Inhuman

There is something to be said, I think, for those who can be soft in their cruelty. Those who can run their fingers through your hair as their teeth shred the flesh of your throat. For choosing violence even with the knowledge it is the wrong course of action.

I cannot be so gentle, nor will I ever have that privilege.

I stand in the wreckage of the person I once was, teeth stained black with blood, hands tinted with evidence of deeds I do not remember doing. Something hot slides down my cheek, and there is an awful heartbeat where I can't tell whether I'm crying or just so covered in viscera that it has nowhere else to go. Looking to the floor and watching the droplet splat against dusty concrete, I can confirm that I am indeed crying. I don't know when that started.

I don't know when I started grieving the nature of what I am.

The claws that once were fingers curl, pricking at my palms until my blood joins that of those I once loved. The berry-bright beads that spill from my flesh remind me that I was not always what I am.

I was not always so monstrous. Once, I knew gentleness. I do not miss the person I was during those times—naive, soft-hearted, and far too vulnerable for what was to come. But I did not kill her as willfully as I have killed others.

My fangs came in when I was six. I cooed and preened over their sharpness, their reflection in the mirror. I thought myself the most beautiful girl in the world back then, and couldn't understand the fear in my mother's eyes as she sat me on her lap, metal file in hand.

"You can't let anyone see you this way, kit," she had said, trying her hardest to smooth down the sharp edges of my teeth. "They won't understand what you are."

No matter how she tried, she could not love me into normalcy.

At twelve, I could hide the pointed nubs of my horns no longer. A girl in my class snatched away the beanie I wore to cover them, thinking she was being funny. And to her credit, the shriek she let out when she saw the bony protrusions was worth laughing at, I thought. None of the other kids seemed to share my opinion.

By seventeen, I had honed my claws, and could send the more timid of my peers running from the room with my growl. Fear me, I tried to say. Hate me. Give me no hope of closeness. I will only hurt you. I couldn't let them see my fear, so I wore my horns proudly, bared my teeth at anyone who dared to speak to me. Anger is easier to process, anyway.

I only growled back at them once, but it was enough.

From then, I found myself caged. Those who deemed themselves more human could not stand what I was, what I represented. What I made them fear.

"A threat," they called me, faceless figure after faceless figure condemning me with the same words, the same vitriol. "A danger to our children. She cannot be around us normal folk."

I wish I had remembered their faces then. A danger to their children? I had thought, though I was myself a child. How foolish of me to believe their lies.

There was no way for me to challenge them, not then. There was no logic that would make them listen, and I feared that to rip their throats out would only prove their point.

I am no longer so afraid.

I kick the twisted remnants of the cage aside. In the end, it was a flimsy thing, made strong only by my own cowardice. Tearing the door from its hinges was a simple thing, with the strength my anger gave me. Barely a dog crate, really. To put a person in there would be considered cruelty by most. But I am not a person, not in the eyes of the townspeople.

I do feel bad about the two corpses laid at my feet. Their expressions, even in death, are pained, eyes staring vacantly into a space the living cannot see. It almost hurts to see them like this, my neighbors-turned-captors-turned-prey. I wonder if they would have thought the same were I the one dying. Would they have seen the child who ran with their daughters in the park behind the police station? Would they have thought of the girl whose mother was at every PTA meeting, whose brothers excelled in academics and sports? Or would they only see the monster, with talons like knives and eyes that glow a little too bright in the dark?

A gentle brush of my hand against their faces streaks their foreheads the vivid red of poppies, but at least their eyes are closed now. At least I cannot see the emptiness where their souls should reside. Someone will find them, eventually, and they will scream and rave about the monster who has escaped its captors. These people will be given the comfort of burial earth and a headstone.

If I am found, their blood still staining my teeth and talons, I will not receive the same. They will destroy me, and there is yet a part of me wondering if perhaps I deserve it. If perhaps I am truly as broken and feral a creature as they claim.

Deserving or not, I cannot let them find me here.

It has been far too long since I have run like this. My thighs burn, my lungs screaming for air as I hurtle out of the cellar, up into the cool darkness of the night. It is chillier than I had expected—apparently the seasons had shifted while I was confined. There was a time when I would have minded the chill. Now, it is a welcome sting on my face as I leave behind the town that tried to tame me.

I do not stop until I reach the forest that borders the town. It is not far, but every second I am exposed I can feel the wire cage pressing in around me, digging into my flesh. With every step I take, I swear I can hear a dozen footsteps of those who would ensnare me again, who would claim my escape is proof of my violent nature. Like a frightened dog, they would rather put me down than learn to work with me.

The crunch of leaves under my feet is a relief, the closeness of the branches above my head a comfort I have not felt since long before they locked me away. And it is here in the forest, standing in a patch of deep shadow cast by a thick maple, that I realize I have run without a plan. I cannot go back, not now. Even if I hadn't killed the men in the cellar, there are still plenty of townspeople who would call for my death.

I can only go deeper into the tranquil quiet. Here, there is a calmness that I have never before experienced, and for a moment I wonder if perhaps I am the one dead on that cellar floor, and this is some sort of afterlife meant only for me—peace after a lifetime of struggle.

I do not know how long I wander, only that by the time I curl up at the foot of a willow tree that overlooks a pond, the sky has gone grey with predawn light, and I am tired. My claws dig into the flesh of my arms, and I have to manually unclench the muscles to keep from pricking myself. It has been too long since I last felt safe.

Something tells me I will be protected here, though.

My back presses against the rough bark, and I try to imagine that I am a child again, leaned up against my mother's legs while she braids my hair. I try to imagine she is comforting me in ways she never did, soothing her child the way only a mother can. Just lean back, my imaginary mother says. Breathe with me, now, in and out. Listen to the forest around us, how peaceful it is. It will be alright.

I try to do as she instructs, slowing my breathing, listening to the sounds of animals waking up around me, closing my eyes to feel the thudding of my inhuman heart as it slows from my exertion.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

I am so tired, and my instincts still tell me the forest is safe. With my eyes closed, it is all too easy to fall into sleep. My heart provides a steady backing as the sounds of the world around me fade to nothing, my worries releasing themselves into the wind.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.