The Attack
1643 Words
POV: Isla Reid
Location: Council Estate & Isla's Flat, Southwark
Time: Night of Attack Through Three Days Later
I wake up on concrete. Cold, wet, pain everywhere.
My throat's on fire. I touch it. Wet. Blood. Fresh blood soaking through my fingers.
The memories come back. The man. Marcus. Teeth. The bite.
I'm still alive.
That's wrong. The wound should have killed me. Torn throat, major blood loss. I should be dead or dying.
I force myself to sit up. The world spins. Nausea hits hard. I lean over and vomit blood onto the pavement.
When the heaving stops, I check my throat again. The wound's there. I can feel ragged edges, torn flesh. But the bleeding's slowing. Actually slowing, like my body's closing the wound on its own.
That's impossible.
I need a hospital. Need help. Need to report what happened.
Except what did happen? A man bit me. Said something about turning, about tests, about forty percent mortality. None of that makes sense. Must have been drugged. Hallucinating.
But the wound's real. The blood's real.
I try to stand. My legs don't work right. Take three attempts before I'm upright, leaning against the wall for support.
My flat's two blocks away. I can make it. Just need to keep moving.
I stagger through the estate. Everything looks wrong. Too bright, too detailed. I can see in the darkness like it's twilight instead of midnight. That's not normal.
Drugged. Must be drugged.
My building's ahead. I fumble for my keys. Takes forever to get the door open. My hands are shaking, slippery with blood.
Inside. Up three flights of stairs. Every step agony. My throat's healing but everything else hurts. Muscles, bones, organs. Like my entire body's bruising from the inside.
I make it to my flat. Lock the door. Stagger to the bathroom.
The mirror shows a horror. Blood covering my neck and chest, soaking through my scrubs. Hair matted with it. Eyes too wide, pupils blown.
And the wound.
Two puncture marks on my throat. Deep, ragged. They should require surgery. Should be gaping open.
They're closing. I watch in the mirror as the flesh knits together. Not fast. But visible. Tissue reforming, skin growing over torn muscle.
I'm hallucinating. This isn't real.
I clean the wound. It hurts but not as much as it should. By the time I've washed away the blood, the punctures are scabbed over. Like they're days old instead of minutes.
I strip off my ruined scrubs. Throw them in the trash. Shower until the water runs clear.
The hot water helps. Makes the world feel less insane. I'm in my flat. I'm safe. Whatever happened was. I don't know. Assault, drugs, trauma response. But I'm alive. That's what matters.
I dry off and examine myself. The bite wound's almost healed. Just two dark scabs remaining. Everything else looks normal.
Except it doesn't feel normal. My senses are wrong. I can hear my neighbor's television three flats over. Can smell cooking from the building across the street. Can see dust particles in the air that should be invisible.
Drugged. Has to be drugs. Whatever Marcus injected me with.
I call in sick to work. First time in two years. Sarah's going to worry but I can't face the hospital right now. Can't explain what happened when I don't understand it myself.
I sleep for fourteen hours.
Day two. The wound's gone. Completely healed. Just two faint scars on my throat that could be old injuries.
The enhanced senses remain. Everything's too loud, too bright, too intense. I can smell my neighbor's perfume through the walls. Can hear conversations from the street three stories below.
I Google "drug side effects enhanced senses" and get nothing useful. Try "hallucinogenic attack London" and find news about designer drugs in East London. Maybe that's it. Maybe Marcus dosed me with something experimental.
Except the wound healed impossibly fast. Drugs don't do that.
I spend the day trying to act normal. Eat breakfast. Can't keep it down. Everything tastes wrong. Too intense. The eggs taste like sulfur, the toast like ash.
I try tea. That stays down.
By evening, I'm starving but can't eat. Everything I try makes me sick. My body's rejecting food.
That's concerning. More than concerning. That's medically dangerous.
I should go to the hospital. Get checked. But what do I say? I was attacked by someone who bit me, the wound healed supernaturally fast, and now I can't eat?
They'll think I'm psychotic.
Maybe I am.
I sleep again. Restless, feverish. Dreams of running through forests, chasing prey, tasting blood.
Day three. The hunger's unbearable. I haven't kept food down in two days. I'm weak, shaking, desperate.
I try raw meat. Chicken breast, straight from the package. Disgusting but I'm desperate.
My body accepts it. Actually wants it. I eat half the package before stopping, horrified at myself.
What's happening to me?
Then the pain starts.
