Beauty, the Beast Hidden Within
They call me beautiful, like the way the moon shines on the serene lake behind my house. My few friends admire me; my family loves me unconditionally, but at times is adoration enough? Looking into the mirror, I see a tanned face with those same haunting green eyes that have greeted me for the past eighteen years of my life. Long locks of golden barley hair flow down my back as if they are a waterfall. The ends curl in wispy patterns at the mid-section of my back. My light colored lips stick out in contrast to my olive complexion. Beautiful? I think not.
What is beauty? A boy at my school thinks his art sculpture is the most amazing thing in the world. He takes one look at all the hard hours he has put into it. The sensation of how his hands have labored on creating just the right effect on this specific piece is etched into his mind. He knows that it was worth the time he spent and therefore beauty is the respect he feels toward his creation.
Mrs. Wronker, the head of our Science Department believes a well executed lab is the definition of beauty. Keeping the rat alive, getting your substance up to the right boil, or constructing the most basic atom to the best of your abilities is a job worthy of one hundred percent. To her, precision and care is everything. If you have those two characteristics, you are well endowed. Beauty to Mrs. Wronker lies with perfection.
Marissa Steinworth would tell you that the main object of beauty is herself. I suppose being the top of the cheerleading squad is some form of an accomplishment. However, I myself, find that such activities are a trifle bit boring. Who wants to jump around screaming their head off for a team that could care less if you supported them as long as you wore your skimpy skirts. Marissa's idea of beauty is herself.
As for me, I have no definition to provide you with. Beauty is the earth, the sky, or a simple bead of water caught on the last strand of a spider's web. Nature's beauty is all around us. You don't have to look far to find it. Actions can be beautiful too. Mothers taking their youngsters to the park to play brings my heart joy. Fathers giving away their daughters at their weddings makes me cry. Beauty is one of those things that can not be defined. To define beauty would be to contain it and that is an impossible task.
Impossible. That single word makes me laugh. Humans believe creatures of mixed blood are impossible. Change for them comes as such a shock that they force themselves not to believe in it. I, myself, am a mixture of both change and impossible. It would be safe to say I'm a freak of nature, because quite plainly, I am.
Why I am telling you all of this, I am not sure. I have nothing to gain through admitting my life secrets. You can't take this information to the grave, it's too juicy. Humans love to gossip, it's in their genetic code. There isn't one human that can hear something fantastic and just lock it up inside of them. That is impossible.
My tale will be unbelievable. At first, you will dismiss it as just another urban legend. You won't dwell on it until things start happening to you. When you go camping and hear the howl of a wolf before it races to catch its prey, as you watch a horror movie on your television on a lonesome Friday night, or if you ever meet me face to face, you'll ponder over whether what I tell you next is true or just something I've done to scare you.
I am a werewolf.
There, it's out. I have said it. It seems so simple. Just four little words were read and yet now all is revealed for what it is. Silly it seems to let you in on all our secrets. Of course, I see this as only an opportunity. I am preparing to take a large burden off of my back by sharing this with you. Of course you are probably thinking, "What is this girl talking about? There is no such thing as werewolves." But you see, that is where you are wrong, my simple-minded reader. You are dead wrong.
Werewolves have existed from the beginning of time. I'm not going to contradict the many stories of Creation. I am merely going to point out that my kind have been alive for many moon cycles. We have seen the world at its best and at its worst. We have seen the human race triumph and fall under defeat, cowering for their lack of inner strength. We have bared the brunt of society's unforgiving eyes and lived to tell about it. We are the ones who keep you on your toes, who never give you rest, and make you strive harder.
At night, when the moon casts a milk colored glow on my pale human flesh I make a choice. Sometimes it is more of a curse than a gift to be the creature I am. I can not party until all hours of dawn like normal teenagers. I am stuck with staying at home during most occasions. Then again, I'm already an outsider; no one wants me around enough to notice my discomfort at the mention of midnight.
Ah, midnight, the turning point of the darkness. Technically, it ends the day and begins the following morning. On the other hand, or paw as it were, it begins another life that I must keep hidden at all times.
My spine quivers with fond memories as I sit here typing down the ecstasy I feel during that precise moment. Like an electrical current running through my spine, everything begins at once. It takes only a moment or two, but soon I will no longer be a human girl, bound by the rules of school. In just a few more seconds I will be the creature you see in your nightmares.
Crouching down on the ground, I feel my fingers slip free of the keyboard. So much for typing. I doubt my claws would be kind to the tiny plastic squares. I know for a fact my father wouldn't appreciate long puncture wounds in them.
Coarse, brown hair sprouts from all over my body covering my white skin. My eyes see no speck of the light color. It has become extinct next to my fur. My nails grow sharp and black as my feet widen. I try to pull myself up off the floor only to realize that my arms have turned into legs. When you have the chance to change into something as stunning as a wolf, you forget the simple things, such as humans have thumbs. That might just be the only thing they have over wolves.
Then the great transformation is complete. Looking myself over, I see a beast, the body of animal capable of killing rather large prey. Predatory eyes of gold shine clear. A tongue, long enough to slurp up water, stays in between two parallel rows of sharp canines. My canines are sharp enough to piece and tear flesh, but I find no joy in mauling my kill. I transform for the primitive pleasure of being able to.
Part of me hates what I have become instantly. It is too diverse. Never will this form of my body be accepted in public, at least not before pigs fly around the globe. Another, more reasonable, section of my brain argues that the human body I posses is only a shell, this is the real me, the monster.
I believe neither one is correct. The real me lies within. No human body or wolf body can contain my inner beauty. The gracefulness that I feel when I awaken to another day of school, or the exhilarating thrill of running through fields, cloaked by my wolf body are both equal parts of me. They are beauty and they are grotesque.
Nothing is constantly beautiful. A rose is a radiant burst of red in a garden of all green. When it dies it withers until it is a decaying brown pile of ash. For this once gorgeous rose to now turn to nothing more than a pile of brown dust is the same as a mortal seeing my human form and then seeing my inner wolf. The same disappointment can be expected, if I could guarantee that they wouldn't run off screaming first.
Clouds fly over the moon. I take this as an omen to change back into my original form. Blonde hair lengthens from my skull, while I watch in fascination the brown hair of my arms and legs disappear. My claws shorten, turning white. My thumbs become working units of my hands. Within seconds, I'm standing on two feet again instead of four.
Collecting myself, I finish typing this record. Perhaps one day I'll submit it to the world, open people's minds so they aren't shut out from the world hidden under their noses. Sometimes they are so conveniently preoccupied that they don't notice what interesting things are being unleashed around them. It is sad, but maybe it's for the best. There foolish mortal minds can not comprehend everything that takes place behind their backs.
To you, the reader, it might seem that I find myself to be far superior to your kind. All in all, that assumption is not far from the truth. I do believe my race is more advanced. However, that does not mean I find myself to be better off than you. Quite the opposite, in fact, I do not rejoice in having to hide myself within this mask of humanity. I crave to tell the student body at my high school what I really am. To see the shocked expressions on their faces as I run fill with a new stage of freedom.
You may not be able to run long distances in a flash, howl to the moon at all hours of the night, or look into your own yellow eyes when you lean over to drink from a stream, but being me is harder than it sounds. To be shunned as an outsider in my human form and never accepted in my wolf form is both a trial and a burden. There are things like this everywhere that no one knows.
Beauty, the impossible, and werewolves are all intertwined in me. I have told you what each is, how it goes about being what it is, but now you have a decision to make. Will you read this and go about your daily life, or will something small from this story change you? I can not make you do anything. You have free will, but I know this paper will change you, because you have to redefine beauty and the impossible.