Crescent Wolves - G. Bailey Page 0,6
uncomfortably into my lower lip.
This has to be a nightmare, I think, plunging my hands into hair that no longer feels quite right, it’s softer and longer. I’m asleep back on the pull-out couch in Mark and Tonya’s basement. I fell asleep in front of the TV or something, and this is what I’m dreaming about. Right? Right?! But it sure as hell doesn’t feel like a dream. The sensations are all too real, too logical, and that unfamiliar feeling in my torso is stronger than ever.
“What the fuck are you doing, kid?” demands the first man, digging in his pocket and pulling out a switchblade. “This isn’t funny!”
He’s scared, I realize with a start. They both are. I don’t blame them. I’m scared, too.
“Get… away… from me…” I say, groaning with the discomfort that has now swallowed me completely. These men, and the possibility of them hurting me, is suddenly the furthest thing from my mind. I’m entirely focused on what’s happening to me--what’s wrong with me--and trying to contain the explosive, frigid energy that feels like it’s threatening to burst out through every pore and cell. The men stare at me, looking uncertain. “Please,” I tell them again, my voice rising. “I don’t know what’s happening!”
“Look,” the second man says in a low tone to his companion, “she’s not going anywhere. Let’s just take the backpack and go.”
The first man gives him a doubtful look, but nods after a moment, and the two of them begin to move back towards me. “No!” I yell, unable to think of anything else to say; my mind feels like it’s falling apart almost as quickly as my body. My nails, which I normally keep short and neat, are getting longer at this point, too, extending past the ends of my fingers and turning hard, durable, and pointy. Like claws.
It’s all I can do to move backwards as the two men approach, some part of me wondering if I can somehow escape out the window, and another part telling me that’s impossible. Soon they have me backed up against the wall, the rigid concrete hitting my back as I look around frantically. I’m desperate for something to do, something to use... anything so that I can get these guys away from me and focus on more important things. Like the fact that something very wrong is happening to my body, and I have no idea how to stop it.
They’re almost on top of me now, the first man reaching his arms out as he rushes forward, grabbing for my backpack. If I lose it, I’m screwed. Desperate, fear taking hold of me completely, I let out an incoherent scream, louder than I think I ever have.
And that’s when a jet of fire bursts from my mouth, reaching as far as one of those makeshift flamethrowers you make with a lighter and a can of hairspray. The guys stop, the fear back on their faces. I’m left to just stare as the fire burns out, dissolving into a waft of smoke, wondering how the hell it was possible. How the hell any of this was possible. The fact that my mouth feels fine when it should be scorched, burned beyond recognition, occurs to me moments later For a split second I wonder if it’s not a dream at all, but a hallucination. That would explain why it didn’t hurt me, but it wouldn’t explain why the men are staring at me like… well, like I just breathed fire.
“I don’t like this,” says the first man, eyeing me warily. “Whatever this is, I don’t like it. We should just go. We can bring the others back and deal with her then.”
“No,” snaps the second man. “Nobody muscles in on our territory, especially a little girl. Grab her, keep her from doing that again. I’ll get the bag--”
But at the sound of their words I’m doing the only thing I can think of: screaming again, as loud as I can, praying more fire will come out of me and not caring about how that is physically impossible. And it does. Another blast of flame shoots out of my mouth, coming dangerously close to reaching the two men.
“Fuck this,” the first man says, shaking his head. “You’re on your own.” And then he’s turning around and sprinting for the door, not looking back even as his companion yells threats and obscenities.
The second man stares me down for another moment, calculating his odds against someone who’s mutated