It’s over.
Just earlier this evening, things were normal. Well, as normal as they can be on a night like this. I was going through the evening routine when things went to hell. Finishing up dishes. Wiping down the counters. Closing the windows.
Locking my boyfriend in the basement.
I had just come out from the kitchen. While I was feeling pretty tired, I was doing alright. My boyfriend was sitting on the couch, his leg bouncing up and down, hands fidgeting. He startled as I approached, eyes wide, before releasing a shaky laugh and offering an anxious smile. “Sorry.”
I rested my hand on his leg and he flinched, his breathing becoming more rapid. He muttered another apology, his voice trembling. My heart felt like it was breaking as I looked at his face, seeing all of his anxiety and fear and dread that I could not take away.
“It’s going to be alright. It always is,” I said softly, wanting desperately to hold him close, to stroke his hair and kiss his cheeks and steal away all of the bad things. But I didn’t; he was so flighty and nervous, it would just make things worse. On nights like this one, he seemed to be almost claustrophobic, terrified of touch, terrified of everything - and most of all, terrified of himself.
He moved away from me, scooting to the far end of the couch. “Hey, you don’t need to…”
“Shut up!” he snapped, his hands balling into fists and then opening again to cover his face as he cradled his head, leaning forward with a desperate sob. I could see him try to form words, his mouth moving, but nothing would come out aside from his cries. I could only sit and watch as he struggled to form words. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Over and over. I felt a cold, sick tension in my stomach, wanting to run away, wanting to hold him, wanting to do *anything* other than sit there and watch him hurt. I couldn’t say anything - what was there to say?
He went silent for a moment, body shaking, and took a deep breath. He lifted his head as he exhaled, sniffling and wiping the tears from his face. “Ugh. Okay. Okay. I’m fine. It’s fine.” In the early days of our relationship, I wondered if it would ever get easier. But six years down the line and it’s still like this. I’d even say it’s gotten worse - he’s always been anxious about it, he’s always been out of it right before, but over the last few years it has turned into crying, into panic attacks. I was once pushed to the ground, hard, when I tried to hug him before I sent him down. And I could tell it ate away at him, lashing out at me. I could tell he hated it, he hated himself for it, and all I could do was tell him that *I* didn’t hate him for it.
It’s been rough for us. It always has been. We live in a southern state, in a very rural area. Our closest neighbor is a fifteen minute drive away. The isolation kills him. He used to be a social butterfly, as he has told me. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t meet him until after his… “accident.” But I can tell, I can see what used to be there. He’s well-spoken and charismatic and just beautiful in every sense of the word. I’m so, so happy to have met him. He says the opposite. Especially on nights like these, or in the days leading up to them, he’ll tell me he hates that he met me. He says it with so much anger, so much *venom,* but it isn’t directed at me. It stings, but mostly I hurt for him.
He rants and raves about how horrible he is, about how he feels like he can’t truly love me because if he did he would never have gotten with me in the first place. He raises his voice, asks me why I won’t just leave, why I won’t just go somewhere far, far away, and crumples to his knees and sobs. He rambles on in barely coherent self-hatred, tells me that he is weak, that he wishes more than anything he never met me, and I can see the frustration and anger within him. He lives in constant *hate,* but only for himself.
And I just had to sit and watch. I could do nothing.
He stood and looked at me. I got to my feet and walked up to him. Weakly, he offered me his hands, and I took them in mine. I felt a little bit of my tension ease as we touched, but I could see his heighten as he set his jaw. He fought it, and I knew it was for me. I knew he would rather just go and be alone now. But he watched as I melted, as I leaned forward and closed my eyes and let out a sigh. I felt his forehead touch mine, his grip on my hands uncomfortably tight.
“I love you,” I whispered.
“I love you too.”
He paused.
“All those people out there,” he murmured, “they think that we’re dangerous. They hide their children’s eyes, they turn their heads, they flinch when we touch.”
He stopped speaking for a long moment. We stood together in silence. I wanted to stop time. I wanted to hit a big pause button and live in this moment forever, eyes closed, hands locked together, feeling each others’ breath on our faces. But I couldn’t. No matter how much I willed time to halt, it sped forward.
“Sometimes, I wish I could show them what they should *really* be afraid of.”
