A Hundred Whispers Make a Howl

Chapter 11

Though loath to admit it, I spend over an hour sulking after Shay finally leaves me in peace. I stomp around my house like an offended child, grumbling curses under my breath, and kicking at any random objects that dare to cross my path. When I put a dent in my wall, I finally call my temper tantrum quits. I can't afford to lose the deposit on this apartment.

The problem is that I am still pretty pissed off. I've been had. Utterly, and completely had. Shay had played me like a fool, curb-stomping my ego in the process. She isn't good for my blood pressure. Yeah, so maybe the bitch --pun not intended-- seemed to have felt a touch of shame towards the end of our little encounter, but it wasn't enough to sooth my invisible wounds, and sate my dangerous need for revenge.

Revenge. Now that is a treacherous thought. The animal inside me stirs at notions like that, drawing so close to the surface of my consciousness that I can almost feel fur bristling beneath my skin. I have to shake this, somehow get over my anger. Or at least learn to compartmentalize it.

Such a feat requires meditation.

For most people, meditation usually entails deep breathing, silence, and perhaps some yoga. My typical routine is pretty far from normal. To start, I sync my phone up to my blue tooth speaker, and start up a play list titled 'Fucking Rock.' Then, I hop into a blazing hot shower.

Listening to the Slipknot remix of Marilyn Manson's 'The Fight Song' is a pretty odd way to calm down, I know, but it works for me. The key is that I need music loud enough, and aggressive enough, to drown out the thoughts screaming through my head. Over the years, I have found metal artists to be the most successful in accomplishing this, drowning out my internal monologues and laments, until my only thoughts are the lyrics roared forth from my own throat.

The current playlist, my own personal 'mix', features a variety of artists including All That Remains, Metallica, Abigail Williams, and Rammstein. The kind of music that might concern good, wholesome, catholic parents. I know I don't fit the typical 'metal head' stereotype, but I don't fit the werewolf stereotype either. At least, not to my knowledge.

Ok, so maybe howling along to Ozzy Ozbourne's 'Bark at the Moon' isn't a great sign, but this playlist predates my bite.

Regardless, by the time I exit the shower, scrubbed to a rosy pink, smelling fresh, and mildly hoarse, I am feeling better. Some of my anger has dissipated alongside the steam that floods my miniscule bathroom. I feel more together, more centered.

Normally to end my little ritual I would remain gloriously nude for a while longer, basking in the power of simply being able to parade around in my birthday suit in my own home. However, I don't feel like risking another embarrassing surprise encounter with a certain she-wolf, who I am eagerly trying to forget about. So, begrudgingly, I dress for the day. Just jeans and a graphic T-shirt, with only a light touch of makeup. Shay hadn't mentioned formal dress as a requirement for whatever we are doing today, so I choose comfort over flash. I do make an effort to select clothing without holes, however.

While my hair dries, I spend some time lounging in bed and cuddling with the twins. Both the cats seem at ease now that Shay is gone, and they purr happily as I pet them. Unfortunately, school work beckons, as it always does. The readings I have assigned are particularly dense, and the worksheet due for toxicology makes my head ache. As the pain behind my temples worsens, I call it quits and spend some time doodling instead.

It takes me two or three knocks to register that someone is at my door. The noise startles me when I finally notice it, and I jolt upright in my chair, looking around with wild eyes. I glance at the clock, spying the time: 12:55 pm. With a grimace, I give myself only one guess as to who my visitor is. Joy.