Here There Be Wolves

Chapter 2

She couldn't focus on anything above the rage that was swelling inside. Her vision swam, nothing more than a myriad of blurred together colors and fuzzy shapes. She lashed out at anything within arms reach, which, having driven herself into the bowels of an alley at the overwhelming swarm of emotion she was suddenly feeling, was mostly brick and garbage. As she ripped open her knuckles and tore apart her fingernails, she felt a burning start up that filled every vein, sank into every bone, invaded every nerve, threatening to incinerate her from the inside out. She could do little more than drop to her knees as it escalated in intensity.

The burning cried out for blood, for violence, for pain, but every time her nails found anything other than flesh, the rage inside her only mounted in frustration.

She wanted to kill something; to grab it, and tear it apart, feel the hot blood wash over her fingers and mouth, soak her tongue and coat her throat, hear it scream and wail, to listen as skin and muscle tore under her fury.

And the harder she fought against the feelings that were beginning to consume her, the stronger they became.... so she gave them what they wanted. She gave them blood and violence and anger.

By turning the feelings in on herself.

Even with her brain on fire, she knew she'd never be able to forgive herself if she hurt someone; it was a tiny, defiant spark, but through the dizzying rage it helped her navigate.

Blood splattered across the asphalt, over the brick wall, even as the sound of tearing skin and screams split the night. She drug impossibly sharp nails through her own flesh, feeling a cold calm rush in through the hot rage that was disorienting her, to slake that seemingly unquenchable fire.

She'd finally stopped screaming, ending up on her back on the ground, but her panting had turned into a heavy gulping, as if she'd never get enough oxygen into her lungs.

Shirley relished in the tiny bit of calm she felt, even as her whole body sang with pain and blood dribbled over the asphalt. But within moments the anger was pulsing back inwards again, and once more she found herself cutting into herself again.... over and over and over until she could no longer feel the pain, her nerves overloaded.

And then the beast inside of her mind was ripping it's way through her body, and all the pain she'd endured so far couldn't even compare as her bones began tearing themselves apart, her muscles expanding and contracting over the shifting bones, nerves ripping and reconfiguring. She rolled over, vomiting, the reaction so involuntary she knew even her organs were changing.

The pain crescendoed, and she screamed. Or tried to. It came out strangled, her throat already twisted and still moving.

She burst from sleep at the insistence of hands shaking her, immediately reaching for the knife tucked safely under the corner of the mattress-

But reality slammed into her the second she realized she was clawing desperately at carpet instead, nails dragging ineffectually over the flattened threads, doing nothing but collecting dirt under her fingernails.

Her brain suddenly catches up: She's sleeping on the classroom floor. The hands shaking her belong to Claire. That was a nightmare (well, memory). Nothing is trying to tear through her skin. Her mind is her own. The pain isn't real, the phantom fury is already evaporating...

It takes her a moment to collect herself, to drag her breathing back under control and slow her heartbeat, and spares Claire an apologetic glance; Claire, who still has her hands on her shoulders, looking worried.

"Hey, are you okay?" It's so soft, Shirley barely registers it, even with her all-too keen hearing.

"Yea. Sure. All good. Bad dream, I guess." She sits up, Claire's hands falling away. God, her shirt is soaked with sweat. At least she didn't vomit this time; small favors, she supposes.

Claire gives her a disbelieving look when she stands up, crossing the room to where they kept their clothes.

She pulled the sodden shirt off, dropping it in the cardboard box that had 'DIRTY' scrawled across it's side in Sharpie, and pulled a dark green tank top from one of the children's cubbies. All the while, as the woman tugged the clothing on, Claire stared at her in worry.

Shirley had gone out of her way to make her feel welcomed: had taken her -that very next morning after they met- to a gym for a shower, had bought her clothes and toiletries, had made sure they stayed fed (surprisingly well). Claire didn't question when she disappeared in the evenings, or how she came about the cash she used to keep them comfortable. Or the fact that Shirley more often than not returned with severe bruising and bleeding wounds; a discernible limp, one night.

And she'd seen how restless she was when she slept, and how few hours she actually did sleep. They'd established something of a friendship these last two weeks, and she'd kept her tongue about things Shirley had expertly avoided in direct conversation, but.... honestly, she was kinda concerned.

She wasn't stupid. Claire saw how each night the nightmares were worse, that strange almost growling Shirley emitted in her sleep getting louder and more vicious with each passing day. But tonight was the first time the woman had looked so bad she had just had
to wake her.

And now, watching her change, even in the streetlight that streamed in through the windows, she could see the scars on her back.

She'd never seen them before, but the scarring over her left eye had been hard to ignore (it looked a lot like the number thirteen) and long pink lines peeked over her neckline, running nearly all the way to her collarbones. Her back looked.... so much worse. Long lines, puckered with age, criss-crossing in patterns that looked akin to the bite of a whip. One, circular and concave, about the size of her fist, rested just to the right of her spin, just above her hip. She'd glanced it's twin on the opposite side on accident days ago, and realized with a start it was probably a bullet wound. And her left shoulder was pitted and dark, the scarring running from her collar bone to nearly her elbow.

"I'm sorry I woke you." The voice cut through her thoughts like a knife, and she cut her glance away before she got caught staring.

When the woman turned around, tank top in place, Claire looked back up at her.

"You're getting worse," she said simply.

Shirley paused, hesitating.

"The nightmares, I mean." She glanced away, unsure if this was a good route to take. "They're affecting you. Will you talk to me?"

Immediately, she saw the shift. From hesitant to guarded, and Shirley practically bristled with anger. Her frame, short but wiry with muscle, grew rigid. She saw her jaw clench.

"Please, I want to help. You've helped me so much and I.... if I can, I want to help you back. Sometimes just, you know, talking about it helps."

The woman is staring her down, posture stiff and overly large like she's faking out a predator, and Claire knows what the reaction is going to be. Hell, she wouldn't be surprised if she was sleeping on the street again within the next few hours.

"Okay."

Claire blinks, staring at the very uncomfortable woman in front of her. "Okay?" she repeats, not quite believing.

"Okay," comes the quiet, hesitant reply.

She's not quite sure what to do with that, so she adjusts her legs beneath her. The floor isn't exactly comfortable, and she still wonders why Shirley insists on sleeping on it like a dog, but she doesn't want to move in fear of spooking the already wary woman.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you"