Love And Zealotry

Chapter 2

“I want to help,” Whiskey says. She feels the relief of having those words that have been stuck like a lump in her throat flutter outward into the dark and rainy night. She admits that she may have overreacted and said way too many things that are merely her assumptions. She just can’t help but be pissed off at the guy, how he dismisses any help yet refuses to do anything on his own. How she didn’t expect how much of a p***y the glorified “werewolf actor” actually is. Even still, she also can’t help but feel guilty for how brash and rude she is acting now. Especially when he raised his head and his eyes met hers, she felt the crippling feeling of hopelessness on those deep dark eyes. If she’d been any softer, she would be holding him in her arms right about now, giving him affirmations of safety and comfort, humming a lullaby until he sleeps, but she knows that won’t solve anything. That would be the same thing as hiding in a forest every full moon, and while the thought of hugging the man may set some butterflies in her stomach, she knows that when he wakes up tomorrow morning, nothing would’ve changed, and soon he’ll find himself once again, running away.

Instead, she chose not to succumb to the temptation and breaks their eye contact. She finds herself standing by the door, looking at the wooden threshold of the rickety porch as the rain pitter-patters off the ground.

“Who are you? What do you even know?” Walter asks.

“Just the basics. Your name was Walter Emerson Jones, born on October 7th, 1989 in Portland, son of Col. Jefferson Jones who died December of the same year when he was deployed to Panama to be part of Operation Just Cause,” Walter can feel the sweat begin to trickle on the side of his face, his fist clenches. “Your mother, Winona Avery suffered from clinical depression and was later diagnosed with schizophrenia in 1997, she died in an asylum the next year where she attempted suicide 4 different times until she finally succeeded,” she continues. She can feel his breathing stop. She hears his teeth grinding as the constant pounding of the rain gets heavier and heavier.

“You, on the other hand, was born inherently with hypertrichosis, which led to a difficult childhood and I imagine, a difficult household, one without a father and a schizophrenic mother who was convinced that you are a monster,” he can feel his anger curdle and boil, his urge beginning to resurface. Something about this retelling of his past seems to flip a switch inside of him, hearing her monotoned voice, her way of speaking, as if it’s just something that she’s read on a piece of paper without any care or sympathy. Walter just felt anger and rage well up inside of him, his fingernails digging the insides of his palm because of the tightness of his clenched fist.

There are so many things he wanted to say, things like “how dare you” and “shut up”. This woman is retelling his life as if she knows everything when the truth is she understands nothing. She couldn’t understand. No one can understand. His pain, his agony, his suffering. He went through all of them alone. Those memories have tormented and haunted him for all his life. How dare she, to simplify and belittle what he has gone through into bullet points in some notepad. There were so many things he wanted to say. There were so many hurtful words he wanted to spew and vomit until it leaves his soul. He wanted to scream and cry. Instead, in the dreariness of that cold, stormy night, only one word left his mouth.

“Stop!” he shouted as loud as he can. His voice echoing throughout the depths of the forest. It was as if the rain faltered for a few seconds to give way for the sound of his voice. Whiskey found herself startled by the anger displayed by the man. She knew that her words were hurtful, but she also knew that those words are what he needed to hear. He needed to face the truth instead of running away. And if he fails to see that, she is resolved to serve it right in his face on a silver platter.

“After an incident in ’97, the same one that sent your mother to the asylum where she would eventually die, you were sent to several different orphanages, but you were never adopted. Probably because of your condition. So, in 2005, when you were 16 years old, you ran away” she continues.

“I said stop!” he screams once more. As if it would cease to be his reality if she won’t say it. As if those events wouldn’t have happened if these words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. As if her voice makes the truth more real than they’ve ever been before.

“You may have found the magic of a razor blade and shaving cream. You may have found love in the performing arts. But who you are have always held you back. Since you were a child there were countless reports, assault charges, and even one case of attempted murder. You always seem to find your way on the verge of going to prison, using your stardom as leverage to get out of every pinch. The funny thing was, even the roles that you get in movies seem to always fit what’s underneath,” she smirks.

Whiskey was caught off-guard as a gigantic clawed hand makes its way towards her throat into a chokehold raising her off her feet and pinning her by the side of the door. The hand that used to be filled with errant dark hair earlier is now covered with a thick black fur as it clenches around her neck, covering most of her torso.

“I told you to stop, didn’t I?” she hears his assailant say as he reveals pointy canine teeth upon opening his mouth.  He can feel Walter Cross’ heavy breathing inches away from her as she recognizes the sudden change of his appearance. He must have grown a foot or two taller, with his head close to reaching the top of the ceiling. The black fur that now covers most of his body seems to be hiding a much more muscular and toned build while his left hand is grasping the top of her chest up to her neck.

She tried to struggle out of the beast’s clutch but to no avail, her lungs getting more suffocated with her every movement. Realizing that there’s no point in brute-forcing her way out, she smiles and uses the last bits of air she has left to speak.

“You, Walter Cross, are a werewolf,” she annoyingly smirks as a bit of blood starts to spill from the cut she didn’t notice was on the side of her lips.

Walter can feel his rage flare up uncontrollably. “I am not a werewolf!” he shouts as she slams her towards the doorframe onto the floor, partially destroying the jamb. The impact compromising the house’s integrity as it shakes and seems to be on the verge of collapse. Whiskey skids to the floor, gasping for air as the throbbing pain in her back made it impossible for her to recover quickly. As she raises her head, she can see the figure of a werewolf staring intently at his own hands, anger flaring from his deep red eyes. She just looks at him as she sees the image of a wolf morph back into a human, the fur receding underneath his skin, his fangs growing shorter.

“Did you get what you want?” he asks quietly. “Did you find the show that you wanted to see?”

She just stares at him dumbfounded, unable to answer his questions.

“ARE YOU f*****g HAPPY NOW?!” he shouts at the top of his lungs. He kicks the lantern into the wall, scattering glass shards across the floor. With the only source of light in the room now gone, Whiskey can only see the shape of Walter through the faint glow of moonlight that penetrates the clouds.

“I don’t care whatever it is you want from me, I just want you gone,” he says quietly, she can see his heavy breaths with every rise and fall of his shoulders. “You can come back after a week or even tomorrow, if I’m alive maybe I’ll hear you out, but please, I’m begging you…” a bolt of lightning cascades from the heavens into the dirt giving her a handful of milliseconds to see what’s in front of her, and that, for Whiskey was enough to see everything she needs. She saw his shirt torn and ripped to pieces uncovering the rest of his body. She saw scars and wounds covering every part. She saw blood dripping from a deep cut across his palms. She saw suffering and pain and hatred for one's self. Lastly, she saw tears dripping from the side of his face.

“Please, get out of here. Go far far away. Please, I don’t want to hurt any more people,” he whispers. He falls to his knees, all his limbs dangling limply. His head raised high to any God his mind could think of praying to. Desperately wishing for the end of this curse. Instead, as he looks up to the sky, he saw the moon. Forever beckoning for him to surrender. As he looks back to see if anyone is around him, he was relieved to find out that he is alone.