I am not human. To be human is to conform to a life of restraint and strict formality. I prefer the free will of the insane to submission to scrutiny by a verifier who doesn't appear to exist beyond fairy tales.

Fairy tales. Stories to get children into bed at night and have little, sweet dreams. Distortions of reality. They make us believe that we are docile and yielding. They fill our hearts with fear of a brutal world full of creatures callous and cruel. We ostracize them; we call them monsters. But that we created such a world for ourselves, that the monsters represent the darkness inside us are facts shrouded by our inanity and a false sense of security.

I am a monster shunned by those who thought I did not belong to their storybook world. I am a beast that haunts the reasonable minds of men. And yet, I find myself stuck in a foothold trap. My hind legs, wedged between the toothed iron jaws, have begun to cramp. The fur over my paws is slick with blood. The pain is unrelenting and unbearable. But my anger burns fiercer and my wrath grows worse. Pure, untainted madness is only strengthened by incarceration. Clearly, my sound-minded captor does not understand that monsters cannot be restrained forever.

My captor. A crossbow-wielding hunter in pursuit of predators in these woods. I can hear his footfalls; the sound of his breathing draws nearer as he closes in on his seemingly exhausted prey lying motionless on the forest floor. As he approaches, he sets aside his weapon and bends over me to have a closer look. A few minutes later, having made up his mind, he seizes the iron jaws of the trap and pulls them apart slowly.

The wan light of the silvery full moon shines through the creaking branches of trees overhead. I feel something terrible rising inside me. With a sudden violent jerk, I heave myself up. The pain in my now unrestrained hind limbs escalates with each pulse beat. I howl in agony.

The hunter- now my quarry- recoils, reaching for his crossbow. But before he can close his fist around it, I hurl myself at him; he leans backward and throws himself to one side. My yellow bloodshot eyes burn as I turn onto him with a growl, he withdraws quickly. I bite the air. He draws a long, silver dagger from the pockets of his breeches. The metal glimmers menacingly in the moon light.
He jumps. I spin and roll on one side. He buries the dagger into the earth. He yanks it free to strike back at me. It's too late.

I am on him, my claws tearing frantically at his flesh. My jaws close around one of his thighs. I dig my teeth deep into his flesh as fresh warm blood fills my mouth. I tug forcefully. CRACK! A bone breaks. He squeals.

Soon, his screams of pain die down as his life spurts and spills out of his body. His blood- the blood of an innocent mind complaining of a brutal world and the monsters in it- spouting out of what is left of his tattered leg. But does he see now that he was one of them, those who stirred the darkness inside me? Does he realize that he and his ilk made a monster of me?

Why are they afraid now? Am I not only claiming what was rightfully mine?          

My transformation has always been a respite for me; a pleasant diversion before the irksome obligations of life catch up.

Cowards, those of ignoble origins, call it traumatic. To me it's ecstatic- a boost of strength, a surge of vigor!

I love the full-moon, the orb that shines in the dark; the deceptive sphere of light that illuminates nothing but itself like the Devil's lamp. It makes me sleepless; it makes me anxious; it makes me feel energetic yet hungry; it makes my blood churn and rise and yet, makes me feel thirsty for more!

As the light fades slowly, I set out under the expanding cover of darkness. My bare body rushes across grassy fields, wild and free like a naked sword dancing nimbly, carving the will of the Devil into the flesh of those destined for doom.

A scar- an old, edge-to-edge bite mark- on the nape of my neck bursts open and exudes blood which slowly trickles down my newly-grown mane of hair. It was never meant to heal. It serves to be my identity.

As I approach a desolate pond in the middle of a woodland, my lower limbs seem to give up; I fall, face forward, to the marshy ground. Suddenly, my body is taken hold of. My insides squirm as wave after wave of intense, excruciating pain run down the length of my spine all the way to my tail bone. I gasp, pleading with the cold night air to alleviate my suffering. I writhe and twist, my pearly-white torso thrashing against the wet, muddy shore. My eyes, drained and dispirited, despondent but desperate, gaze into the night when, at long last, they catch a glimpse of what they sought: the pale, glittery globe hanging low in the otherwise spotless sky.

The full-moon stretches out its gleaming fingers which wrap around me. My pain spirals. My body, now distorted, thrusts and pushes at its crust to cast off the luminous sheath that surrounds it. With a violent jerk, I hurl myself closer to the pool and, at length, peer at the unbroken surface of water- stagnant, and oblivious to my suffering.

A red-eyed monster stares back at me.

The nails of my hands have sharpened. I claw at my furry face; my talons graze painfully against my elongated nose. My legs have shrunk and my muscles are stiff. My long, sharp-edged canines hurt my lower lip. I let out a loud, reverberating scream.

