into some kind of fire-breathing freak, and eventually drops his shoulders, taking a step back. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else to me, but then closes it. He backs up a few paces before turning and bolting the same way the other guy went.
I’m left standing there, shaking and staring down at myself. Do I dare?
Before I have time to think about it, I’m turning around to face the window, looking at my reflection once again in the grimy reflection. I’m nearly unrecognizable. I look like a monster. My arms and legs are covered in scales, my hair has turned almost white and coarse, my skin still has that red tinge to it. There are claws on my fingers and fangs protruding from my mouth. It’s not something I think I could describe to anyone, and even as the sheer impossibility of everything that just happened continues to flood my mind, the aftershocks are taking over, and I realize I’m shaking.
Breathing hard, trying not to hyperventilate and pass out, I drop back down to the floor, trembling with chills and cold sweat. Two near-misses in one day, and I’m not out of the woods yet. What do I do now? Go to the hospital? Will they even be able to help me?
Of course they will, the rational part of me desperately pipes up. It’s obviously some kind of medical condition. There’s no other explanation.
Okay, sure. I could buy that for the scales, nails, and red skin, but what about the fire? When in history has a person breathed fire outside of the circus? And how am I supposed to explain that to any doctor who comes to examine me? I can already see the headlines, the documentaries, the men in black from the government and the scientists taking me away to some lab or quarantine somewhere, doing tests until the end of time and never letting me see the light of day again. What else would they do? No way. I’m on my own.
I realize I’m crying from a combination of exhaustion, the trauma of the attack, and my fear about my physical condition. Taking a shaky breath, I close my eyes, putting my head on my knees and praying this is all some sick joke. The hidden cameras will be revealed any minute now, and I’ll go back home to apologize to Mark, whether he deserves it or not. That has to be better than this nightmare I’ve ended up in.
It’s not until my panicked tears are drying that I notice something. The icy cold feeling from before, that freezing energy that overtook my body when I changed, is starting to subside. My hands are starting to feel normal again, and when I look down, I’m shocked to see that my nails are retracting back into my fingers, my skin beginning to go back to its normal color. And there’s more; the scaly patches crawling up my arms are disappearing back into my skin, absorbed under the surface. I touch my canines, which are already returning to the length they were before. I run a hand through my hair and pull a strand into the light, seeing my blonde locks back. Glancing behind me at the dirty window one more time, I see that, as far as appearances, I’m back to normal again.
Okay. So it wasn’t permanent… whatever it was. That doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better, though; I felt the same thing back at the house, after Mark tried to hit me. It didn’t escalate this far that time, but it’s proof enough for my scared, sleep-deprived mind that if something else happens to trigger it, it will happen again. And I don’t know how to prevent it.
I’m just beginning to rifle around in my backpack for my cell phone, wondering if there’s anyone I can turn to for advice, when there’s a loud booming noise on the other side of the warehouse. It sounds a bit like a firecracker going off--a short, loud crack that pierces the air and nearly makes me jump out of my skin. This is followed by the sound of footsteps scuffing on the concrete, and I can make out two figures in the shadows. For a moment I panic again, thinking that it must be the two men. They came back, I think, eyes widening. They came back; they brought their friends, and I’m back to normal. I’m dead.
But then the footsteps approach and I’m