Dog teeth glisten in moonlight as drool leaks down and onto the pavement. Rubber tracks, tire marks outline a crime scene where flashing lights and yellow tape have yet to arrive. The wound is fresh, leaking crimson blood from its indentations. A bad bite. Deliberate. Gazing up, its victim is helpless to move and praying for intervention. The moon, witness to this scene looks on and does nothing – like God. A cold breeze blows quietly. The silence is deafening. The night is clear. A stray cloud moves past the moon. Would they believe him? A werewolf on the loose? Would he die? Would he now transform for the rest of his life? A kind of paralysis takes hold and he feels like he’s sleeping with eyes open; can’t wake up. There is a rustling in the leaves, but he cannot turn his head. His pupils are big as yo-yos now and his heart begins to pound, pulsing something awful through.

Author: Roe

she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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