7
I rise with the sliver of a waning gibbous moon beckoning in the sky.
Vivid beams of glowing white light filter through the steel bars of a window high above me.
They dance along my skin, along the velvet sheets beneath me, along the gray stone floor.
I don’t recognize any of it. Even my own body, which seems paler.
Almost translucent, with veins of liquid smoke bubbling beneath my flesh.
I jolt upright. No. I try to jolt upright, but I… I can’t move. Where am I? What happened? I don’t know the answers. I don’t know anything , and it terrifies me to my core.
Choking on a sob, I force myself to sit up slowly. My abdominal muscles crunch as though my bones have been reduced to pebbles, and I bite down on a hiss, unable to slide to the edge of the bed without first swallowing large gulps of air.
My lungs ache. My skin feels bruised. Like a peach already begun to rot, thrown from a roof onto cement.
Dazed, I glance around, searching for anything familiar.
A black metal four-post bed rises under me, a canopy of sheer tulle blocks the ceiling from sight, and beside it rests a matching nightstand.
A pitcher of water drips condensation onto the obsidian metal surface.
Fresh, then. Someone has been here recently. Probably while I was sleeping.
But who? And why? And where am I?
Scanning the rest of the room as quickly as possible, I make a note of the door—also some sort of ebony steel, without a single lock in sight—and window—round, protected by thick bars, revealing only the moon in the midnight sky and a cluster of stars.
None of this makes sense. I shake my head, tugging at my hair.
I was at a party. I was at a party with Celeste, and she got into a fight. Then we… we…
I blink and lick my dry lips.
What did we do after that?
Surely, we drove home, right? I recall Dad, a look of horror on his face.… Maybe from the way we’d been dressed? No, that’s not right. I rub my eyes.
Where the hell am I?
The door doesn’t have so much as a handle. The window is barred. I’m trapped.
I’m trapped, and I… What if I die here?
Panic sweeps through me, squeezing my lungs painfully as breaths whoosh from my lips in shallow gasps. Where is my father? What happened what happened what—
Beneath the moonlight, I spy a coat rack carved into the shape of an oak.
Dresses hang from every blackened branch.
It doesn’t seem particularly suspicious, but the dresses are like none I’ve seen before.
With corsets; lace; delicate, almost translucent skirts; gilded stitching.
Each one is a variation of the same color. Ruby. Scarlet. Maroon.
Bloody, hellish red.
The night returns to me then, in sudden violent flashes. A pool of blood and bones that used to be my best friend. Twelve gashes in my hip. A car full of monsters, and a haze that made me want to murder them all.
And my dad.
My dad who left me to them. Abandoned me to the wolves.
Oh god, no .
The transformation will break what hasn’t already broken, and then it will probably break you too , the man said.
But it was a lie, and they were crazy, and I’ve been kidnapped—
My spine snaps. The pebbles that were once my bones shift under my skin.
I roar, a cry so loud the window shudders, and collapse off the bed.
The bare ground bites at my palms, icy and frozen to the touch, but it’s not enough to cool the fire burning through each and every hair follicle on my body.
Fur rises like needles, pushing out of my flesh.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.
The transformation will break what hasn’t already broken.
I don’t want this; I want my father. I want Celeste. I want to go home .
I… I can’t become a monster. But the choice has been made for me. I choke on a wave of blood that spews from my lips before my teeth are replaced by razor-sharp fangs. They grow at once, an explosion of pain that leaves me panting and shrieking for help.
No one answers my pleas.
The fangs retract. My old teeth grow back. It hurts. All of it hurts.
I dig my nails—claws—into the stone and force my eyes to remain open. To not succumb to unconsciousness again. In my distorted reflection on the metal cot, I watch as my body is cleaved in half by an invisible axe. Separated into a woman. And a wolf.
Blood rushes in my ears.
“Dying isn’t so bad,” Celeste says, sounding as cheery as ever.
