Page 36 of Such Sharp Teeth

I find some random forums to scroll through. None of them are particularly informative, and as the threads go on, the discourse often devolves into arguments. Most of these arguments have something to do with vampires: Who would win in a fight? Can they kill one another, etc.?

At the very least, they can take out drunk men dressed as vampires. I proved that tonight. As for real vampires, I sure hope they don’t exist.

One thing at a time.

I scroll on until the bourbon is gone, until my eyelids are heavy and tired. I hold my head in my hands.

There doesn’t appear to be any legitimate, trustworthy information on the internet about werewolves. I wish that meant I was wrong about this, but I can’t bullshit myself. A creature that looked like a werewolf attacked me during a full moon. And now my blood is silver and I have fur? I just tore off my skin by scratching an itch. I animal-style snarled at Reaper. What I thought was a gentle push to vampire Mike might as well have been a baseball bat to his sternum.

I hear Scarlett’s voice saying, Maybe it’s good she’s coming. Maybe it’ll give you guys the time to talk things out.

She doesn’t understand that there is no talking them out. Maybe they can move on, but I can’t. It’s part of me. I remember Mrs. Meyer telling me that day, The things that happen to us are not who we are, but she was wrong.

I knew it then, too. That I was forever changed. Just like I know it now.

I close my laptop and try to get some sleep.

V

The next morning, when I check under my bandages, four shreds of shriveled pale skin spill out onto the floor.

I gag.

Strangely, that’s the worst of it. The skin has regrown overnight, and now the only evidence of the injury is slight discoloration, a series of faint scars like knots in wood.

I decide to leave the gauze off for today and see how it is. I wear a shirt I don’t particularly care about and a pair of old khakis.

I use a plastic bag as a makeshift glove to pick up the skin pieces and flush them down the toilet.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Scarlett is where I left her, in the kitchen making tea.

“I’ll put on coffee,” she says. “Wasn’t sure when you’d be up.”

“What time is it?” I ask, yawning.

“Almost eleven,” she says. “Ash called and said we could go over whenever. I don’t have work until tonight. My first appointment is at eight . . .”

“Well, whenever sounds good,” I say. “I’ll have coffee there.”

“All right,” she says, getting out a thermos for her tea.

She’s in a better mood now than she was last night. Still not great. It’s like someone lowered the dimmer switch. She’s not as bright as usual.

“We don’t have to go over if you’re not up to it,” I tell her. “Ash will understand.”

She shrugs. “Whatever you want.”

We end up staying home, sitting on the couch for hours without much interaction between us. I read and answer emails, and she sketches. The day slips away. She orders us pizza for dinner, and we eat it straight out of the box while watching a documentary about elephants.

“Not hungry?” she asks me.

I’m not actually eating the pizza, only the pepperonis.

“Not really,” I lie.

After I drop her off at work, I eat slices of deli turkey and leftover Bolognese by the spoonful, sans pasta. I’m microwaving some frozen chicken fingers when Ian texts me, asking if I’m free Thursday night.