December 8, 2003 | The Lovell Residence, London, England
He was so hot. It was Winter outside, so this made no sense. Piers could feel his heart pumping fast, and beads of sweat pearling on his forehead. He could hear ringing in his ears, loud and high pitched and it made him cringe and gasp. Everything was brighter, too bright, everything was loud. He covered his eyes with his hands as his head throbbed. This was new to him. Was he going to be in for this every month from now until his death day? Would he be sick for a week before, recovering for a week after, have one normal week, and start all over again? Was this truly to be his destiny? He peeked at himself in the mirror, red-faced and sweating, looking at the ugly bite on his shoulder—so near his neck that he’d almost bled out—and acknowledged that he as lucky to be alive, but at what price? He was sick, now. He could hurt someone, he had hurt too many already.
He was lucky to have Jane. So many of his kind were neglected, isolated, and forced to walk the world alone—but sometimes he worried that that it was only a matter of time. He didn’t think Jane would leave him. He knew Jane loved him. She’d agreed to marry him, after-all, but he worried that he would push her away, or worse, hurt her in some way. She was the most important thing to him. She was his best friend, and he wanted to protect her. He hadn’t wanted to tell her about it, in hopes that he could just make it disappear, but he couldn’t keep that kind of secret from her. She would never forgive him for the lie, and it wouldn’t take long to figure things out. This was his life now, every month like clockwork.
He hadn’t realized how ill he would feel leading up to a full moon. It left him sick and feverish for days, nauseous and weak. He was lucky he didn’t have a regular job because he would have difficulty getting the time off every month that he needed. He collapsed back into the bed, sweating against the sheets, tugging at his shirt and pants until it came off. He turned the fan on full blast and just laid there while his head spun.
The potions made it worse, almost, he thought. It was as though the potion was a kind of poison he took to subdue the beast. It didn’t feel right, but it was necessary. He never thought about the Wolfsbane potion in quite this way before. It had always seemed like common sense to take it, but now he understood why someone might not want to. Aside from being sick, it left him feeling stifled, like holding in a sneeze when that sneeze happened to be uncontrollable rage.
He still took it, of course he still took it, but it made him feel off and uncertain. A part of him wished he could be caged like an animal and just left to his own devices, but he didn't trust himself enough to not hurt, not bite, not infect. He also didn't know how he would deal with being caged. What he really wanted was to run free across the countryside, hunting and fighting and killing and ripping. He wanted to be free to let out the beast within, fully. That was a pipe dream, though. A recipe for disaster, so he always felt a bit on edge. The more he held back, the more on edge he felt, but it only got a tiny bit worse every time. It was just a tiny bit closer to the edge. Almost nothing, but enough for Piers to know that one day he would break. He just hoped that Jane was nowhere nearby.
He sat up from the bed, still sweating, and walked into the kitchen to grab the vial. He couldn't put it off any longer. He took the vial down in a large gulp and grimaced, dropping the container and hearing it shatter on the floor beneath him. He felt a wave of nausea come over him, then a strange feeling of peace. It was done, now. There was no going back. When he transformed tonight, he would keep his mind again. Why did that need so much debate? He would do it again and again if it meant protecting the ones he loved.
He dressed again, and packed his bag. He needed to get out and on the road before the moon began to peek through the clouds.
