The Beast Within

The pain was a live thing, a coiling serpent in my gut, its venom seeping into every nerve. It wasn’t the clean, sharp agony of a wound, but a deep, festering ache, a relentless throbbing that pulsed in time with my frantic heartbeat. I clenched my teeth, knuckles white against the rough-hewn wood of the table, trying to anchor myself to the solid reality of the cabin. But the reality was shifting, melting like wax under a flame.

My body was a battlefield. Against my will, muscles bunched and strained, a primal strength surging through limbs that felt both alien and terrifyingly familiar. The urge to howl, to rend, to *run* was a deafening roar in the back of my mind, drowning out the rational voice that pleaded for control. I saw her, Clara, not as the woman I loved, but as a shadow, a magnificent, terrifying silhouette against the moon, her eyes burning with an ancient hunger. And that hunger, I was beginning to understand, was now mine.

The bite. It had been a moment of pure, unadulterated terror, a desperate lunge to push her away, to make her *see* me, not the meal she craved. Her teeth had sunk into my arm, a searing brand that had felt like a death sentence then. Now, it felt like a beginning. The wound itself was a mess, the flesh around it swollen and angry, a sickly purple blooming beneath the skin. But the true horror wasn’t the physical damage. It was the insidious change that was taking root within me, a creeping darkness that whispered promises of power and savagery.