BLACK

(46) October

EDITED

-Oren-

Clothing has  a restless sensation, still months later. Rich fibres and cloths irritate me, the itches bringing the scars across my skin back to life. A feeling I thought I had grown used to. A feeling I thought I had pushed behind me. White ripples in my flesh that burst pink, blushing with acknowledgement. They longed for the exposure, to be recognized for their strength and survival.

My shin differed no less. Slacks cause sweat to trickle down the cellophane-like skin, a scratch always tempting in my mind. Often I found myself searching for shorts, even on the colder days. Shame knew me no longer, forgot me in the forests of long summer days where I shifted and felt the sun burn my bare back. Now the trees were barren with orange dusted streets, and grey clouds made the sun abandon me too. I could only relinquish the same  surge of power the summer sun fed me in the dark, behind closed doors when my scars were free to breathe. In bed, on my stomach, the edge of my spine and shoulder blades absorbing the cold air that kisses them so tenderly; muscle memories like each lick of those shifters claw was a new cold blade.

Things that I had buried deep inside from ages ago slowly turned over in their graves, bone by bone, their skeletons crawling upwards through the dirt. Everything that makes me who I am today, that holds my posture straight and keeps me poised, I owe it to those caskets. To those demons that chased me to where I currently stand.

Time wasn't allowed to pass me anymore; I wouldn't let it, not like in the Summer. Hours of sitting, chasing my tail in circles, waiting for what I had scavenged to crumble aswell. Time that ate me up, tasted all I had to offer, and spat me out when the night came and caged me inside of that trailer. Confined me to a field of guards that kept me prisoner, in a world where I had become the villain without ever faltering. Those hours were latched under my belt now, on a watch that left a new tan over my wrist. The normalcy and weight of it felt good, civil to have a reminder of reality.

Black is forever present, among my days. He has been ever since the witch replaced me with him instead. Weeks went by now without ever hearing a peep from him, his eyes closed and tail tucked somewhere far in the back of my mind. Shifting had repulsion leashed onto it. A bad taste would swell in my mouth and I could shiver through the tremors that my body remembered. Shifting could mean losing control, and though Black has been content to let me heal in peace, it was a scar deeper than the claws on my abdomen.

In his absence, the form of not randomly taking over, my pack gradually thawed from their icy nature in my presence. At first they were still afraid, still terrorized by the morning and nights Black marched me home in a zombie like stature, never my blood painting my clothes.

Clothes.

I tug at the collar of my dress shirt uncomfortably.

Curiosity over took them quickly. Children never waned from my vision, always ducking under tables or whisking around corners. Their parents had warned them off me, but that wouldn't stop them. Their parents had told them the stories of my possession, or my sacrifice. And still, the children only wanted to be as brave as the original Oren Blackmoore had been. The eight year old one, who died protecting the Alpha lineage.

I was the Alpha lineage.

Adults couldn't refrain much longer themselves anyways. Especially not my warriors or hunters, their shifters were drawn to my command and had been suffering tremendously in my absence. Some would describe the pull of a shifter to their Alpha not unlike the pull of a shifter to his mate.