Beast of America

i n f e r n o - part 6/12

AN

Yas, this is kinda weird.

So sorry about the weirdness guys, in other news:

I'm trying to write in any free time cause ugh its so hard now thats school in session. So sorry for the unquick crappy updates.

You see a little bit of Sammy's past and the way werewolves work.

And how Murray is like wow gentleman.

Song on side gives meh feels

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There is fire crawling up Sammy's arms. There is an untangible heat that's coursing through her veins and nails that are scratching at her pale skin. The porcelain skin is turning an ugly rash of red where she curves her own fingers into the deep valleys of every piece of skin she can touch.

Her hands- her hands aren't cooling it, those two crisp palms that are beet red with two scars in the shape of a cross from three days ago- or was it four days ago? When did she kneel on that splintered wood floor and ask God for forgiveness? How many hours could she still count back to the memory of crushing that silver cross into her hands and crying- not because it hurt, but because she knew she would never be human again. Because she knew whatever happened to her, when that wolf dug its teeth into her throat and pressed a bleeding wrist to transfer it's supposedibly poisionous DNA into hers, that she would never be the same.

But then there's hands, fingers that are circling around her wrist and whispering things she can't catch, filthy words that are leaking out of the man, Murray, Murray that's his name. Whispers that she can't catch, it's too hot. It's too hot. But she wants to hear them, she wants to hear those tender words he's saying when he murmurs into her collar-bone, talking to her raised skin like they can keep a secret. Can she keep a secret?

Sammy used to listen to her preacher, when she was tucked into her uncle's side, her uncle always had a bible on his lap, open for her to follow. His calloused fingers used to trail over the holy word when she was too young to read as fast as the preacher was talking and quoting those bible verses.

But he used to talk about Hell. Her preacher would turn to the youngest of the church, eyes burning with tears because he could feel the spirit and he'd stare at her like he knew- like he knew exactly what she'd become; and warn her about the Lycans. Lycans- no one calls them Lycans anymore, not since the old Testament, Lycans was the word they used when they were tricked by the Devil- you call a werewolf a Lycan, you're calling them the worst of the worst.

But he'd speak the word on Hell, he'd tell her that her skin would crackle and her entire body would be burned to ash and all over again.

But Hell is not hot, Hell is not the oven of the underworld- Hell is cold. Hell is bone-chilling. Icy tendrils that'd wrap over your chest, yank you down to it's freezing ground and push you up into icy fingers that are waiting to trap you in their greedy hands. Hell will turn your body numb until a white hot rush will travel through out your body to thaw you out just to become numb again.

That's what she feels like.

It's hot, a searing fever that makes her breath tremble, her bones quake, her eyes glaze. But it's cold too, it's refreshing, a breath-taking kind of feeling until the one that's making her feel that icy freeze takes his hand off of her and leaves it to glacier over Sammy's body. Until the process begins again.

Freeze, thaw, burn, freeze. Repeat.

Freeze, thaw, burn, freeze. Not again, don't put your hands off of me, keep them there.