Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Eleven

'Sgt Morris 18th February 1962,'

For a guess, it was good if that was a stab in the dark. A claw-like hand buried into my flesh, and from the doctor, who said it was out of his league. A wolf made my wound, and I couldn't wait to hear his thoughts on the boy. There was no waver in his voice, no stutter or rapid breathing. He was confident in his suggestion, which told me he knew more than he was letting on. I don't like slimy gits like that.

"Your guess is as good as mine; a tonne was going on. I have two left feet and am clumsier than a toddler on ice. I thought I'd stumbled into a rake or pitchfork. Only, within minutes, I was sick as a dog," trying not to elaborate too much. Hoping my vagueness would quell the Doc's trip down the animal lane. My mind drifted back to the scary basement moment. Having my fear seep from my pores. I never wanted to feel that vulnerable again—fear paralysis.

"Oh. Is that a politically correct answer? Toeing the party line. I see. Well, you and I both know what it is. Don't we?" There it was; the sneaky Doc dropped the act; I knew he'd show up, eventually. The corners of his mouth crept into a smile. His eyes shone like a kid in a sweet shop. Too excited at the thought, putting me on edge and shuffling backwards in my bed.

"That's all I remember. Come to think of it, have any of my friends been by? Looking for updates?" bugged that nobody else was here. Wherever here was, I knew I was in the hospital, but not which one.

"One or two. They asked me to call your station when you re-joined the land of the living."

Doctor Slippery was now interrogating my leg. He had peeled back the thickly packed dressing, exposing the air to the stitches; a slight tingle ran through my leg. His hand dropped from blocking my view; his mouth hung open in disbelief. Peering down, I saw it too; my leg had healed, leaving remnants of dried blood and scraps from the suture stitches resting on the skin, serving a little purpose. His face moved to within inches in case his eyes were betraying him. A little too close for my liking. Only, I had the feeling that soon enough, I would be the one being crossed.

"Hey, Doc, what's the verdict? Am I losing it?" I was waiting for the bullshit to flow; he's probably thinking he's going to win a Nobel prize or Pulitzer, whatever the blooming term is.

"Lucky for you, no. But I'm afraid you've become a medical anomaly that I wouldn't feel comfortable releasing you back into the public just yet. For your safety and the safety of others," Grinning like a Cheshire cat. My hackles perked up, dancing in the sterile air. My blood boiled like a teapot I wished I was using, sweat running down my cheek. The hospital ward was now a sauna—my eyes shifted from smugness to staring at the pulsating veins in my arm, becoming engorged, watching the muscles twitch and expand. The rage was back, bringing the pain I felt in the basement.

'Click, click, click,' The sound from my hand resting on the bed grew; each bone was excruciatingly moving, breaking, and changing. Broken bones were plenty as a nipper. This was worse. Blood spat from the edges of my nails. Dark black claws slowly and painfully edged from under my nails. I hid it under my bedsheet and fought hard to control what was happening. My urge to kill him roared sky-high. He had to move before I lost my fight and the Doc, his life.

"Whatever you say, doc," Shocking myself with a slight growling edge. He didn't flinch. Instead, he minced his way over to a nearby reception desk. A good thirty to forty feet to my right. He was making a phone call while checking in my direction. He had to be talking about me, fueling my rage.

'Derdum derdum derdum derdum derdum derdum,' my heart beat rapidly, trying to focus. To see if I could control the situation and my fate, fighting hard to slow the beats down and quiet the brewing fire. My ears twerked to the doctor and who he was calling. Hoping it was nothing more than updating the station.