The Werewolf's Tale

My eikaiwa students' homework assignment last week, in honor of Halloween, a holiday I truly abhor, was to compose a story about a typical Halloween-ish character. Various tales included witches, goblins, black cats, and one last-minute made-up-on-the-spur-of-the-moment plain pumpkin.

The following is my story.

All rights reserved.

The Werewolf's Tale

My name is _____ and I am a recovering smoker. And meat-eater. And part-time alcoholic. 

And werewolf.

Nobody really understands me, except you guys, of course. People complain about the moon affecting their friends’ attitudes (especially, *cough*, the ladies), but honestly, they just have no idea how much havoc it can cause in your life when one minute you’re a peaceable accountant working in a bank in the beautiful lower foothills of the Transylvania Mountain Range and next thing you know – BAM! it’s a few minutes after sundown, and you’ve become a slavering mindless killing machine who fails to differentiate between a sheep and your best friend. Ex-best friend.

(Note to Vlad’s mum: I’m so sorry, Mrs. Domburgr. I wish I knew where I hid the body…)

Where did I go wrong? Sigh. I know admitting I have a problem is the first step to recovery. I keep a diary to help me be accountable for my actions. I’ll read you a recent extract. I’m so grateful to have found a group that doesn’t judge me. You all are so supportive and I will absolutely speak loudly and clearly so you can hear me from all the way over there on the other side of the room.

Tuesday

06.30. I wake up and have a nutritious breakfast of oats and fruit (I don’t eat meat. I’m working up to going Vegan; baby steps), shower, shave (a time-consuming endeavor), and suit-up to start my day as an income-earning, tax-paying, all-around-contributing member of society.

8.00. I’m almost always the first one in at the office, which gives me a chance to tidy up my cubicle before getting down to the exciting experience of following the Transylvania Stock Market. Yen, Dollars, Yuan, Rubles, and Pounds all get weighed against our common currency, pure silver. Some of it is made into coins, some into bullets, but I don’t take offense. I just work my mental abacus (I can add three figured numbers in my head without notes), check the market value, and help keep my nation in the black. It's a grueling job, but I find it to be very rewarding.

10.30 or thereabouts, I excuse myself for a little coffee break. I don’t smoke anymore, but I still make sure to take my every-two-hour-ten minutes. The union insists. I take my coffee with milk only, since I’ve also recently cut processed sugar out of my diet (once I go vegan, I think the milk will go, too; it's a sacrifice, but the right one). All this clean living makes my lungs feel lighter, my eyes feel brighter, my claws seem sharpe- my nails grow more quickly. (Must really say damn! Deep breath. Keep it together.)

13.00. I hold down the fort during the lunch hour and head out when the rest of the office comes back from lunch. I admit, I make them a little anxious, what with all my overly-cautious questioning of the waiters at the local Hoffbrau as to whether or not they use organic wheat in their basil, tomato, and mozzarella ciabatta paninis. But hey – I’m committed to my lifestyle. All the coworkers shifting uncomfortably around the pub table, they can just untwist their knickers and get on with their lives. I don’t judge them when they order fatty sausage links and support their alcoholism with their lunchtime pints, although now and then I drop a kind and subtle reminder that their cholesterol levels are skyrocketing, but that's the kind of friend I am. I care too much about other people’s health.

16.00. I'm trying to limit my caffeine intake, so during my ten-minute break in the afternoon, instead of popping into the nearby café for an espresso and biscotti, I go for a quick sprint around the building. Take off the loafers, put on the trainers and away we go. It shocks a lot of people, I know. They think I live my life chained to a regime that keeps me repressed and discouraged, obsessed with milestones and benchmarks. Haters gonna hate, so I just remind myself that I’m the one who’s living free. They’re the ones suffering under their couch-potato lifestyles. I’m going to have to go quickly, though. The winter sun is fading and it’s getting dark outside.

Wednesday

04.00. I am just exhausted. And covered in blood. Mine? No, not mine. Too full of iron – a meat eater. Well, shit. (Note to self - no need to swear. We can control that impulse.) Did I forget something? I vaguely recall chasing something down the street when I’m pretty sure I should have been returning to the office. Crap. (That’s better.) What was I chasing? Another jogging enthusiast? Hm, I think not. The dim ringing of terrified screams in my subconscious sounds slightly familiar. Well, let’s look. Remaining evidence: fancy watch, leather shoes, little arch support (definitely not a jogger), a cell-phone? Last call – 090-5438-9… That’s my number. Checking my phone. Vlad called me; my best friend since University, yikes.  

04.30. I never remember everything that happens during those moments. It’s like being extremely drunk (not that I would know) or high (I read that in a book), or maybe in the hospital after being hit by a car (three years ago –chased down on the Transylvania-Transnational Expressway; apparently I was after a bus of orphans returning from a school trip to an observatory). All I can say is I’m sorry, Vlad. Sorry you didn’t know better than to run like hell (must really work on not swearing) in the opposite direction when you saw that moon come up. That’s enough introspection for today. Will share thoughts with support group tomorrow. Must go to bed soon. Up again tomorrow at 06.30, with bright new attitude and resolve as we’ll have to start the vegetarian thing over from the beginning.

The End

 2012 M P Farray