Full Moon

   It happened the night of the storm. The night I lay in bed listening. Listening to the drumming rain. The cackling thunder. The pop of wood as it was struck again and again by fiery lightning. There I lay, in the little house in the woods, at the center of the storm.

   I could not sleep, that night. I could never sleep when it rained. Not since I was five or so. No one ever asked me why. They knew. Or thought they did. Thought that I was afraid. I was never afraid. Not of storms. I was in awe.

   When I was a young child, I imagined two giants sparring in the sky, one of lightning, one of wind, water, and hail. My aunt always said that I should be a writer. That my imagination was perfect for the job. I never wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be a meteorologist. Had ever since I was eight years old.

   And that night, that night that I lay in bed, listening, I didn't think off the sparring giants. Didn't think of my rocks, or the North Carolina woods in which the little cabin was nestled. No, I didn't think of much at all. I just listened. And then, I made a decision. A decision I still regret to this day.

   I don't know why I did it. Don't know why I was so inclined to go out there. To go out into the storm. Maybe it was the moon. The round, full moon that dominated the horizon despite the storm clouds that hung there.

   I pulled on a pair of jeans. A red tee with the Nike logo across the chest in black. A faded jacket with the elbows worn through. And my hiking boots. I was out the door in what must have been one minute flat.

   What struck me immediately was the raw beauty of the forest and the storm. Of the moon. It was easy to forget myself as I walked. Too easy. But not once, and never did I look down at the ground over which I tread, did I trip over a protruding root. Not once did I fall, or slip over wet rocks. For I knew the land well. I had grown up on it, after all.

   As I walked, the wind played with my hair, only recently cut short, yet growing fast already. The rain made patterns on my clothing, then soaked all the way through, solidifying the once-dainty designs that we're scrawled across my arms and shoulders and legs. I did not shiver once. Not until I heard the howl. The howl of a wolf.

   It didn't bother me. Not at first. I knew there were wolves in the surrounding woods. But as I walked on, I grew nervous.

   Red wolves, I told myself. Only red wolves live in these woods. But something on me shook its head wildly.

-Red wolves don't howl like that.

-Of course they do. Red wolves howl, too.

-But that wasn't a red wolf. I can feel it.

   I was arguing with myself, something I always seemed to do when I was nervous or angry. That wasn't a red wolf. An image of flashing jaws and yellow eyes popped into my mind. I broke into a run just as the howl came again.

And this time, it was far, far nearer.

I ran faster.