Life With A Werewolf

Absence Of Info Is Dangerous To An Overactive Imagination

The audio version of this blog post is here:
https://youtu.be/EeOk9pWwO0Q


         Crash's life as you know by now is consistently inconsistent. His work schedule has him out at nights, that is unless he's just working a regular nine to five in the office, sharing gossip about whatever it is werewolves gossip about around the water cooler. He has been tight lipped about his job, which only causes my mind to get creative, and come up with all sorts of strange scenarios.
         I've been told on more than one occasion that I have an active imagination. Which, lets be entirely honest here, is an understatement. If my imagination was a child, it would be loaded with ADHD, caffeine and sugar, given a box of markers and four white walls in a small room and two hours without adult supervision. What I'm trying to say is, giving me as little information as possible just invites all sorts of strange ideas and scenarios.
         You see, I know Crash's job has an office portion cause he sometimes goes to work in a suit and tie. So, the little information that I've gleaned from his, what I now call, nighttime adventures, and the suit and tie has lead me to the image of him standing around in an office with other mythical creatures gossiping by the water cooler about what the humans are doing. I'm sure Val, the vampire, would have some juicy gossip as he sips his cup full of red liquid, swearing up and down that they were willing and are still alive. "And quite healthy!" he would say with eyes darting around to see if anyone suspects anything.
         Susan, whose the office manager in my little head cannon that I created for this scenario makes the best coffee. She's also a centaur, and will just literally kick you into next week instead of firing you if she gets angry, which is why everyone stays on her good side. The skinwalker, Larry, tries to pretend to be just about everyone in the office for a laugh. People chuckle out of politeness, but no one has the heart to tell Larry that mimicking people's motions is funny, walking in the office looking literally just like them is just creepy and weird. But, come on, it's Larry. He means well, but is not just good as people.
         Sad thing is, I could go on like this for hours. Create little lives for these people, and what each one of them does. Make up fun personality quirks and things for them, like Larry having a set of old school turn tables that he uses to try and make up his own beats at home, though he's not very good at it. He knows he's not good, but he does it for fun and to relieve stress not for money or anything. Or how Susan is two cat adoptions shy of being a crazy cat lady. Or crazy cat centaur. Or whatever.
         All of this works for his office days, but what about non-office days? The other times Crash works at night and comes home covered in dirt and muck? None of this actually explains those evenings and nights. Especially when he comes home in the mornings some days with injuries.
         An injured werewolf is strange. They heal much faster, sure. It's funny to see someone with a broken arm on Monday, going into work on Friday like nothing actually ever happened to them. When in wolf form, if the injury is severe enough they can't shift back until it's healed up some. They have to walk around the house for days, stuck in form while whatever part of their body heals to the point that they can shift back to human.
         The first time I saw this, I was just getting up when Crash stumbled into the door. Sunlight had just peaked over the horizon for the morning, giving gentle rays of goodness and beauty to go with my early coffee. When the back door slammed open and Crash half tumbled, half rolled into it, I gaped at him, stunned. I hadn't seen him in his wolf form often. I'm not sure if it's a bad luck thing or if they don't like revealing that form to humans due to us staring or whatever.
         He was trying not to leave a blood trail. However, that was difficult due to the gaping hole in his shoulder. A large hand (paw?) covered it. He grimaced, stumbled down the hallway into his room without saying a word, then slammed the door shut. I didn't see him for almost a day afterwards, and when I did, he was still in his werewolf form. Grumbling a bit about pain, a wrap on his shoulder, and not saying anything else.
         No explanation of what happened. No attempt at an explanation. Just "hey Jason," in the hallway, then back to his room. Every question I asked was met with "you wouldn't believe me," then he went back to his room. I mean, dude you're literally a seven foot tall five hundred something pounds of pure muscle walking talking werewolf. Everything is on the table right now for possibilities.
