My mum never let me say the word when I was younger. She said it was because I shouldn’t be defined or labelled. That I was more than a word. I was a good little boy.
Personally, I think she banned the word because every time she heard it, it reminded her of her failure to protect me.
When she died, back in the summer of 2010, I felt relieved. I was sad, sure, but part of me felt like a weight had lifted. She couldn’t control me any more.
I didn’t attend her funeral. It was too much of a risk. You see, sometimes I’m not myself. When that happens, I have to keep myself to myself and avoid anyone else. Mum was good at keeping me away from everyone else all the time, so I had to be extra vigilant now she was gone.
And it worked. For a while.
The first time I lapsed, it was by accident. I had just started a new job, working in IT for an accounting firm, and I was given a lot of responsibility very quickly. I hadn’t really held down a job before and I found it stressful. I was also dealing with a few financial issues, so I hit the drink a bit. And when I say a bit, I mean a lot. Enough to make me forget what time of the month it was. Enough to make me kill.
I went on a night out with some people from work. I woke up the next morning with a massive hangover and a length of my boss’s intestines roped around my wrist. I was covered in blood and guts. And I liked it. I loved it. I hated that I loved it.
The next month came and went in a blur. Everyone at work discussed the disappearence of my boss, and some speculated he’d had an affair and scarpered. My stomach lurched constantly and I expected the police to come and arrest me at any moment. They never did.
I how have to confess that I deliberately didn’t lock myself up at the next full moon, but when I awoke to the dead bodies of two young women, I knew I had to stop. I knew my mum had been right. You see, my condition makes it impossible for me to want to stop. It’s part of me. I feel the urge. It’s more than an urge, it’s a need. And now I was aware I needed to stop.
My mum told me something before she died. There are a group of people. Vigilantes. These people spend their lives hunting people like me. Mum told me to always keep my head down and ensure I never give in to my cravings. Or else they would find me.
I think they have. I have seen men in white coats following me. The same two guys every time. At work, I keep receiving calls asking for Mr Wolf. My mobile phone rings constantly all night. I never answer.
I can feel the month flying past me. Each night I dare to look at the sky and see the moon, so beautiful and so terrifying, revealing more of its face. I feel the terror of knowing the men are coming for me. I feel the horror of my own insatiable bloodlust.
If they do get me, it’ll be a silver bullet that will end me. Sometimes the clichés are true. But that doesn’t mean it’ll be quick. My mum used to tell me what they’d do, and it’s be anything but fast and painless. They descend from a long line of hunters, so their hatred is deeply embedded into their souls. They will rip my limbs from my body. They will torture me. Only then will they kill me.
My heart quickens every hour. I can feel the time coming. At the end of this week, there will be death. If it’s mine, I hope I can withstand the pain. If it’s theirs, I worry what will become of me.
My mum was right. I should have buried my curse and kept it buried.