Burnt Blood: The Werewolf Within

Two

The morning sun painted the world in brilliance, accompanied by the cheerful sound of birds singing. Despite the idyllic scene, a profound emptiness gnawed at me. I awoke to the same grim reality, haunted by nightmarish visions of Chris; my friend was now reduced to an unsettling nightmare—a lingering need to cough scratched at my throat. The mysterious fur I'd brought up had me worried, yet too weird to share with anyone. Memories of bloodstains invaded my thoughts, leaving a metallic taste of fear in my mouth.

In my living room, everything seemed normal, except for the remnants of a whiskey bottle that told the tale of a sorrow-soaked night. The worry lingered: Had I stumbled out in a drunken stupor and got myself in trouble? My thoughts turned to Skip; perhaps he held the key to unravelling the puzzling events.

The telephone's shrill ring shattered the uneasy silence. Skip's voice crackled through; his concern was obvious.

"Skip? You there?" I ask meekly.

"Ah, Georgie, you, okay?" Skip replied, sounding as fresh as ever.

"Yeah, I guess so. Quick one, when did you take off?" I probed, curiosity piqued.

"Well, there was still plenty in the bottle when I left. You were on the sofa, tending to your wounds," Skip explains. The realisation hit me. I had finished the bottle solo, but what happened afterwards remained a disconcerting mystery. At least the blood-coating me wasn't Skip's, intensifying my anxiety.

"Oh, right... I woke up in bed, and, um..." I hesitated; words caught in my throat. Detailing the night's bizarre events over the phone felt impossible; it demanded a face-to-face discussion. Besides, sharing it might lead to unwanted consequences, and I had no clue where that information might end up.

For now, keeping my strange experiences under wraps seemed wise. Prompting more questions without my answers was a risk I couldn't take. An irrational urge to inspect my hands consumed me, twisting them back and forth. The remnants of dried blood's crimson flakes haunted my senses. The appearance of a tattoo-like symbol etched into my wrist remained an escalating mystery, growing more intricate with each occurrence.

"Um... Sorry. I thought someone was at the door. I woke up in bed but can't recall getting there. I must've been more drunk than I thought," I finally confessed, my voice wavering.

Skip's response confirmed my suspicion of excessive drinking. "Not surprised. After the tape, you were downing drinks twice as fast as I was."

Paranoia led me to peer out of windows, searching for anything unusual—perhaps the telltale lights of emergency vehicles. Skip's chuckle through the phone did little to calm my anxiety. If I had been that intoxicated, how would I end up resembling someone fresh from a fight?

"Ah, okay. Panic over. How's Rebecca? I'm not ready to face them yet." I shifted the conversation to Chris's widow and their children, hoping they received the needed support.

"Rest easy, lad. As far as I know, everything's in hand. You must pull yourself together and focus on that," Skip reassures me.

He made a point; I had to do that, but how? There were so many issues at once that I couldn't trust my memory anymore. Hoping Charlie would still take my call, I finished with Skip, made a cup of coffee, and braced myself. It had been years since we last spoke. Life does that; one thing leads to another. Paths get followed, and four or more years pass before you know it. Even if he answered, there was no guarantee that he would want to dredge up the past. They say it's best to let sleeping dogs lie. Sadly, I didn't have that luxury.

'Brrrr. Brrrr. Brrrr,'

"Hello," a tired-sounding voice answers the other end, Charlie. Riddled with nerves, I felt my throat dry by the second. Oh, how I wished I could liven my coffee up a little.