The Books that Never made it

Micheal

Michael

     I couldn’t breathe. Everything inside me was frozen.  I just watched as he squirmed around like a newborn faun on the floor, naked. His body was slick and slimy, his former skin lying in a disgusting pile on the floor next to him, drooling a clear solution. His hands were clenched into shaking fists and his chest fluttered weakly as he tried to get a breath with his new lungs. His white hair was slicked back, only a few strands dangling in front of his face.

I finally made a noise in my throat, sucking in a huge breath.  He heard me and jerked his head up, his black eyes predator-like. His throat contracted and pulsated like a frog as his cat eyes widened in curiosity at me.

He moved into a crouched position and slowly tipped his head up, closing his eyes and opened his mouth so his sharp fanged teeth shone in the white moonlight. A fierce scream came after it, like the one from a horror movie. I jumped with surprise, a dark tingle running up my spine, followed by goose bumps. The window behind him shattered, loose pieces of glasses sprayed on the carpet behind him and it seemed as though the room itself was shaking. I could only cover my ears and drop to my knees before I quietly whispered:

        “Michael.”