Feral (First draft)

Brock

two weeks prior

"You have to eat something." She knew he was hungry.

"I will." He replied with a smile. "Just let me finish this first. I'll help you set the table in a few."

Evidently, the table was already set. Pristine silverware and the good plates they usually brought out for special occasions lined the dark tablecloth. Because without fail, someone was going to drop something and it would probably stain. God forbid the wood had an unnatural red spot permanently staining the table.

"Okay. Please don't skip this time." She gently kissed the top of his head getting an unintentional whiff of his hair. A sincere concern. It felt nice, to say the least.

"If I do, I'll just go hunting." Sometimes he wouldn't even do that.

"No you won't." She knew it too.

"No I won't." He said under his breath. To be honest, he wasn't one to shift often. He was more use to the pack as a teacher or doctor than a warrior. And frankly, the wolf inside him was untrustworthy at best.

The other members of their pack haven't seen him in days. Maybe a week. Whatever was going on with him, he was determined to deal with it himself. The pack members could tell something was wrong whenever he bothered showing up to dinner. some wished he'd just talk to them. Others had already given up.

This time he decided to skip it and go for a run. To stretch his legs and hopefully get some quiet time to himself. Inside the bustling house could drive someone insane who wasn't used to the noice.

On his way out, he stopped by the rabbit pen in the backyard of the pack house. He gently brought out his rabbit. Rubbing the stubble on his cheek along its soft fur was always comforting. Sometimes he'd spend hours playing with its floppy ears.

But every once in a while, he has to lock the pen up. It's like overriding the animal inside him to not eat his prized rabbit. When it gets to be too much, he needs to release it all.

It was definitely one of those times. He hasn't gone outside in almost a week. He'd grown used to the scratching in his throat. He felt wrong when it wasn't there. It belonged when he felt he didn't.

He gingerly placed his friend back into the pen and locked it up.

Brock took off for the steep hill behind their house. At the base, a creek ran through. During especially rainy weather, it'd often overflow to resemble a small river. Deer were common.

Brock had already stripped of his clothing by time he reached the creek. And already the bones under his skin were shifting and breaking.

It was always hard at first. But once his teeth started bulging inside his mouth everything went in line and suddenly Brock stood no more.

The trick was changing back. Since it's been more than a week, he'd have a bit of resistance. Maybe blood if he wasn't careful. But thankfully, present him didn't need or want to worry about the immediate future.

All he cared about was the deer that he had caught the scent of. It was wafting from uphill. Further into the forest. Maybe half a mile or so away.

He dug his claws into the dirt and propelled himself in that direction with a triumphant yip.