It's not gradual. One moment I'm standing in my kitchen, next moment I'm on the floor screaming. My bones are breaking. Actually breaking and reforming. I can feel them splintering, growing, changing shape.
My hands are cramping, fingers curling. I watch in horror as nails thicken, darken, curve into claws.
This isn't drugs. This isn't hallucination.
This is real.
My spine's arching, vertebrae popping one by one. I'm screaming but the sound coming out isn't human. It's animal. Howling.
My jaw's dislocating. I feel teeth falling out, new ones growing. Longer. Sharper. Wrong.
I'm changing into something.
The transformation happens in waves. Each one more painful than the last. Bones breaking and reforming. Muscles tearing and rebuilding. Organs shifting position. My entire body rewriting itself.
I'm going to die. This is dying. My body can't survive this.
But I don't die. The transformation continues. Forty minutes of screaming agony before it finally stops.
I'm on my kitchen floor. Gasping. Covered in sweat and blood where my skin split and healed.
My vision's different. Lower to the ground. Everything in shades of gray and blue but sharper than before.
I look at my hands.
They're paws. Covered in fur. Clawed.
I'm a wolf. An actual wolf.
No. This isn't possible. This isn't real.
I try to scream. It comes out as a howl. Long, mournful, echoing through my flat.
Panic. Pure panic. I'm running around my flat, slamming into furniture, knocking over chairs. Everything's the wrong size. My body doesn't work right. Four legs instead of two, different center of gravity.
I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Wolf. Gray and white fur, amber eyes, fangs. An animal looking back at me.
I'm a werewolf.
Werewolves are real. Supernatural London is real. Everything Marcus said was real.
I was turned. Bitten and infected. Forty percent mortality rate. I survived.
I'm a monster now.
The panic's overwhelming. I can't think. Can't process. Just run in circles, howling, destroying my flat with claws I can't control.
Eventually I collapse. Exhausted, terrified, broken.
I lie there for hours. Wolf body, human mind. Trapped.
The transformation reverses around dawn. Just as painful as before. Bones breaking back to human shape. Fur falling out. Teeth shrinking. Forty more minutes of screaming.
When it's done, I'm human again. Naked, bloody, traumatized.
I lie on my kitchen floor and cry.
I'm a werewolf. That's my life now. I turn into a monster. I'll keep turning every full moon. I'll lose control. Might hurt people. Might kill.
This is what Marcus did to me. Turned me into this without consent. Ruined my life as a test.
Rage replaces despair. Burning, furious rage.
I'm going to find Marcus. I'm going to get answers. I'm going to make him explain why he destroyed me.
But first I need to figure out how to function as this thing I've become.
Three more days pass. I call in sick again. Sarah's worried, leaving voicemails. I can't talk to her. Can't explain.
I spend the time learning my new body. The enhanced senses are permanent. I can hear, smell, see things humans can't. It's overwhelming but I'm adapting.
I can smell Marcus's scent. Buried under days of city smells, but there. Distinct. Wolf, but wrong. Submissive. Damaged.
I can track him.
It takes me two days of following scent trails through London. I walk miles, ignoring exhaustion, following that scent through council estates, industrial areas, bad neighborhoods.
It leads me to the Rookeries. Whitechapel. Areas I'd never enter normally.
I find Marcus in a abandoned building in Bethnal Green. Fourth floor of a council estate that's half-empty. I can smell him inside. Smell fear.
I knock. Probably stupid. Probably dangerous. Don't care.
The door opens a c***k. Marcus's face appears. The man who bit me. Who destroyed my life.
"You," Marcus says. Voice rough. Damaged. "You survived."
"I survived. No thanks to you."
"I'm sorry. I truly am. But I had orders."
"Orders from who?"
"Can't say. You're on your own now. I was just told to bite you. Test if you had dormant genetics. You did. You survived. That's all I know."
"That's not enough. You turned me into a monster. I deserve to know why."
Marcus's expression is genuinely regretful. Also terrified. "I'm Omega. Packless. I do what I'm told or I die. Someone powerful wanted you tested. Paid me to do it. I didn't have a choice."
"Everyone has a choice."
"Not when you're Omega. Not when you're disposable." Marcus starts closing the door. "I'm sorry you survived. Death would've been kinder. But you're on your own now. No pack will take you. Turned wolves aren't wanted. Figure it out yourself or die trying."
The door closes. Locks.
I stand there, shaking with rage and despair.
I survived the bite. Survived the transformation. And now I'm alone.
Packless. Unwanted. A monster with nowhere to go.
This is my life now.
- Writer
