The Dark Side of the Moon

Chapter 5: Kyle

-Kyle’s P.O.V-

The dull pulse of music surrounded my senses and I was too lazy to block it out. I leant against the hard wood of the bar, swinging my legs off a barstool. Behind me, the bartender expertly whipped up drinks and handed them to his customers in record timing.

There were few people in the club tonight, most of them probably at home because of this late hour. The small amount of people who were here however, was dancing in the middle of the room. The bar had hired a small time DJ as their weekly gig, and he was at the head of the room on a small raised stage. He had equipment in front of him and he played well known songs, morphing them to his style earning cheers from the audience.

Off to the far left of the room were three couches in which couples could cuddle or have a conversation with friends. There were a few groups of young boys mostly and a few girls that were chatting eagerly. I cast my eyes back to the bartender and waved him over.

“I’ll have a beer thanks,” I pushed the money over to him and he nodded his head, wordlessly pouring my drink. A cold glass of beer was shoved into my hand seconds later and I took a sip, letting the bitter liquid slide its way down my throat.

To shifters, alcohol didn’t numb the senses or let us go wild at parties. We held our drink very well and alcohol didn’t affect us in the slightest. Most of us avoided it though, because with our heightened senses we didn’t like the taste. I just drank it to fit in and have something to distract myself from my ever wandering thoughts.

Every time I let myself come back to the present, my thoughts always drifted back to the night before. My recollection of it was still splashed with missing information and I gripped my glass with annoyance. I could feel the glass’s resistance crumbling and soon the substance would become shattered in my hands. I let go of it slowly and placed it on the gnarled wood before me, stormily trying to re-configure my thoughts.

A small, outdated television hung from the roof in the corner of the room. Although music plagued the room in a thick fog, the striking pictures still managed to snag my attention. On screen, a crisply dressed reporter was mouthing silent words, detailing a scene near the local gas station. A few words popped up and the video flashed to another story. The caption below hooked me in as I eagerly studied the words.

Wolf sighted near National Reserve: Charlotte Brady reports.

The woman – presumably Charlotte Brady – was sombrely recounting the words that were scripted for her. The video showed the edge of a forest and a few men in the backdrop. A further minute revealed police taping the area off, trying to focus the attention off of the alarming bloodstains that were littered on the wilted grass, for the naked eye to see.

Another change and a man in his mid forties was scratching the back of his head and eagerly speaking to the camera. He wore worn out overalls and a dirty, black shirt as well as a Red Sox hat that had seen better days. The caption below read his name to be Mike Graw, a local townsman who had stopped by. Music pumped through my ears and I wished that the audio on the television was switched on.

The camera cut to the same man leaning casually against a truck, a nicely shined rifle leaning against his shoulder. My memory began to rewind. A wolf sighting, the rifle, it all had to be related to me. There was no doubt in my mind that I had been the wolf that they were reporting, and that man had shot me in my wolf form. The deadly click consumed my memory and anger bubbled through my veins. That man was going to pay for what he did.

*

The small, out of town bar smelled of stale beer and sweat, a deadly combination. The aroma assaulted my nose as soon as I stepped onto the premises and I wrinkled it up in disgust. So this was where that slob of a man preferred to spend his Sunday afternoons.

The rickety old door easily gave way when I applied little force, and all but fell apart when it slammed against the door stop. The few faces that were turned towards me increased at the sound, and a large, stocky man stood up at my arrival. He wore a messy, dirtied apron that was barely taped around his beer belly and his expression was that of outrage.

“Watch where you step boy, you’re on thin ice,” he sneered, gesturing to all of his buddies’ varying hostile glares. It was obvious that I was not welcome here, but I wouldn’t stop until I got what I came for.

“I’m looking for a Mike Graw,” I asked him, holding back the politeness for now. By the recognition clear in the man’s eyes, I knew that I had come to the right place. One of the men at the bar jabbed a grubby finger towards a back door, and I walked over to it, yanking it open without a second thought.

The door led to an outside area that resembled an alleyway, with crates and boxes piled up beside the walls on either side. The same man who I had seen on TV was lounging against the stone wall, lighting a cigarette and cursing at the small piece of plastic. This must be Mike Graw.

Striding forward, I snatched the cigarette out of his mouth and tossed it to the floor, doing the same with the lighter also. He began to protest, his face turning a little red as he did so, but I gave him no time. In seconds he was shoved up against the wall by my fists, bewildered and irritated.

“I don’t take kindly to wolves being shot at around these parts,” I all but growled out. “Now would you like to tell me the reason for doing so?”

His mouth opened and closed without a word, his eyes wide and frightened. My eyes were slits and I was pretty sure they’d turned a shade darker than usual at my anger. I could feel the change rippling around my stomach and I took a few light breaths to calm myself down a bit. When I looked back at Mike, he had somewhat gathered himself together to form a coherent sentence.

“I-I don’t like shootin’ them wolves either Mr, it just had to be done y’know? I was just savin’ that girl’s life!” He stuttered out, yabbering away in a nervous manner.

“Come again?” I asked.

“I said I don’t like hurtin’ them wolves either,” he muttered, shying away from my face slightly, further into the wall if it was even possible.

“What girl was there? Where did she go?” I demanded. So I had been hunting a human, and that was why I had been shot. But was she still alive?

“She was real hurt y’know? I took her to the hospital but I ain’t sure if she’d live. Real terrible thing to happen to a girl so young...”

“Do you know her name?” I persisted.

“The doctors said she was local, Gray I think was her last name. Florence Gray.”

The hospital, if she was still alive she’d be there. I dropped the man back onto his feet and nodded my head. “Sorry to bother you” I muttered half-heartedly, but I wasn’t sure if he’d heard, I was already halfway out of the alleyway by the time he replied.

The nearest local hospital was at least two kilometres away, and there wasn’t a car in sight. I set off at a steady jog along the worn, gravel road in the direction of town. She would be there, she would be alive. She had to, or else I had a young girl’s blood on my hands.

-

Hey again, sorry for the late upload. I'm on holiday so it's a little busy here. Just finished an epic chapter later on though, so you'll see that soon ;) Please vote if you like my story, it's only one little click for you and a whole lot of joy for me. Plus I would like to see this story on the what's hot list! That would be awesome guys, that's my goal. 

SOTM: Starman by David Bowie - yes my music taste is wacky and diverse but its an old favourite of mine.