         But this lack of information gets my brain going again. He still hasn't talked about the bite, but my brain has come up with an Indiana Jones scenario, where he's trying to rescue a statue of Catomon from a temple but was attacked by cougar people, (cause they're always cougar people in the middle of it, isn't there?) and barely escaped with his life after only dispatching four or five dozen, (cause he's a werewolf, remember).
         I haven't told Crash any of these thoughts or ideas yet. I'm certain if he heard them, he'd laugh and tell me it's something a bit more mundane than that, and proceed to give me an explanation that's both better and far worse than what I was originally imagining.
But the injury thing did throw me for a bit. I mean, yes he's a werewolf, but surely that doesn't mean he's out howling at the moon or whatever, does it? But he's got to be doing something dangerous to go out so often at night for his job, only to come back covered in mud, dirt, and sometimes blood that he swears isn't his and isn't human.
         But the strangest thing of it all is how quick he heals. The bit shoulder thing from earlier only lasted four days and he was back to normal. His shoulder was missing flesh. I helped him bandage the wound twice, mostly since Kris and Sean wouldn't touch even try to touch it, and the last time Zack attempted to help with his wound, he nearly passed out and Crash ended up giving him first aid instead.
         That was how I found myself standing in his bedroom, with Crash leaning against a large four post bed, pointing at a box of gauze pads and a wrap. "Could you help with this, please," he pleaded. His ears were folded back like a dog begging for help. Pain creased his muzzle for a moment, before I eventually nodded.
         Beside the bed was two end tables that looked like they came from a different era from the Victorian style four post bed he had. On top of the one on his left was an smart device of some kind that I could hear play music on occasion. He leaned over half the bed, hanging his head in pain and misery. As I walked around the bed, an old Jeff Foxworthy joke began playing through my mind. "you'd injure yourself in some horrible way and you'd go back to your mom to hear those ever-loving words: 'well, I hope you're satisfied.'"
         I began to chuckle a bit, under my breath, trying to suppress the urge to act out the scene as told by Jeff.
         "What," Crash said, as I began to unwrap his shoulder.
         "Well, I hope you're satisifed," I said, smiling.
         "What," he asked, confused. I confused him enough that he head tilted. Werewolves do it too, apparently.
         I picked up my best southern woman accent that I could find rolling around in my noggin and said "Look at you, you're in a pool of blood."
         He bent his head down, and I heard a low rumble. It took me a moment to realize he was chuckling. "Are you doing that old Jeff Foxworthy joke?"
         I blushed, and pulled the bloody gauze off of his shoulder. All three pads of them. "No."
         "You were," he smiled.
         I looked down into his shoulder. It wasn't as bad as I expected. I'm sure it would have been a fascinating site for a doctor or scientist. It reminded me of one of those creature from another planet flicks. It was pulsating a bit, slowly. I could see something white sticking out of it near the center. "Uh, dude, there's something in here."
         There wasn't a lot of blood. There was some, but it appeared as if his body was rerouting it somehow. Like it had created the necessary clots so it was now concentrating on building and replacing torn tissue, and not just pushing blood through the open vessels and whatever exposed to the air. However, the white thing looked to be completely out of place.
         I didn't ask. I grabbed and pulled. He yelped a bit, and a small spurt of blood sprayed outward onto his white blanket. "Ouch!" He snarled, looking back at me.
         "here," I replied, putting it in his working hand. "I think that belongs to whatever the hell did that to you."
         "Oh, thanks." He said, his eyes widening a bit. "This is going to help."
         "I'm glad I could," I replied grabbing the fresh gauze, slowly packing it back in before applying the wrap.
         The tooth or whatever was never really explained. Not sure it ever will be. That was why my brain came up with cougar people, and the entire Temple of Doom rip off. I don't honestly need to know what he does, and the explanation at this point might actually disappoint me, due to how much fun my imagination had playing with this entire idea.
         Besides, if I find out Larry the Skinwalker and Susan the Centaur are fake, I'm going to be very disappointed.