Insatiable
Insatiable second person stories
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bejuled
bejuledLife-long world-builder
Autoplay OFF  •  a year ago
Your thoughts as a werewolf revisiting a loved one’s house. #2 in 2nd person series.

Insatiable

Fog rolls into Winterport, Maine. “You’re scaring me.”

That’s never something you wanted to hear. You’d been nothing but kind to Clay. You’d never let anything happen.

That was two years ago here on Dawson street.

If you ignored it too long, you’d take days to cool down, to remember you were human once, to let go of the high, the electric rage of change.

You lied to him and yourself. Said you were good enough at controlling it to finally stay home once. He was excited.

It was like biting into a bundle of bloody carrots. popping, crunching. He didn’t even try to run. He just stared at you until the light left the sky in his eyes.

Mist wafts around your dirt crusted, padded feet. You know he’d already been dead before your canines slid in.

You don’t see the point in pretending anymore to be something good. Something once worth love. Two years you’ve been running, a slavering specter.

Your old home has long since fallen. Insulation hangs from bare rafters. Weak starlight muddles through the fog. But you still see it. Smell him.

Tattooed across a crumbling wall next to the fireplace, charcoal remains of the affection you destroyed.

Clay wanted your trust. You know yourself better than that. He never should have looked at you.

Your breath rises in grey fire, blocking the old sin. A truck engine growls down Leavenworth Highway. Your ear pricks up at the sound.

He could have sprinted with you under the soft strands of moonlight. You both could have slept in your favorite thicket, protected from any eye, on his warm lap after bringing him the freshest, best game.

Fantasy. His blood saturated into yours for no good reason other than to make the rage purr.

You trot over brittle grass and hard snow in the empty neighborhood, alone as you deserve.

No forgiveness comes for a thing like you, because you adored him right to the very last drop.

Dead needles leave you behind for the briny asphalt of Leavenworth. No streetlights shine. The fog hasn’t made it here yet.

He always smelled like his job, pretzels and mall cologne. He tasted like pennies you find in fountains, free, deeper than you realize, and full of hope.

He was what you wished you could be, so happy, so naive, so whole.

Wind bites through your back. The more you remember him, the more you feel the hatred numb. You can’t remember anything about his voice but “You’re scaring me.” You can’t remember anything about his eyes but betrayal.

You hear an engine murmur again. You open your maw. Nothing but flaming clouds escape. The high fades.

You miss him.

The fog rolls in.

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