Chapter 11
The house looks exactly the same as when I left this morning.
Same perfectly manicured lawn, same spotless white siding, same cheerful flower boxes under every window. The picture of suburban perfection, just like the family that lives inside.
Just like the daughter they raised to be flawless in every way.
I linger behind a bush, staring at the front door. My hands—claws now, really—are still shaking from adrenaline and rage. The transformation is accelerating. I can feel my bones continuing to shift, my spine curving more with each passing minute.
I need to see their faces. I need them to understand what they created.
The front door is unlocked, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? This is a safe neighborhood, full of safe families with their safe little secrets. Nothing bad ever happens to people like us.
“Briar?” Mom’s voice calls from the kitchen. “Sweetheart, is that you? You’re home early.”
I don’t answer. I just stand in the entryway, listening to the familiar sounds of home. Mom humming while she prepares dinner. Dad’s office chair creaking as he works on his laptop. The gentle buzz of the refrigerator, the tick of the grandfather clock in the living room.
Normal family sounds. Happy family sounds.
They have no idea what’s coming.
“Briar?” Mom appears at the kitchen doorway, dish towel in her hands. “I got a call from the school, something about an incident in the…”
She stops mid-sentence when she sees me. Her face goes through several expressions in rapid succession; confusion, concern, and then something that might be horror.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, the dish towel falling from her hands. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”
I take a step closer, and she backs away instinctively. Smart woman. She can sense the predator even if her mind can’t process what she’s actually seeing.
“What happened to me?” I repeat, my voice a harsh rasp. “You mean you don’t recognize your perfect daughter?”
“Briar, we need to get you to a hospital,” she says, but her voice is shaking. “You’re hurt, you’re…”
“I’m perfect,” I cut her off. “Isn’t that what you always said? That I was your perfect little princess?”
Dad’s footsteps echo from the office as he comes to investigate. “What’s all the noise about? Briar, why aren’t you at…”
He rounds the corner and freezes. His laptop falls from his hands, clattering to the hardwood floor, and all those little keyboard letters pop out and skitter everywhere.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. The moment when they finally see me, really see me, for what I am. Not their perfect daughter with her perfect grades and perfect social standing. Not their precious princess who never caused any trouble.
The monster they created with their endless praise and blind enabling. The creature their toxic parenting philosophy has been nurturing all along.
“Surprised?” I ask, spreading my arms wide to show off the full extent of the transformation. The fur, the claws, the elongated snout full of needle-sharp teeth. “This is what perfection looks like, Daddy.”
They’re both backing away now, moving toward each other instinctively. A united front against the threat their daughter has become. How touching.
“We need to call someone,” Dad says quietly to Mom, never taking his eyes off me. “911, or…”
“Call who?” I laugh, and the sound is pure animal now. “The police? A doctor? A veterinarian?” Another laugh, higher and more unhinged. “Who exactly do you call when your perfect princess turns into a monster?”
“You’re not a monster,” Mom says desperately. “You’re our daughter. We love you, and we’re going to figure this out.”
Love. They love me. Even now, when I look like something that crawled out of a nightmare, they want to fix me. Make me perfect again.
It’s almost sweet. Almost touching.
It makes me want to tear their fucking throats out.
“Love?” I take another step closer. “You love the idea of me. You love having a perfect daughter to show off to your friends, but you never loved me.”
“That’s not true,” Dad says, but his voice cracks. “We’ve always been proud of you, always supported…”
“Supported what?” I snarl. “My cruelty? My need to destroy other people to feel good about myself? Because that’s what you were supporting, you know.
Every time you praised me for being better than other kids, every time you told me I was special, you were feeding this.
” I gesture to my transformed body, to the monster standing in their perfect living room.
“This is what you made me into with all that unconditional love and endless praise. You created a narcissist who couldn’t handle being anything less than perfect. ”
Mom starts crying. Soft, quiet tears that smell like salt, fear and desperate parental love. The combination is intoxicating.
“We just wanted you to be confident,” she whispers. “We wanted you to know how special you are.”
“Special.” The word tastes like poison in my changed mouth. “Do you know what I did with that confidence? Do you want to know how special your perfect daughter really is?”
I move closer, backing them against the kitchen counter. They’re trapped now, with nowhere to run. Just like all my victims at school.
“I destroyed people,” I continue conversationally. “I found their weaknesses and exploited them. I spread rumors, I orchestrated humiliations, I turned their friends against them. And every time I came home after ruining someone’s life, you asked me how my day was and told me you were proud of me.”
“We didn’t know,” Dad says weakly.
“You didn’t want to know,” I correct. “Because knowing would have meant admitting that your perfect princess was actually a sociopathic bully and that would have ruined the fantasy, wouldn’t it?”
The tears are coming faster now from both of them. Good. Let them cry. Let them feel a fraction of the pain I’ve inflicted on others in their name.
“So tell me,” I say, leaning close enough that they can smell the animal musk on my breath, they can see their own reflections in my black predator eyes. “Am I still your perfect princess?”
The question hangs in the air like a blade. This is the moment of truth. The final test.
Will they still claim to love me when they can see exactly what I am?
Mom opens her mouth to speak, probably to say something comforting and parental and completely missing the point. But before she can get the words out, something shifts in the air around us.
The house itself seems to be holding its breath, waiting.
A slow smile spreads across my elongated features, revealing every one of my needle-sharp teeth.
“Actually,” I say, my black eyes moving between their terrified faces, “I think I already have my answer. You’re looking at me like I’m a monster. Like I’m something that doesn’t belong in your perfect house with your perfect life.”
The scratching sound returns, louder than ever, seeming to come from the very walls around us. But now I understand what it is. It’s not the sound of creatures trying to escape.
It’s the sound of predators preparing to hunt.
And the hunt is about to begin.