My pain recedes as quickly as it rose.

My senses seem enhanced. I growl; my voice is gruff and throaty.

Beastly instincts take over my heart. My hind limbs firm on the ground, I rear.

Now I am a wolf, and I must feed.

All these times I’d walked past my college campus, but none had been as intense, as evocative, as it was today. I have used up my share, played my part. And now, when it is time to walk away, to leave, I wish I had a time machine to go back- not to relive my past, but only to verify, that I did not miss out on any of the merrymaking, every time I pushed the boat out with my friends.

Today, as I walk over to a familiar eating place, just across the road from my college, the vendor reads out the measly menu to me in his characteristically hurried, inarticulate drawl, acquired in the fullness of time. Even now, he counts up his gains fervently, to the very last penny.

Does he not observe my lonesomeness? Does he not sense my apprehension? Does he not see the lines of grief and worry etched across my forehead? Does he even know, that I might never show up at his joint again?

He seems to be in a world of his own, in a daze, far away, suspended up in the air, oblivious, unmindful… Or, perhaps, its only me ascribing my attributes and emotions to him- a psychological projection…

I have never worn my heart on my sleeve. But now, as I hunker down to gather the last vestiges of my missing friends, the clot congesting my core is undone, as my inner self breaks free, spurting out of my eyes like a hot-water spring, lamenting the darkness that surrounds me.

It demands,

“If you had to go back, why did you ever show up?”

When hostile,

You seem like the frigid ice lands,

Barren and bare,

But, in the warmth of thy tender hug,

I smell the polished chair,

I’d come forth,

To be a willing volunteer,

If you’d be the high command,

I’d give up my candidacy,

To be your priority demand,

This would be

our joint declaration,

If I made myself clear,

That I love you

From the core of my heart,

By democracy, I swear!

 

Be damned, the essence

Of your existence,

For it endures,

Beyond my persistence,

What is it,

If not an edifice-

Feeble and frail?

For, my wraiths,

Their hearts

bursting with vice,

Descend upon you-

A malevolent,

Burning hail,

What is it,

If not a structure

So delicate,

Bricks of bones

Brusquely assembled,

With blood

To amalgamate?

No, mortal,

It won’t hold

Against my fury,

And the violent tides

Of fate,

Be wary, human,

Of the day we meet,

For I lie in wait,

Unbeknownst,

Just outside,

Across the street

  

So dull and pale

Is my fateful tale,

Filled with agony,

As Grief and Sorrow

Lend their voices

To recite,

A ballad so old,

Long forgotten

And never told.

Death with her arrays

Of brutal fatalities

 Stares at me

With her eyes cold.

She asks me the need

To endure more,

Though I look

So weak and sour.

She asks me why,

I sleep on a bed

Of thorny memories,

Dwell in towers collapsing

And yet, not allow with life,

A parting.

My reply, soulful

Yet convincing:

Yes, I have broken

And so has my heart,

My world, in an instant

Fallen apart.

Yes, I have grown

So sad and bereft,

For nights together,

I haven't slept.

And yet, I wish to play

These futile games

And burn myself

In these fiery flames,

As there is a hope

In which I sink,

Drenched in my own blood,

Which I use as ink.

A hope which beckons me

To hold on

With my life,

So weary and torn,

As I believe in the saying:

"Its from the ashes,

A Phoenix is reborn."

With stains of humiliation and shame

Spread upon my sultry flesh,

I salvage my strayed style

As I resume my aimless stroll

Into the shady wilderness.

Like the unusual smog

Snaking its way through shadowy streets

I stride to keep up with my sinful soul,

Scurrying ahead in an attempt

To shake off my sinister yet solid body.

Stalled have been my efforts

To assess the scope of my own self

Useless have been my stabs

To splinter the shields

That shelter the sin called superstition,

Shrouded behind shammed screens

And forged simulations

Of sincerity and conviction.

Shattered is my hope

To search for and seek

The vision I always wished to see.

Beneath the scorching Sun,

Stranded alone on a small isle

Surrounded by a stormy, limitless sea,

With all sagacity lost,

I stare at the ship sinking on the horizon.

I simply watch as the ocean smacks and slaps

At the sturdy construct.

Surprisingly however,

The stalwart vessel

Stirs up resolutely against the shrewd sea

With its superlative strategies in effect.

Seeing this, spontaneously enough

I support my steps and speed up

On the path of sanity.

The vision sparks strength in me

To distinguish

Joy from sorrow,

Smile from sob,

Light from shade

And spirit from a set of mere specters.

And it is this sacred strength

Which makes me special,

The one above all,

The one they call,

The supervisor of time and space.