Liberosis

DISCLAIMER: This story also has some curse words.

I woke up in my 1981 Cadillac Eldorado. The smell inside was putrid. I looked over at the passenger seat—chunks of carrots and broccoli. "Must've been my lunch," I muttered to myself, rubbing my throbbing head. The sun was shining, and it was ridiculously hot. I wasn't sure if it was the weather, the fact that I was wearing an all-black outfit, the leather seats, or a fever. I tend to overthink things.

I pushed the door open and stepped out, soaking in the heat and escaping that awful stench. Looking down at my chest, I saw cuts in my shirt like knife slashes, stained with dried blood.

"That's odd," I said, my expression muddled. I ran my fingers through the shredded fabric. Nothing was there—not even a scratch. I didn't even feel any pain. I pulled my shirt off slowly, just in case, but my skin was intact. However, something was wrong. My stomach was covered in coarse, reddish-white animal hair.

I didn't have this last night. Well, maybe I did. I couldn't remember anything from the night before. That was weird; I normally do. Or do I? I don't know. Mrs. Tammy told me not to overthink. As she always says, "Be more liberosis, Pierce."

It’s irritating, honestly. She’s supposed to be a counselor, and counselors are supposed to listen, but Mrs. Tammy always has to have a say. Or does she? My mind felt disconnected today. Or is it always? For some reason, the only thing I seemed to know was Mrs. Tammy. Do I like her? No, I’m supposed to be aromantic—at least, that's what she says. Plus, I’m twenty-one and she’s forty-five. It isn't the eighties anymore; that age gap would be weird. Either way, I don’t have a crush on her.

Beep! "Put a shirt on, you dork!" someone yelled from a passing car.

I was so lost in my thoughts I hadn’t realized where I was. It was the same as always: the wilderness. Groverton Park forest, off Highway 21. I always wake up somewhere around here, but in my car? That wasn't normal. Or was it?

I haven't been able to remember a full night since April 31st, 2021—my sixteenth or seventeenth birthday, I’m not sure. I was alone, which was normal for me. I don’t like big parties. People only come for the free food and drinks anyway. Why watch a boy open presents and say "Happy Birthday" like it’s a good thing? Nobody really wants to get old, unless they’re miserable. Maybe I’m projecting; Mrs. Tammy says I do that a lot.

On that birthday, I was out for a walk around 9:00 p.m., listening to Bunny—or was it Bunii?—when a burgundy car rolled up. I remember the color because I hate red. The man inside was raggedy and white as snow, but oddly, he smelled like vanilla.

"Your birthday, huh? Here, have some barbeque," he said. It was a brisket sandwich, and it looked exquisite. Normally, I don’t take things from strangers, but something about him was magnetic. I reached for it, but he swiped it away.

"Nope! Didn't your mom tell you not to take things from strangers, boy?" He let out a dry cough.

"I'm sorry, I thought you were giving it to me," I said.

"Of course I am, son, but you should never take it!" he replied.

"Well, I'm Pierce. And you?" I don't usually give out my name, but that sandwich smelled incredible.

"Jelly-John, Jake, whatever you want to call me. But this sandwich—what if it has poison?" he yelled.

"Why would a random man poison me for no reason? I have to be more liberosis," I told him.

"What the hell is 'liberosis,' boy? You keep using these fake words!" He shook his head. "Your mom always told me you were interesting, but this is bad." He let out a screeching cough. "Sorry for my temper. I'm your Uncle John. Weren't you confused about how I knew your birthday?"

"No? You had to be someone I know. Why does that brisket smell so good?"

"Why the—never mind. It’s made with... let’s just say 'special meat.' Try it and you’ll regret it, boy. I’m serious. It’s your father’s, so go give it to him and leave it alone!" He handed it over with a stern look and sped off, tires squealing in the dust.

Try it and you'll regret it. "Eh, whatever. Liberosis it is," I whispered.

I took a bite. The guilt vanished the moment the flavor hit my tongue. It was the best brisket I’d ever had. I finished it in five seconds. Immediately, my stomach started growling and my head began to throb. The last thing I remember was seeing my fingernails looking crazily long.

I woke up that next morning in Groverton Park. I don’t use my memory much anymore; I don’t really need to. I have an easy survey job from home. They pay in necessities—if I want McDonald's, they get it for me. They provide my housing. I only have this Cadillac because it was my dad's. He passed away, I think. I haven't seen him. Memory is hard.

I started digging in my pockets for my keys, but they were gone. I don't know what my "night self" was doing, but it wasn't helpful. I pulled my shirt back on and began searching for the keys. I would have left the car if it weren't my father's.

Crunch. Jingle. There they were. I snatched them up, the metal gleaming in the sun. I turned back toward the car, swinging the ring around my finger, liking the rhythmic beat of the metal.

"There he is! That's the damn wolf-human creature!"

I looked to my right, puzzled. Two men were there. One was young, maybe eighteen, holding a rifle. The other was older, screaming and pointing.

"What are you talking about? I'm no wolf!" I yelped.

"Yes, you are! You were crawling on the ground trying to catch the bunnies!"

That explained the hair, but I don't crawl. "You have the wrong person, si—"

POW.

My arm dropped like an anchor. The bullet didn't just pierce me; it was a heavy, localized shove that spun my body around. The sudden, spreading warmth of blood felt deceptively comforting at first, like a spilled cup of tea, before the chill of the air hit my skin. My fingers went numb, and I hit the dirt.

"Dammit, Dad, we shot the wrong one! He's normal!" the kid yelled as they ran toward me.

"Nah, that's him, son. I've been chasing this man for years!"

I looked up, my arm leaking heat into the soil. I recognized that voice. "Uncle... John?" I choked out, my voice sounding deeper, more guttural. "Why did you shoot me?"

"Dammit, son, I told you not to eat that sandwich!" He snatched the rifle from the young man.

"Uncle Jack? What is he talking about, Grandpa Joe?" the boy asked.

Every word they spoke felt like a tiny, jagged needle pricking at the back of my neck. I forced a breath out, but it got caught in my throat, hot and dry.

"I don't know, the man's crazy," 'Uncle Jack' said.

Then, the snap. It wasn't a sound, but a feeling—like a cable under too much tension finally giving way. The roar in my ears drowned out the world. I didn't decide to move; my body simply acted, propelled by a violent surge of adrenaline that made my skin feel two sizes too small. I tasted copper on my tongue.

I wasn't me anymore.

My arm jolted up, snatching the rifle and slamming it into the ground. POW. A shot went off into the dirt. It only made my blood boil more. I went to punch Jack, but it wasn't a punch. It was a slash. My sleeve tore open to reveal a heavy, brown, fur-covered hand. I caught his face in one clean whoosh. He fell and didn't move.

I turned to the young man. My mind was gone. I lunged, tearing into his shoulder, tasting salt and iron. I started to growl, a sound vibrating deep in my chest.

Then, just like that, it was over.

I fell to my knees. The wound in my arm was gone—simply healed. My mind returned to me, but the carnage remained. I prayed it was a dream. Tears leaked from my eyes as I crawled toward them, trying to help, pressing on their chests. I didn't know CPR. The cut on Jack's face was so deep I could barely recognize him.

I stopped and looked up at the sky, the silence of the woods closing in. I’m not a monster, right? Or am I?