Moonlight

Rating: R (M for Mature).

Author's Note: This story is about Werewolves. It is a combination of violence, gore, angst, and sex. Its not for the kiddies, and if you are too stupid to understand what I mean, I HOPE you are scarred for , this is NOT my best work. As far as I'm concerned, the easiest thing in the world to write is angst, closely followed by gore and violence. So if you read this and think "Meh, this is kind of weak" you're probably right, because I'm not really trying. This is entirely un-beta'd, which means that if I didn't catch it whilst proofreading, it's still there. Feel free to comment and point out any mistakes I have made. I will be grateful, and I will fix those mistakes.

Claimer: I own all of these characters, as well as the world they live in. Steal them and I will sue your ass, you hear?

Disclaimer: These characters are named after real people. Similarities in their behaviour are because I have reflected the character after the person. Nevertheless, the characters are fictional. The real people who have inspired these characters are law-abiding citizens of their respective countries, who do not in any way commit murder on a monthly basis. Nor do they participate in any form of vigilante justice.

Chapter One:

(Introducing, Shawn)

“You don’t get it, do you?” My voice is edged with despair. I clutch tightly at the girl’s wrist, refusing to let go even though rivulets of blood are running down my arm where she’s scratched me.

“Let me go.” She sobs. “You’re crazy… you don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not like you.”

I lean forward and hiss in her ear. “I am not doing this, because I like it! I am not hurting you, you stupid bitch, and I wish you’d take a time out to appreciate that. We are cursed. We are not human anymore, and the sooner you realize that the better. Do you really want me to let you go, let you go to the police? Because my friends and I will be long gone… and you will have to suffer alone.”

She’s stopped struggling and is looking at me, her big blue eyes terrified and filled with tears.

“If I let you go, then you are going to kill them. All of them. You’ll kill those police officers, you’ll kill their families. And when you go home, you’ll kill your own family. Is that what you want, Gretchen?”

I see it in her eyes the moment she realizes the truth. She swallows nervously, and I let go of her wrist, hoping that the bitch doesn’t run. If she runs, I will have to kill her.

It’s not her fault, of course.

It’s none of our fault.

The truth is, we don’t do it because we like it. No matter what the papers say, they have no clue what they’re talking about.

We don’t kill because we enjoy it. We don’t drink blood just because we can.

We have no choice. Blood is our oxygen, and it’s our only way of surviving. We kill because we want to live. We fight because we don’t want to die. And we drink the blood of our victims because without it we will suffocate, the strength slowly drained from our bodies as we howl in agony and thirst for blood so strongly that nothing can stop us.

Nothing human, anyways.

Gretchen doesn’t run.

Thank God, because she looks like a sweet kid. Fourteen, maybe fifteen years old. Blond hair that’s starting to curl a bit, she’s probably spent an hour in front of the mirror straightening it.

It’s cold outside, so cold that we can see our breath hanging in the air. The police finally give up and go away, and we stay hidden. She’s shivering, but I can’t offer any comfort.

How exactly are you supposed to comfort anyone in a situation like this?

“Follow me.” I say, and I start to walk.

She follows.

The exercise warms us quickly as we jog from the suburban neighborhood where Gretchen nearly made the mistake of her life. We walk quickly, leaving behind the city and everything that the poor girl has ever known.

My name is Shawn. If I’ve ever had a last name, I’ve lost it. It’s easier this way, because most of the lost souls I take in don’t have a last name either. The majority of them lie when I ask their first names, too.

It doesn’t matter, because we have one thing in common.

We’re all werewolves.

Perhaps, you’d like me to explain. I’ll do my best. It’s hard to put into words, what happens to us when the full moon comes around.

Once, when I was four, I fell into the deep end of the pool. It was shocking at first, being underwater. It didn’t really bother me. Everything felt different, lighter. I felt free.

Then I realized that I needed to breathe. No matter how hard I tried to find some air, there wasn’t any to be found.

If you’ve ever been drowning, if you’ve ever experienced that gripping terror that seizes you and makes you want to scream… if you have ever been so panicked for air that you’d do anything, sacrifice anyone, to be able to have just another breath…

If you’ve ever experienced something like that, you still have no idea what we go through every month.

The moon calls to us, more strongly than life calls to the dead. It is more than an addiction. We need it to survive. And the most dangerous thing of all is when we forget that we’re human. We go feral, live in the woods, and kill deer as well as any human unfortunate enough to find us. We eat and sleep and kill, and kill some more. Then one day, when the ground is muddy with blood and we’ve devoured some poor defenseless soul, the moon’s call will cease.

Not for long, just long enough for us to revert to our human selves. And when we see what we’ve done, we want to die.

The only way to silence the moon’s call is to die.

And sadly, the one thing that the moon provides us with is an insatiable thirst for life. We are incapable of suicide.

I pity Gretchen. She’s not looking at me, just at the trail. We’re deep in the woods now, headed towards my house.

She’s not scared of me, which is unusual. They're usually scared. Usually, they won’t come with me. And so, I wait in the shadows and watch them, until their first change.

Then, I leap into the light and wrestle them to the ground, wait for the moon to fade and then watch their hearts break as their families turn away from them.

Sometimes, they fight me. Then, I have to kill them.

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