These things, they won’t go unnoticed forever.

I realize I actually can’t go back to the city. I can’t be like this there.

It’d be a logistical nightmare. I couldn’t transform in my apartment; it’s not exactly a discreet process. It’s violent and loud; my neighbors would most definitely call the cops out of concern or to complain. Also, I don’t trust that a door or window would stop me from attacking one or more of the millions of people wandering around. So I’d need to leave, to go somewhere else. But I can’t take off multiple days from work every month for the full moon. Having a car in Manhattan is both insanely expensive and inconvenient, though I doubt I could take the train with the necessary equipment. And what about traffic, delays? And where would I even go? It’d take hours to get somewhere remote enough, and I’d need to somehow acquire, store, and transport a sturdier cage. . . .

Yeah. My life as I know it is over.

I down the rest of the bottle, hoping that maybe if I drink it quickly, I’ll feel something. A relaxing buzz. But all I feel is nauseous. I burp, and out comes . . . something. I feel a kernel traveling up my throat, across my tongue. I spit it into my palm.

It’s a small yellowy mystery tooth.

I shake it from my hand.

It would sure be nice if I could get a break for a fucking second. My body won’t allow it. I feel like a dog wearing a retractable leash.

I heave again, and it’s followed by a small acidic burp, my body asserting itself, always asserting itself with blood and sweat and aches and pain and gas and bile. A reluctance to process dairy.

“I get it,” I whisper into my skin. “You win. I’m at your mercy.”

My body answers with another heave, because I belong to it more than it belongs to me.

VII

The next few days tangle together, a mess of sleeping in too late, going to bed too early. Waking sweat drenched and breathless from nightmares I can’t quite remember. Avoiding my reflection because I know the wolf will be there waiting in the mirror. Going out to the gas station to replace my mother’s cigarettes and getting some for myself. I stop at the liquor store and buy a fifth of Fireball, not that it has any effect. I keep hoping.

I’m desperate for anything that will numb me to this endless string of shitty realizations.

Realizations like I’m now going to have to plan my entire life around when there’s a full moon. I’m going to have to find somewhere new to live. Maybe a new job. Realizations like I can’t keep seeing Ian.

If he knew the truth, he’d want nothing to do with me. I could lie, try to keep this part of me a secret, but for how long?

It seems excessively cruel. My entire life I’ve reveled in my independence, and the second I open myself up to the possibility of a relationship, it’s snatched out of my hands.