WOLFVILLE

3.2: Something Something Personal Privacy

Heavy footsteps thumped quick and close, muffled by a wall, punctuating the long din of something being dragged.

A door creaked open.

"Dinner's ready!"

Another thump, this one loud and clear.

"Hell, Donnie, you can't give her that! Her stomach's gonna turn."

"What? What's better than a fresh deer?"

"Anything! Go get a steak or something!"

"There's no time for that. Look, she's moving. She's waking up."

Gold afternoon light flooded the room and a row of bodies distancing themselves from where she lay. Her eyelids fluttered, gaze drifting between them and wondering if they were dreams. Everything felt warm and dizzy. This must be a dream.

Slowly the figures focused into human shapes. As she glossed over their faces, she tuned in to the ache across her limbs, in her chest, her stomach, her neck, her head, which then realized into a throbbing, deafening pain. She gasped for air, moving, but her body refused to move the way she expected it to. Her arm stretched and hovered before falling uselessly onto the mattress. Her other arm was pinned beneath her body. Her feet kicked. Something whapped against the wall.

"Relax, you're alright!" one of the voices hushed. A man stepped closer.

She curled her lip at him, startling herself with the fiendish sound she uttered.

The man paused. She made out a head of blond hair and a scruffy beard on his strong jawline. He looked at her with gentle eyes, reaching out to soothe her, but she felt only anger, confusion, and vicious distrust. Where was she? Why was she here? How exactly did she get here—what happened before this?

The wolf.

Timmory opened her mouth to speak, but only a strangled clamor escaped.

Her heart dropped and she reached for her mouth, her throat, desperately seeking explanation. But her arms couldn't move like that. She grasped at the mattress and craned her neck, spying long, battered legs blanketed in short fur ending in paws. She wiggled her fingers. The toes attached to the paws wiggled in response. Timmory yelped and fumbled to her feet, then lost balance and pinned a fluffy limb she never had before under herself. She searched for her body, but the body she once had was nowhere to be seen. Instead, it was paws and muscular legs and a tail sticking out her rear, a large barrel chest covered in rich brown fur, and a long snout ending in a leathery nose. Like some kind of dog!

Her panicked gaze flitted to the man and his companions, a younger man and an older woman. She tried to ask what happened and garbled out a growl.

"You're alright," he repeated.

She stared at him, jaws agape.

"Is your name Timmory Cross?" the man asked.

She processed the question. Of course it was. She didn't feel like Timmory, but she knew that's who she was. Timmory nodded slowly.

He stepped away and pulled a laundry basket full of objects in front of him, then pushed it toward the bed.

Timmory examined the basket, nose twitching as she drank a plethora of smells that all delivered unique packets of information. Smells of her, her parents, her home. Smells of food. Smells of blood, smells of the wolf. Inside the basket sat her torn backpack, ripped clothes, her camera, and various other supplies that fell out in the fray. Her phone and her wallet sat on top. She rumbled inquisitively at him.

"You were attacked yesterday by a wolf. Thankfully, we intercepted him before he could do any more harm. We got you to safety, but we couldn't stop... this," he explained, then gestured at all of her.

Timmory looked down at herself. What was this? Was it the fact that she was a fucking dog and not a human? Did she die and they transplanted her brain into the body of the wolf that attacked her? Did she somehow change into a wolf like this was some goddamn fairytale?

"You're a werewolf."

An anguished growl flowed from her teeth. That was absurd! There was no such thing—it was impossible—they were just myths! This couldn't be real. It had to be a dream, but as she peered around the room, she found every detail too sharp, every sensation too real. It didn't make sense. A strong smell of blood sat in her nasal canal. She pinpointed the source: a bleeding deer carcass lay at the feet of the younger man.

"You're probably hungry, or you're gonna feel hungry real soon," the man said swiftly, "but you don't have to eat this. We have steaks too."

Her tongue flicked and touched her nose, emphasizing the mouth-watering smell. Saliva pooled in her gums. There was indeed hunger brewing, more powerful than she'd ever known, but the sight of the carcass inspired both desire and sickness. She had this insatiable urge to sink her teeth into the flesh of that dead animal and it was weirding her the fuck out. Timmory stared, grappling with the fragment of her humanity that said it was disgusting and her inexplicable oral desire.

The rest of them were silent. Nobody seemed to know how to approach a freshly turned werewolf, and it showed. Nobody except the blond man.

"Timmory?" he asked.

Her ear flicked, agitated. After seconds of indecision, she lurched. She stepped to the edge of the mattress, her body hovering. One leg, her injured one—flesh still gaping and raw—tentatively reached the floor, testing paw on the wooden floorboards. Then came the other paw. The closer she got to the deer, the more tantalizing the aroma became; Timmory pulled off the bed to get closer, but underestimated the weight of her new body and collapsed on her tattered leg. She grunted with frustration, paws scrabbling. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth, gulping in the scent until she reached the carcass. Timmory assessed, sniffed, then ravenously bit in, ripping hide from the abdomen. The action felt right. But the moment the metallic taste of raw flesh hit her tongue, she gagged. The texture was thick, wet, tenuous jelly; but her stomach rumbled and urged for more.

The first few bites were torture, then she tore chunks. She crunched bones as they met her teeth, spitting mouthfuls of fur and slurping down fat, licking viscera from her jaws until she had torn the deer's flank and pierced its precious innards. When she saw the arrangement of dark, glistening organs nestled within, Timmory felt a deeper hunger than ever before. She reeled, analyzing the discomfort in her digestive system, before tossing her head to the side and reproducing the meal. The others winced, covering their mouths at the stench of vomit.

The upheaval wracked and exhausted her, leaving her splayed next to her regurgitation. Timmory whimpered and scooted away from the carcass, looking pitifully at the strangers.

"Water," said the blond man.

His younger companion stepped over Timmory, exiting the room. Through the open doorway she saw what laid beyond: a rustic hallway lined by light pine planks, walls adorned with framed photos of what looked like lakes and trees. Then the door closed, and Timmory backed away from the carcass, pushing against the side of the bed.

The man exchanged a glance with the older woman. She had a firm look in her eyes, unaffected by Timmory's illness. The blond man sighed and left the room as well, returning alongside the younger man with paper towels in hand. As he wiped the retch from the floor, the younger man placed a bowl of water next to her. She caught his eye and thought he looked familiar—one of the hikers she passed by, a high school acquaintance...? Timmory watched him dubiously, refreshing her throat and stomach with slow, ginger laps of her tongue.

"Get that out of here," the blond man instructed, gesturing to the spilled carcass.

The younger man nodded, dragging it away.