Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

I let the water flow over me and breathe in the steam. I examine the faint scars on my side, the traces of the bite.

I’ve always been good at barreling ahead. I always worked hard in school, no matter what was going on at home. I played lacrosse, joined debate. I became head cheerleader, ran for president of the student council, and won. I took all AP classes. Got a scholarship to Columbia. Undergrad. MBA. Internships. Job. Apartment. Promotion. Better apartment. Always somewhere to go, something to do, someone to fuck. Something on the horizon to go after, to run toward.

There’s nothing now. No light anymore. No horizon.

I could stay in this shower forever. What does it matter?

I dig a nail into the blemished skin beneath my ribs. Apply pressure. Sink another nail in. Another. More pressure. I want to tear it away, this damaged skin. This evidence. I don’t want it on me anymore. I want it off. I want it gone. I want to rip it out. All of it, like a rotted root.

There’s a gumminess at my knuckles, and I know I’ve gone too far. Too deep.

When I pull my fingers back, I’m met with resistance, like I’m stuck in tar or cement. It’s the bite being greedy, trying to swallow other parts of me. It takes a hard yank to free my hand. Silver ooze spatters. There’s some fur caught under my nails.

What have I done?

I press down on the flaps of torn skin. I hold them there, waiting for restoration. But this wound is different. This wound refuses to heal.

I turn off the faucet with my foot and flop over the side of the tub onto the bathroom floor. I want to stay here until I’m numb to the tile underneath me, but I’m oozing everywhere. Making a mess.

I crawl on all fours into my bedroom and find some of my bandages. I dress the wound, then change into some clean clothes. A pair of joggers and an oversized Led Zeppelin T-shirt that once belonged to my mother.

When I get downstairs, Mom and Scarlett are at the kitchen counter.

“We got you a cappuccino,” Scarlett says.

“Oh, thanks!” I say, mustering as much enthusiasm as possible, smiling big and pretty. I want to come across like someone who isn’t in the midst of an existential werewolf crisis. That’s what I’m striving for.

“I should get my things,” Mom says. “Need to leave for the airport! Don’t want to miss my flight. Guy will be waiting for me.”

She hurries past me. I sip my cappuccino. It’s cold.

“So what did you guys talk about?”

Scarlett gives me a look. “I didn’t tell her what you told me last night, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It was a general inquiry, but good to know.”

“I would never tell Mom anything you shared with me in confidence,” she says. “But I’m concerned, Rory. I’m worried about you. I’m allowed to share that. And she and I have our own stuff to talk about, between us. She’s my mom, too.”