Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

A Heavy Realization

Chapter Six:

A werewolf.

A fairytale creature with large claws and a salivating orifice that bays at the full moon--and this guy, the one that had just bled all over my kitchen, claims that he is one.

Most of me thinks he's insane—that he's some asylum escapee that's had one too many goes with electro-shock therapy—but the other part of me, the curious part, wants to discover more, even if the world he lives in is fictitious.

Before he left, he flicked me a clip of matches, the top engraved with the word Beauchamp's in tattoo-style writing, and said, "meet me here around ten tonight."

And then he sped off in that shiny black Audi that I should have shot the tires out on.

Mom's going to murder me, and Pete's—Pete's going to be here any minute, I sigh. I can't think about Pete right now. He's surely going to ask me questions that I don't know how to answer. How much do I tell him, if anything?

Where would I even start? I don't even know that guy's name.

A thousand things are running through my head as I step into the kitchen. He left my house in shambles: dried blood on nearly every countertop, a disassembled gun strewn across the floor, and a ripped up t-shirt crumpled in the sink.

I have to wait until the house is presentable before I can retreat to the confines of my bedroom. Maybe I should set up my mom's wine so she can avoid the cupboards completely?

"Supernatural," I type the word into Google once I'm situated at my white desk. I hit enter and immediately groan at the results. Everything is about some TV show that I don't have the time or patience to weed through.

"No thank you, IMDB." I try again, "Define: Supernatural."

A rectangular box appears under the search box, filled with a definition similar to that of a dictionary.

Supernatural is the manifestation or events attributed to some force beyond scientific understanding or the laws of nature.

A werewolf would fit the description of "beyond the laws of nature", right?

"Ironide" is my next search, and I instantly regret it. The first twelve results that pop up are about Transformers.

I growl, slamming my laptop shut and plopping face-down on my bed.

I'm going insane. Rational people would never question themselves if it came down to some twisted fantasy about werewolves and witches and magical poison.

But if he's lying, if he's psychotic, then how the hell did his cut vanish? That cut was deep. I mean if it were any wider, I'm sure his guts would have just cascaded onto my front yard. That blade carved right into him, but in a matter of minutes, it sealed.

He healed.

Healthy people can heal fairly quickly, but not in ten minutes. If he can heal rapidly, then what else can he do?

What am I saying? I'm just as ridiculous as the supernatural notion I'm debating.

I take a deep breath, and just as I resolve to push up, a heavy weight slams me onto the bed again.

Reflexively, I scramble to punch, to scratch, to do anything to get them off of me.

"Shelland!" I hear Pete gasp when my fist connects with his body. He rolls onto his back, clutching the spot where his clavicle meets his shoulder.

"Pete!" I jump up, "You scared the shit out of me!"

"That's the second time you've hit me today!"