Page 4 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

If I go feral, I might hurt Mom.

She's walking around up there right now.

Pacing.

Always pacing, and mumbling to herself.

James hasn't been home in weeks. Haven't heard his heavy boots or heard him yelling or smelled his cigarettes through the door crack.

It's just her up there.

James caught me picking the lock once.

He kicked me so hard, I flew backward down the stairs. Then he hit me with a wooden board until I stopped trying to fight back.

I think he would kill me if I tried again, maybe.

But if Mom's alone…

The footsteps stop right above me.

She's in the kitchen. I hear the tap running.

Water.

My whole body lurches toward the sound. Muscles I haven't used in days scream as I drag myself to the bottom of the stairs. The concrete is colder and damper here, but I barely feel it anymore.

I try to call out to her.

But all that comes out is snarls.

Monster sounds.

The footsteps freeze, then move away fast.

Wait…

Please…

I try again. Try to make normal sounds. But all I can do is growl and roar and make these horrible demon noises that prove I'm exactly what she thinks I am now.

She's right, too.

I saw my face once, in the hospital, and I don't remember what I look like. My mind blocked it out. But I screamed and snarled until they gave me a shot and I woke up weeks later with a plastic tube down my throat and tape all over me.

My hands scramble against the concrete. Looking for something. Anything.

A nail. A piece of wood. Something I can use to scratch words into the floor. Into the wall. Into my own skin, if that's what it takes.

It's me.

I'm still here.

I miss you.

Please.

But there's nothing. James cleared everything out after the lock-picking incident, while I hid in the corner with my arms wrapped around my head and shook.