The Werewolf [COMPLETE]

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Drops trickled down his jaw. He lowered his head to the sink and splashed cold water over his face again and again. He leant into his palms and his features disappeared behind his large hands. He tried to close his eyes. He tried to breathe deeply in and out. He tried to inhale and to exhale. But when he looked back up, nothing had changed.

His reflection on the mirror of the tiled wall hadn't altered by a wrinkle or a dimple, same grim mouth and same haggard eyes. Hell, it was even worse under the bleak lights of the bathroom. His skin wasn't pink or beige or white, it had a greyish tint, and his eyes weren't bright anymore, they had dulled from two or three shades.

He sighed.

He gave up, he wasn't in either the mood or the disposition to deal with this right now. He turned off the tap. The water stopped flowing, and a drop fell off the tap, and another drop fell off, and another drop fell off, and it stopped. He rested his hands on the cabinet and stared ahead, seeing past the mirror, and the wall, and the house, his mind drifting away.

The explosion of a drop crashing and breaking into the water brought him back to his cheap house, his cheap wall, and his cheap mirror. His gaze fell to the last drop dripping from the tap, reverberating and vibrating all around him in the bathroom. Such a little thing. Such a loud little thing.

A movement in the mirror caught his eyes. He raised his head.

There was a sound. It was soon muffled. As if behind walls and walls of concrete. Blocking away the words, the syllables, the sounds. Yet. Yet it was still there. It could still be heard. Over the noise of the water dashing around the counter. Over the noise of the smashing. It was there. A scream. A silent scream. A mute scream. Under bricks, and bricks, and bricks of water. A bubble of air bursting with a sound. A whisper. A shout.

Then it all stopped.

The dashing. The smashing. The screaming.

Blue lips floated in the water.

A Villager was dead.