Gina twisted the chain around her arm. Each link dragged across her skin, sinking deep into her bones. Her jaw was clenched, but she’d get used to the pain. She didn’t have much choice. The pipe on her back burned her skin, but she’d get used to that too. At least it kept her warm, she reasoned, when it was so cold. And with small comforts, she sat on a blanket instead of the cold concrete. Not wrapped up in it, of course. Not wrapped up in anything. But with it pooled beneath her, she felt a little comfortable. 



Sat up, and warm, it was a different, new pain to the first. It was still raw in her memory, the pressure on top of her, the sting of claws and teeth and the cold. The thunder of her heart and the growls in her ears. Compared to that, this was bearable. She would rather deal with the chains than feel that light-headedness again, that inability to think, or even to move, barely being able to roll over to stare up at the sky past the bushes. Staring up at the moon as her breath stopped, until the white light numbed the pain. And she could deal with this pain, sat up, because she knew this pain. It was the pain she didn’t know yet that was the problem.

All in all, her parents had taken the news well. Better than she thought they would.

Sitting at the kitchen table in front of them, in a ragged, blood-soaked dress, with stained but unbroken skin, she was certain they’d kick her out. But they didn’t point to the back door, just the bathroom, after telling her how worried they’d been for her, how they’d almost had a heart attack, how she’d be the death of them. It was so normal she could have cried. She had, in the bath, as she’d pressed a sponge against baby pink skin.

She was their daughter, and they loved her, no matter what. She repeated it like a mantra, now, looking up the old wooden staircase, to the door. They’d figure this out together. The words curdled in her head. Together, they’d promised, but she was on her own. She was on her own and it hurt, the chains on her ankles and the burn against her back, and it was going to hurt even more and why weren’t they there with her, talking to her, rubbing her back like they had at the kitchen table?

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair of her to be so ungrateful; they were trying their hardest to help. They’d reached out on the local Facebook page, even though she knew it’d be no help. They’d bought her renewable cutlery made of bamboo for her birthday, and replaced the silver chain of her grandmother’s necklace with a softer velvet. It was upstairs, now, on her bedside table. Maybe, if she asked them to, they’d buy her a cheap, baggy nightgown to wear. The pipe burned her back, but her fingers were numb as they burrowed beneath the chains.

And she was so, so hungry. It was the kind of hunger that made you dizzy, made your throat constrict alongside your stomach until you felt like you were about to throw up. There was a packet of raw steaks, just within reach despite the chains. The scent of the flesh, and the congealing blood, was enough to drive her crazy. Or maybe it was the smell that made her feel sick, tricking her nose into remembering the bent limbs and split skin, the screaming. Her own blood spilling into the mud and watering the grass.

She would get through this. She was their daughter, and they loved her no matter what. 

They loved her, but they wouldn’t help her. Not in the ways she really wanted them to. Wouldn’t sit at the top of the stairs with her, talk to her, sing her to sleep. God, how she wanted to be asleep right now. If she was asleep, she wouldn’t have to feel the pain.

The door opened. Her mother’s plump, fleshy arm poked through the crack and flicked the light switch off. 

“Mum!” she begged, and from above her, there was a shriek. The light turned on again, blinking a couple of times until it settled back into the dim yellow light she’d grown accustomed to. 

“Gina?!” At the top of the stairs, now staggering down them, was her mother, wrapped up in her dressing gown. “Gina, what on earth are you doing? You could have killed me!”

 “It’s the full moon, Mum,” she reminded her, patiently, trying to move the chains away from her mother’s reaching fingers. “Do… Do you think it’ll hurt?”

 “What are you talking about, girl?” Long fingers wormed under the chains, hissing as they came in contact with the heated pipe. “Why have you chained yourself up?”

“But Mum–! The moon–!” Gina protested.

“The moon’s already up, you stupid girl.” The chains fell loosely to the floor, and her mother yanked her up into a tight hug. Gina frowned. “You aren’t a fucking werewolf! You were attacked by a stray dog.” She pushed her back, looking her daughter in the eyes. “You stupid, stupid girl…” She cuffed Gina round the head. “I have to get up early for work tomorrow, I don’t have time for this. Get up to bed, and put some fucking clothes on!”

Limply, Gina let her mother pull her up the two flights of stairs, but paused in front of her bedroom door. Her belly snarled. Maybe her mother was right. Gina was certain something had changed since the attack, but she could be imagining things. And everybody knew werewolves didn’t exist. She was just being stupid. And she should go to bed.

Gina pushed her door open. Through her window, she locked eyes with the full moon. 

It was so beautiful, she hardly noticed the pain.