The following is a sneak peak of the WIP for the next Braeden Wolf paranormal/cyberpunk book. Yes, I am working on one.
There comes a point in everyone’s life when they ask themselves just how they got to where they were.
For me that day came in a grimy alleyway on a cold autumn night many years ago, wracked by tearing pains, alternating between shivering and sweating. The answer, when I could think straight, was obvious. I had turned left when I should have turned right. A simple mistake, the most recent in a long line, but a critical one as mistakes go.
Rain was blowing in off the harbour, humping down hard across the city, whether the gleaming heart with its skyscrapers or the sprawling slums that ringed it. I had been huddled up beneath a greatcoat in the lee of an overflowing skip bin, its garbage added to the accumulated detritus that swirled about, trying to avoid the worst of the weather as my body shudder; it wasn’t from the weather that I suffered that affliction.
Something ran across my foot; a rat, or worse. My foot kicked out instinctively and the animal squeaked as it shot through the air, impacting on the far wall with a solid thud. The sound of cracking bones carried to me. Normally such a thing would have gone unmarked but my hearing had been swimming in and out, hypersensitive to the least change, adding to the pains that had torn at my mind.
The rat’s body fell to the ground and the fresh, sharp scent of warm blood rose in the air, a scent that should have been drowned out by the rain and the stench of garbage.
It awoke in me a terrible, tearing hunger, ripping through my innards. It called out for release, to simply give in, to succumb and seek the sustenance to take the edge of it.
Except I didn’t know what it was that I had desired, and all I could do had been to whimper and try and fight it off. Each minute I resisted though made the hunger worse.
A shaking hand reached into a pocket and from it I removed a small flask. Trembling hands fumbled at the lid with difficulty but then it came off and I took a quick swig of the burning liquid within, one that scraped the throat clean and brought water to the eyes. It took some of the edge off the hunger though it didn’t last long, and by that stage the flask was all but empty.
My eyes had remained shut the whole time. Like my hearing I had no control over my vision that took in light and magnified it tenfold, even the softest of light lancing through my eyes and into my brain.
My hands gripped the top of my head, squeezing tightly as if it would contain the tearing pain in my head. My hands had slid down across my face, and in my pain and misery I had scratched and torn at it. The skin would not break beneath my nails, and nor could any blood be drawn.
Something was badly wrong with me and at the time I had no idea what, nor could I remember what had gone before. My head hammered back into the wall, trying to drive the pain out.
A burning hunger I could not satiate, hypersensitivity of sight and hearing and smell and skin that would not break. What had I become?