Gasping, I look up to find her hovering over me.
Her image fizzles in and out. Hazy around the edges.
But I can’t stop myself from staring. It’s her.
It’s really her. Tears prick my eyes as the scent of her washes over me. Cherries and summertime.
Her blue hair tickles my nose when she kneels, and she places a cold hand on my shoulder. “It barely hurts.”
“C-Celeste?” My voice comes out weak, hardly a whisper, but she understands. She always understands. I sit up, reaching for her—and my hand passes through a wall of frigid air.
“Relax. None of this is a big deal.”
Her lips draw back suddenly, and blood oozes from her mouth.
I scream.
The transformation comes in waves. There are hours of rest followed by minutes of excruciating pain. Each time, a different part of me breaks. And breaks. And breaks.
I don’t think it will ever end. It’s been too long.
The sun has risen and fallen again; the room has burst with light only to dim to cloudy darkness.
Shivering beneath the window, I watch my nails split and claws rip from my bones.
I am dying. I can’t bring myself to cry anymore either. I can only stare. Stare and wait.
“Gruesome,” Celeste says.
She’s been by my side through it all, though she’s no more than a bloody puppet who sounds like my best friend. A hallucination. A nightmare.
She tilts her head and pokes my arm. “You know what’s happening, don’t you? You know what you’re becoming?”
I don’t respond.
She rolls her eyes, the action so mundane, I almost believe that it’s real. That she’s real. But she’s dead, and I’m next.
“Werewolf,” she whispers. “Monster.”
“I know,” I force myself to say. “I know.”
I stay on the floor, atop the scattered remnants of red gowns that I’ve shredded with inhuman claws, when a soft rap on the door draws my attention.
At first, I think the noise is a mistake. Another hallucination meant to harm me, but then it happens again. A second knock. A third. I force myself to sit up.
“I-I’m not sure if you can hear me,” someone—a boy—says. His tone is dark, secretive, and I don’t recognize it at all. I hardly recognize myself. “I don’t know how far along you are in the process, or what you’re experiencing, but… I’m sorry.”
My hands clench into fists. My heart beats hard between my broken ribs.
But more than my own pulse, I can hear his .
His breath catches in his throat, his heartbeat tripping over itself as though he’s nervous.
Or maybe remorseful. His foot lifts, and I wait for him to leave, but he sets it back down.
The noise might as well be broadcasted through a speaker, loud as it is.
It shudders through me until I can practically taste the smoky char of his hesitation.
He exhales softly. “I know how you’re feeling. I know you must be scared—”
“Scared?” I hiss instinctively, talking to the solid wall of door.
“You think I’m scared ? I’ve been imprisoned in this sterile room with zero explanation, and I…
my body…” I don’t finish the sentence. Fangs grow from my canines and slice into my lower lip.
I shut my eyes, trying to ignore the anguish. The torment.
Celeste rises then and claps her hands with unbridled glee, knowing she’s the worst of it.
“If you’re so miserable, you could always try dying,” Celeste offers.
I whimper, and the boy at my door must hear it because he snarls. “Fight it. The pain and whatever you think you’re seeing. None of it is real. Your soul is being split. You’re—”
“Dying,” I finish for him. I lie down again, refusing to look at the ghost of my dead best friend. It would be easier if I could drift off to sleep. If I didn’t have Celeste whispering damnation in my ear and my organs knotting, twisting, curdling inside.
I don’t have any fight left in me. I barely have a care. I just want it to end. I move closer to the wall, pressing my skin to the cold stone. Nothing helps.
“Listen to me,” he says, and his voice turns into a gravelly rasp. A desperate plea. “This can either be an ending or a beginning. Don’t let the torture win. Fight it. ”
With that, he leaves, marching down the hall. I follow the sound, trace it through the imaginary corridors and hallways of a building I’ll never know. Left, right, straight. But when it fades, I think about his words and how he was wrong about everything.
There is no beginning left for me here.