She listened to me, believed me. No one else had listened. If they’d listened . . .

Dave was already a registered sex offender when my mother met him. When she brought him into our house to sleep under our roof.

And he’s somewhere out there. Out of prison by now. Under this same . . .

Moon.

The screaming isn’t just of my throat. It’s every fiber of me. Every bone, every muscle, cartilage, organs. My insides are seizing.

The moon pecks out my eyes. It roves down my throat, twists through my ears, up my nostrils. It’s underneath my fingernails, my toenails, peeling them up and off slowly. It’s in me. It’s in me now.

I fall over onto my back, thrashing. My clothes rip. My skin splits at my side, the bite reopening. I watch as it stretches thin, as I expand, and it bursts apart. It’s loud. I can hear it over my screaming. The fur spreads from the bite, from wherever the skin is broken. There’s no blood. Only fur. Horrible, matted grayish fur.

The piercing shrieks of bones breaking come in quick succession like fireworks. It’s my ribs rapidly broadening, the wrench of my spine, my neck snapping so my head falls dead to one side, only for it to re-form. Agony rakes my legs. I watch as they grow. I don’t want it. I don’t want it.

My kneecaps emerge like tiny skulls, staggeringly white domes. My shins swell. My feet. The skin explodes open, the bones splintering as they lengthen. I can feel the calluses form. I can feel it like someone’s holding a lighter to the pads of my feet, like someone’s stroking the burns with sandpaper.

I flip over onto my stomach, as my arms reach out in front of me. Reach, and reach, and reach. I’m not screaming for the pain alone anymore. I’m screaming at the absolute loss of control. I’m trapped in this deranged body. I’d rather die.

I’m screaming because I want to die.

The screeching ceases because there’s something happening to my throat. It’s the moonlight. It’s scraping me out from the inside. It’s taking things. It’s taking me.

I’m choking on it.

My jaw comes unhinged. I feel it hit the cold metal of the crate. And my teeth. Each tooth falls like hail onto the ground. The new ones grow in slow. It’s the slowest part; they stab through my gums. Now I’m spitting out blood. Silver blood. There’s so much of it, my hands slip, only they aren’t my hands anymore.

New nails stick through my fingers and toes.

“No!” I scream, though no one’s listening.

I can’t say it again. I don’t have a voice anymore. Nothing comes out but roaring.

It’s done now.

I know because I feel good. I’m here but I’m not.

I have so much energy. So much hunger.

I sniff. I claw.

I smell blood. Where’s blood?

The crate doesn’t make any sense anymore.

I break it easily.