The Many Regrets of a Cyborg Werewolf

Michelangelo - XVII

The night air was cool and still, which held the leaves and bushes of the park in a blissfully serene stasis, catching the soft glow of the full moon on every leading edge. The locale was bathed in an almost fairy tale ambience that made the night even more romantic for the couple enjoying the late night stroll. Arms entwined they walked the stone path, clutching to the warmth of each other amidst the modest fantasy, silent yet content that they were both in appreciation of the calmness. It was too peaceful to spoil with idle conversation. Nights like these were rare, and love to match it rarer still.

It was thus quite the surprise to the couple when something emerged from the dark. It was a man, dressed in wrinkled jeans, running shoes, and a hoodie. His shaggy, tousled hair hung before his face, and he held a large bottle in his hand. He wasn't a tall man, nor was he very imposing. He seemed almost emaciated, and he stumbled in his gait. He was visibly drunk. It was intimidating to the couple as they did their best to avoid this man, but even as they left the path to give him a generous berth, he followed. Swaying as he barely managed each step, he hounded them, pursuing them onto the grass and away from the relative safety of the cobblestone, past the bushes and into the open field. As he gave chase the couple were forced to sprint, hoping to outpace the inebriated individual, but somehow he got ahead of them. In the darkness it was difficult to make out the details, but even as they turned away he was in their path once more. It made them think there was more than one, but the man with the bottle was alone, and soon he was right in front of them.

The bottle was nearly empty, and what little was left was sucked down as the man bore down on them, tossing the empty container onto the grass. The couple backed away as the man approached, only a glint of his eye visible in the shadowed void of his face. The man of the couple moved ahead of his partner, vainly hoping to protect her, and visible on his ring finger was a gold band. Husband and wife. That's what it had come to. That's what the prey had become. No more crooks, murderers, or animals who violated innocence. There were only regular humans left. Normal people.

But they were all normal. They were all regular humans. Good, bad, what really made the difference? What made one more human than another? What made one more deserving? Or less deserving? A gang of bikers. A robber with parents. Men killing for beliefs. Humans doing human things for human reasons. What was a good excuse for them? What was a good excuse for him? To the drunken man it hardly seemed like there was. In the final moments of life they all had the same face. The same eyes. Every single one. There was never, ever a difference. When death himself opened his jaws, each one had the same face. Guilt hardly seemed to matter at that point. They all looked the same. They all tasted the same. The terrified couple that shrunk into the dark wouldn't be any different than the man who killed his wife in a jealous rage. Or the woman who abused her infant daughters. Or the teenager who assaulted his elderly neighbor for fun. Or the soldiers who killed because they were told it was the right thing to do. Or the ones who killed knowing full well it wasn't. No difference at all.

The drunken man felt hot. His hoodie felt tight. He pulled it off, the starched fabric pulling against the growing hair on his body, squeezing past the muscles that seemed to suddenly bulge. His jaw hung slack as saliva oozed past jagged teeth as he loomed over the terrified couple despite standing hunched. It wouldn't make a difference. The stone around his neck didn't make a difference. Even he wouldn't make a difference. Despair and hunger warred within him, each one forcing the other to submit, like two dogs vying for dominance. It made him sick. Yet the clash would always end with a victor. His continued existence alone confirmed it. Yet it wasn't a victory he celebrated. Part of him still lost, crushed beneath his need to feed. Dying, bit by bit, each time, yet every time it died the despair seemed to come back stronger. It was all the monster could do as it readied itself to indulge.