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Werewolf Pt 7

Werewolf Pt 7

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Published by Jonathan Shuffler
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Published by: Jonathan Shuffler on Jun 21, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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Shuffler 1
Jonathan ShufflerMs. MorinENGL 1103 01913 November 2011Werewolf (Part 8)Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons, places or events, unlessexplicitly noted, are coincidental.Before I realized what was happening, I could feel the warmth of blood trickling downmy face. My head felt like a steel door had slammed on it. Pain seared through my body as Iwoke up in the middle of a forest. The wind twirled the leaves around me and I stood up, dazedand confused.My skin was smooth. Why did my hair not grow? The moonlight shown down in front of me, but somehow I was transported here without being in contact with it. That is the onlyexplanation I could think of. My blood dripped on the ground. What happened to me? I thoughtto myself, too weary to panic. Tricks of the mind can be very deceiving, but this was no trick.Soft, glowing lights came from the town as I stood on the outskirts of it. How did I gethere? Thoughts whispered through my mind, remembering how I said good-bye to Claire and
left for my house. I paused my memory’s playback to focus on her gorgeous blue eyes. She
looked at me in my memory. The word blue still came up constantly in my mind with nointroduction or explanation. One day, I would figure all of this out. Maybe, by some off chance,her favorite color was blue or something.My memory continued playing back as I stood there looking at the town, cold andconfused. I was trying to remember what happened. Something was waiting for me. I entered. A
 
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staircase came under my feet as I ascended to the top. Blood dripped down my mirror. “I knowwhat you are”. That is when everything stopped. Memories are like tapes. When something
traumatic happens, a mental static happens that prevents anything from be recollected in thefuture.Being quiet was difficult as my breath got heavier and my feet collided to the earth likeclashing swords. Every step was painful. This static had happened before. When my dad left uswhen I
was nine years old, I didn’t understand why. Mother always told me that he had to leaveand take care of our country. Wars had apparently torn apart countries with names I couldn’t
pronounce, and he was going to be a hero and save them. He was my hero.Months passed, every day flashed through my mind as I wandered as quietly as I couldtowards the light, half in a daze from my present situation. A letter came in the mail thatafternoon, and I was excited to read it because it was from the U.S. army. I still cannot rememberwhat the exact wording of the letter was, but I knew what it meant. He was gone.Tears came down my face, mixed with my blood and fell to the ground as I rememberedwhat happened. Mother was always a strong woman. She still is. She never told me how upset
she was that he was gone. I didn’t have to be told. Every night sounds of deep, sorrowful
weeping erupted from her room.These memories became too much, and my emotions tore me apart inside. Even afteryears of therapy and counseling I could not overcome this feeling. There was no closure. I never
saw him after he left. It’s as if he vanished from my life forever.
Soft, glowing moonlight hit my skin. Little hairs popped up from my skin. Nerve cellssent messages to my mind telling me
how much it was supposed to sting, but I didn’t listen. My
mind was too busy remembering everything.

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