to middle age. I respond, "We'll figure something out. Of course, we can't. I have to flee at night alone and under cover of darkness. Compromise is not an option. I can see we're doomed as he watches me from the edge of the bed. My only chance is to make our relationship so flawless on all other fronts that Michael could learn to look beyond our one unsolvable issue. I should go to him, get into bed with him, kiss him, and tell him I love him as my first action towards achieving that. But I am unable. not right now. He doesn't know me tonight and wouldn't be able to grasp who I am. I don't want to approach him in this manner. I assert, "I'm not tired." "I may as well remain awake. Would you want breakfast? He glances at me. His countenance changes, and I realize I've failed once again. He stays silent nevertheless. He re-establishes his grin. "Let's leave. It must be open somewhere in this city at this hour. We'll keep looking as we travel around. While sipping five cups of coffee, see the sunrise. Okay?" I hesitate to say and instead just nod. He inquires, "Shower first? "Or go for the flip?" "You may proceed." He goes by and kisses my cheek. I enter the kitchen after listening to the sound of the shower running. I sometimes feel very hungry.