About werewolves, but NOT a romance. Surprise.
Laughing bitterly, I toss aside New Moon. What a stupid book. Stephanie Meyer knew nothing of the hell of it all. Chances had it she didn't even believe we were real. All of the drivel spouted nowadays by foolish, unedited writers about my species and vampires drove me up the wall.
Our kind, I thought, are hardly romantic. Not at all. Don't they know anything? Lycanthropy was about as romantic as that word was-jumbled and complicated and sounding like a disease. It was a disease. Like rabies, but a lot worse.
It hurts, to have everything inside you break and shift. To have hair sprout in places you didn't even know exist, to feel your muslces scrunch and stretch to snapping points. Didn't anyone understand how incredibly agonizing the process was?
But that is all I remember. Everything from there, the point of my transformation, is a confusing blur of colors and sensations. I don't remember what she's done. All I can do is hope that by the time my mind changes and memories fade the explosions of red aren't blood. Changing was miserable.
Know what else was miserable?
Living on the streets. No sane mind would hire or house me.
And how I could never marry. Not just because it would be madness to marry someone like her, there were legitamite laws forbidding it. They wanted my kind to die out.
How we are thought feral even after the quarter moon. (No, not full moon. What is it with people and the full moon? Why is it so spectacular?)
How my life was ruined the day I was bitten.
How my parents kicked me out.
How I have to put up with stupid writers rambling on about the beauty of it all when it is nothing but horror.
How it became harder and harder to change completely back into a human by the time the night was over. My canines were longer than the average person, though not by much. My eyes are amber. And I am thinner. A lot thinner.
Rage overtook me. I picked the book back up. Ripped off the cover. Trampled the pages in the mud. Romance? We are not allowed even friends!
I tossed the book over my shoulder, growling under my breath. It crumples on the pavement. I heave my backpack with some money and allI have left over one shoulder and walk on, knowing that was foolish book to steal. It was bound to be angering.
Before I storm away, a finger taps my shoulder. "Excuse me, miss. Are you ok?"
I turn to see a man, primly dressed in a suit and tie. Neatly combed hair. Rich leather breifcase. Expecting him to flinch when he sees what I am, I look into his eyes.
They are yellow.
He smiles in recognition. And I know what he is. Bizarre. He actually looks like he has money. How?
"You'd better come with me. It's obvious you have nowhere to go."
I nod. And follow.