I opened my eyes and looked at him. I moved forward, pressing our bodies together. I could feel his heart pounding a million beats a minute. Our faces were so close together that I could study in detail the color in his eyes, the flecks and the dark bands - and in his eyes I saw all of him, I saw love and beauty and everything that I could ever want.
He kissed me. I sighed through my nose as our lips met, my body tingling. He pulled away. We walked.
We arrived at the basement door in silence. Down the stairs. He hated when I went this far. I could tell he just wanted me to leave. I hated putting him down there. I hated closing the door and leaving him in the pure, inky blackness, all by himself. I stood at the bottom of the stairs for a moment.
“Go.”
I had no words to say, but I found it hard to move my feet.
“Go before I fucking kill you!” he snapped, his voice breaking mid-sentence as tears began to cascade from his eyes once again.
“I love you.”
He stared at me, shook his head and laughed a little, sniffling. “I love you too. Get out.”
I began my ascent up the stairs, heading towards the open door. But then I tripped. I had stepped too low, my toes meeting the top of the next step and catching. I fell forward, my face slamming off of the edge of a step. I groaned, twisting around and sitting up on a stair.
“Lee. Get the fuck out.”
It was barely audible.
“You’re bleeding. Get. Out.”
I couldn’t see him anymore. He had backed all the way into the shadows. I touched my face, feeling warm liquid drip down my lips. I had busted my nose. Shit.
“Lee.”
I tried to rush to my feet, but I was still a bit wobbly from the impact. My body swayed, threatening to fall forwards once more. “I - I’m trying, I’m trying, I - I’m going.” I started up the stairs once more, wiping my face with the back of my hand. God, it hurt. As I reached the door, I heard metallic rattling. He was chaining himself. He had told me in the past he’d prefer I do it, but I couldn’t. That was the one thing I refused to do for him. I couldn’t fucking chain my boyfriend in the basement.
It sounded like he was struggling, and my pulse quickened. He was groaning softly, but I could still hear the rattling, so I knew he was still working on it. I reached the top of the stairs, shut the door behind me, and secured the locks.
I sat down on the couch. I always felt so empty after this part. I stared at my hands and listened to the silence. I knew it wouldn’t last. It wouldn’t be long now. Now I was the one bouncing my leg as I sat there uselessly.
The minutes ticked by. I did nothing. And then there was a scream.
It wasn’t the kind of scream that comes from a human. Those screams were primal, feral, animalistic. They ripped through the walls of the house, they shook me to my bones. It’s a sound that if ever you hear it, even if you know where it’s coming from, even if you know exactly what’s going on, it makes you want to run the fuck away. There’s no thought to it; it’s instinctual. *Run.*
I continued to sit. The blood from my nose was slowing down now. I just let it drip. Getting up, doing anything at all, it sounded impossible. I felt lightyears away from my own body.
More screams. Snarling.
It took me a moment to notice that they were closer to the basement door than they should have been. My heart sank. Had he not chained himself properly before…? I tried to stay calm. The basement door was still locked tight. We didn’t know if he even knew how to operate doors and the like when he was like this. I should be fine. I should be fine.
I heard his body crash into the door. Fear shot through me and I immediately leapt to my feet. My heart felt like it was going to explode out of my body. I was shaking so badly that I could barely stay upright. I stood there, listening. I felt helpless. All I could do was hope that the door would hold.
There was scratching, snarling, wood splintering. I felt the house shake as he slammed himself into the door over and over. Fuck.
I didn’t know what to do. Any hope that the door would stay secure was gone now. He wasn’t letting up. The blood on my face. He could smell it, I was sure. I scolded myself internally for being an idiot - I should’ve taken care of it right away. Even if he had been securely chained, it would have still riled him up more. I stumbled my way to the kitchen, frantically heading to the sink, struggling to turn the faucet on with my violently shaking hands. I shouted curses in frustration and finally managed to turn on the water, washing away the blood. The cold water helped me focus a little bit, though the thunderous crashing coming from the basement was still assaulting my senses and making it hard to think. Fuck. I slowly brought myself to the ground, just sitting on the kitchen floor. I couldn’t leave. I had to keep him in this house. If I didn’t… while we may not live very close to other people, the risk was still too great, and it was a risk I accepted when we moved in together. I had to stay.
The door came down.
