Blood-Stained Memories

Michael Wolff was a cool and collected man of 25. He was tall, almost 6’7”, with soulless gray eyes and pitch black hair. His face was all angles, symmetrical, with high cheek bones and thin pale lips. His fingers were long, with smooth, hairless knuckles and calloused finger tips. He had been a violinist at some point in his life, though if anyone dared ask, and no one ever did, he could not quite remember when. It was not that he forgot. Michael was not a forgetful man. He just did not care enough to remember.

Michael Wolff was a man of high status, which was peculiar for a man of only 25. Apparently, he was, as the old widowers would often whisper at social gatherings, ‘Old Money’. But again, no one dared ask. Michael’s demeanor, to the common observer, was dark, and proud. He was taciturn most of the time, be it at work or at gatherings. He did not have friends, only co-workers, colleagues at his publishing firm. Those who thought themselves his friends were kidding themselves. No one could ever tell what he was thinking. His emotions were kept so closely under check that he was almost a robot. Almost. Whenever one of his clients wrote a bestselling book, he would reward them with a smile, a simple twitch of the lips. To those who did not know him, it did not seem like much, but to those who worked with him, a smile was like a miracle, proof that their Chief was human.

Michael Wolff was a hit with the ladies at the company, married and single alike. At times, he ignored their hungry, lustful stares, but sometimes, and he could only admit this to himself, he was irritated by their attentions. Michael knew he was handsome, and he took great pride in it, but he hated the interest often shown to him through love letters and invites for “just a couple of drinks”. It made him sick to think that people liked him for his looks instead of his accomplishments. He was head of one of the leading Publishing companies in the world and all any one cared about was his fortune or his marriage status. Humans were all alike. Petty, stupid creatures with obscene ideas and ridiculous conversation. Often times, he forgot he had been human, once upon a time. But then again, that had been ages ago. He did not care enough to remember.

Michael Wolff was exactly what his name meant. A wolf. A werewolf, to be precise. He was to be 567 years old soon, on the 13th of November. This was his werewolf birthday, the day when he had been turned. He had ceased to remember his human birthday when he’d Changed. No, that’s a lie, he told himself. But he wouldn’t dare try to bring back the memory of his human birthdays. Even now, the memories were painful. Every now and then, he’d accidentally recall his mother’s laughter, his sister’s smile, his baby brother’s toothy grin. He’d remember the time they saved the duck and kept it as a pet, begging their father not to kill it. He’d remember his father’s rare smile when he turned into a young man. He’d remember the letter that came after that, demanding he and his father join the kings army. He’d remember his father, dying in his arms. And he’d remember the girl, the one who changed his life forever. Michael felt weak when he’d mistakenly sift through his memories in time of silence. He hated his memories. If there was some way he could forget, he would. But there wasn’t. All he could do was pretend not to care, then feel guilty for pretending. Michael buried himself in clients and manuscripts in an attempt to avoid his memories. He’d leave the door to his office open, letting the chatter of his employees, the constant ringing of the phone and the clattering of the printer lull him into a hypnotic state. He enjoyed this process, even if all his employees did was gossip, about him, about upcoming authors, about whom did what to whom. Yes, humans were petty stupid creatures, but Michael did not hate them. In fact, he loved them. Their carefree lives, their breathing, their essence… He understood them so well. After living among them for hundreds of years, one gets an idea of how humans are.

Michael loved noise. He lived in the center of a city full of clatter, of motors and metal, of sighs and screams. Silence was dangerous to him. Silence was what turned him into a wolf, into a predator. Noise was salvation, silence was hell.

While living in the city, Michael learned to control his urges. Full moons did not have the same effect they had 300 years ago. He could remain in his human form for up to six months, although once he changed, it was all the more painful. The pain was worth it. Pain was his punishment, for what he’d done and for what he would do. He embraced it, letting it fill him, making him pay for his sins.

The Change bothered him, when he’d let himself think of it. Michael did not understand the transformation. This is coming from the man who attended Cambridge thrice and Oxford twice. He was intelligent, often understanding things a normal college graduate could not. It was a wonder he worked at a publishing company.

The morphosis he would go through was difficult to understand. When he Changed, he was hardly, if ever, conscious. The few times he had been, by some sadistic miracle, fully aware, the pain was enough to render him unconscious for a couple of hours, after which he’d wake up a werewolf and would have no recollection.

The first time he’d Changed, he had resisted. It had almost killed him. His skull had felt like it was literally splitting in two. His body burning so hot he felt cold. He vaguely recalled a wetness surrounding him, not sweat, not saliva, warm and foul. It mortified him to think he had pissed on himself, but at the time, he could not have brought himself to care. Pain had been all he could barely think of, excruciating, bone-splitting pain, all over, from the hairs on his head to his toes. Hell, even his toenails hurt. Just thinking of it now made him shudder, though he would never admit to himself that the Change frightened him.

After the first time, Michael learned to give in. He could not control it, at least, not back then. Every once in a while, when he would feel it, the foreboding shudder in his bones, the quickening of his heart, he’d let go. And when he’d wake up the next day, even though he could not remember what he had done, Michael would do what he’d normally do. He’d ignore the blood under his fingernails and in his hair, wedged between his teeth and stuck at the back of his throat. Going through his usual routine, he’d ignore the heaviness in his heart and his blood-stained half-memories. He would pretend the scream echoing in his head was the train three blocks from his penthouse. He would take a shower and lather, rinse and repeat automatically. He would avoid looking at the swirl of red water rushing down the drain. He would brush his teeth, hard, so that he could pretend the blood already dried between his teeth was his own. He would brush his hair and avoid looking too deeply into his own eyes, which still had a hint of darkness in them. And at all costs, he would avoid the kitchen. He was not hungry, he told himself. He’d eaten enough last night.