Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Six

'Safety- 20th September 1987 6 O'clock,'

"Whoa! W...w... where am I? What's happening?" My heavy eyes creaked open, waking to a spoon battering a cup and raised voices.

My heavy eyelids matched my heavy, dizzy head. Everything seemed foreign to me for a few seconds, thrown by the dim surroundings. A slight yellow glow hovered over a small table to the left of my head. I was on an unfamiliar sofa—comfortable but unfamiliar all the same. Had I been captured? One of my first thoughts until I felt the luxury of the cushion under my hand was that kidnapping wouldn't be this comfortable.

I'm taking in the sights, trying to see where I am, along neatly decorated walls. Split by a white dado rail, the bottom half had been wallpapered with lime green stripes, and the top was plain cream. Everything had a place; it was almost obsessive-compulsive how the coasters, newspaper, and remote controls were neat on the glass coffee table. Only one person I knew to be that obsessive—Skip. The voices I'd heard were familiar. My head beat like a drum and was still drenched in a misty haze, making it hard to trust my senses.

Tiny flashing images kept appearing in the back of my mind, trying to remember what happened and how I ended up on this rather plush brown leather three-seater. Finding, I could bounce back to sleep, flopping my sore head against the armrest. All I'd do was delay the inevitable and my search for answers. My right hand was aching like I'd been punching a wall. Looking down, one was distinctively fatter than the other. Knuckles turned a shade of blueberry, and I couldn't remember how.

Bending and straightening, I flexed my fingers to get the circulation going, albeit painfully. In doing so, I noticed the dried blood crammed under the nail's edge of my middle finger. Some of it had sneaked its way up the grooves on either side. A little panicked, I compared hands, fingers, and arms, frantically patting over the rest of my body. I last remembered being at a table in 'Al's diner. I had... I...I... erm. Crap, what was I doing?

Getting angry with myself, straining my brain, I scraped at the dark red crust, barely flicking a fragment, when a spark went off in my head. Getting a scary glimpse of Charlie and me, I staggered forward, grabbing Charlie's arm. I felt a quick burst of pain. I see my pulsating bloody hand growing into a dark claw. The image fades the moment I stop picking, leaving behind a racing heart and me breathless. What the hell is going on with me? I lie down, staring at the brilliant white ceiling, asking myself that question repeatedly and wondering if normality was a thing of the past.

After a few seconds of calm, I finally remembered what I was doing at the table. I had been looking over a pile of old drawings—horrifying ones. I struggled with them the most because I couldn't remember drawing them as a kid. Or into anything like that. My eyes flick around the room, looking for my coat. I'd stuffed the papers in a pocket in the heat of the moment.

"Ah, she's awake. About time, Georgina," Skip's voice breaks the reminiscing. He was standing in plain clothes, made up of blue jeans and a smart polo T-shirt. Smothering a cup, he smiled briefly, pumping up his rose-red cheeks.

"How did I get here?" Wondering how Charlie would know where Skip lived.

"I brought us here. It's a nice car, but the gears are sticky," Charlie says, stepping from behind the skipper, looking calm.

"Yeah, but how did you know? I didn't even know where Skip lived." The pair squirmed. I could feel the tension rising.

"We all have our secrets, Georgie, granted some more than others. Apart from that, a lot can happen with the years ticking by," Charlie attempted to diffuse my curiosity by turning it back on me. All that prompted me to dig more. It's in my nature. Besides, he'd apologised for not coming to Helen's funeral. So, it wasn't all on me. However, I happily admitted my part in the prolonged absence.