He had finally smashed through it.
I had no time. He was much, much faster than me, and I knew it. By the time I was on my feet, he had already found me.
I had never actually seen him while he was like this. Only heard the screams and growls. I was almost mesmerised; even though I already knew, it still felt like reality was shattering around me. He was covered in fur, long and grey and ticked with black. He almost looked soft. The way he was standing… he was on all fours, but could clearly stand up if he wanted to. His back legs were digitigrade, his feet massive paws with talons to match. I guess paws isn’t really the right word. His feet had an almost reptilian shape, and the same went for his hands. His face was long and narrow, canid, his nose dripping with snot and blood. He looked far more animalistic than I had imagined. Blood oozed from his mouth, and I could see splinters of wood lodged in his gums. He had *chewed the door.* He looked rather beat up from his battle with the basement door, but he seemed unphased. His eyes, usually a soft blue, were bright and yellow, staring intently at me. He wasn’t as big as I had imagined; he was around the size of a great dane.
I was frozen in fear. He was unmoving too, for now. Studying. Waiting. His triangular ears were perked and alert.
“Please…” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. This didn’t seem to help; in fact, he shifted, his legs bunched up beneath him, eyes burning into me. He looked ready to pounce.
I threw myself to the side, anticipating the jump. He crashed into the kitchen sink as he vaulted after me, buying me a few seconds. I looked to the knife block that sat next to me and I saw my only option. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, my lungs frozen and still, terror and dread coursing through my body. He was already about to lunge again, so I grabbed a knife from the block and sprinted towards the doorway. This time, though, he was more calculated.
His furry body collided with mine and we both went sprawling to the ground. I kicked and punched and thrashed. I had not forgotten about the knife in my hand, but I didn’t… I didn’t want to use it. I fought as hard as I could, pushing his face back with my free hand, but it was useless. He dove forward and in an attempt to protect myself I curled my legs and threw my hands in front of my face. Teeth tore through the flesh of my arm like butter, and he shook his head violently. Massive pain bloomed in my arm and I heard myself screaming, fear completely taking hold of my voice. After my arm was rendered useless by his unrelenting jaws, he lifted his head and went for the throat.
I plunged the knife into his stomach.
He let out an ear-piercing yelp, immediately scrambling backwards. I felt hot blood soak into my shirt as he recoiled, the knife clattering to the ground. I realized I had still been screaming and was finally able to get a hold of my voice, quieting myself, fighting to breathe. Blood was already pooling on the ground; he was bleeding out fast. He looked at me, his eyes wild, growling, and I thought he was going to attack again. But he faltered, body swaying from one side to the other, and I heard him retch. His breathing was ragged and pained, and I lay completely still on the floor, watching. He stumbled towards me with a weak groan before collapsing. He lay on his side, panting, groaning, gagging.
The reality of what I had done came crashing down, and once again, I screamed. It scared him, I saw his body jerk, but he didn’t move any more than that. I rolled over onto my hands - well, hand - and knees, struggling through the sticky wetness beneath me and collapsing next to him. I suddenly felt very weak, very tired…exhausted. I realized that I was also bleeding significantly from where he had bitten me. As I looked at him, looked him in those eyes that still did not recognize me, I wanted to give up. I used my good arm to pull him close to me. He whined softly as his body was moved, toes twitching. More than anything I just wanted him to come back to me, I wanted to see the fur fall away and his body return to the way it was supposed to be. At least then I could see him one last time, I could apologize, I could tell him I loved him. I pleaded both in my head and out loud for him to just change back. But as I laid there with him, all I saw was the light leave his eyes.
Typing this one-handed has been difficult and time consuming - at this point, staying conscious is a war of its own. But I need people to know. It feels… like a confession, almost. That and giving him justice, letting it be known that he is… was… a wonderful person. I know when they find us, they’ll be filled with terror and hate and see him only as this *thing.* I can’t stand the thought of it. I could call for help, I could be treated, but even if I was willing to overcome the emotional agony I am in now to push on, to *live,* I have still been bitten. His saliva mixed with my blood the second his teeth broke skin, and at that point it was already too late.
He was a good person. Better than I ever deserved. And now, I’m repaying him by doing what he had always wished he had done on the night *he* was bitten, all those years ago before we met.
I’m going to lay here and die.