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Adventures In Living With The Mythical |
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A military veteran is adopted by a werewolf and brought into his pack. Insanity ensues. About "Life With A Werewolf" Life with a werewolf is a dramatic blog. As such the characters in this blog are not real but maybe loosely based on real people. The situations represented are not real but maybe loosely based on real things that have happened in my life. There are a multitude of ways to view life, this is simply one of the ways I have chosen to view mine. Updated Every Friday unless I can't or don't want to. If this is your first time reading this...start here: https://www.writing.com/main/books/entry_id/1040400-Welcome-To-The-Pack My book, "Dreamers of The Sea" is available now on Amazon: https://a.co/d/0uz7xa3 |
| Never has a strange, dirty invitation ever filled me with so much dread before in my entire life. It arrived in or mailbox at an odd time, had a scent of death upon it, and dirt smeared at the edges. Like the individual who had written it had crawled out of the ground before they had written it. It was beautiful, and reminded me of an invitation to a wedding. Though, there was no names on it other than my own, and didn’t have a location written upon it. The only thing this invitation had was a notification that I had been cordially invited too….well something. It didn’t really go further into information than that. I was invited to this grand event that they felt the need to put it on special paper, to smudge the edges with dirt, and to run it across a dead animal’s carcass before dropping it in the mailbox. The first word that came to mind filled my heart with dread a little bit: zombies. Now, zombies aren’t the armies of the walking, perpetually starving dead that want to eat your face off like they always portray in those old films. In fact, I kind of wish they were. That would be easy to deal with, by a bunch of the old school scissor type hedge clippers, sharpen the blades, mount them all around head height around the house. Wait for zombies to decapitate themselves while I drink a cup of coffee and watch. Maybe make popcorn. These zombies are more like what Crash called them: soul wrappers. After they die and the soul leaves the body, the flesh can sometimes mourn its separation I suppose. They miss the individual that used to reside in them. They wonder about who they used to be. And they hold a get together on Halloween, where they have a semi-party, semi-group therapy session. Think of it like a high school reunion of dead, rotting corpses. Last year, I ended up roped into things. Normally I’m all for getting involved in such matters, after all I’m kind of known by now for sticking my head into places where it doesn’t belong, but that is an experience that I do not want to relive. No sir. No ma’am. No way. No thank you! I almost vomited in my car when that zombie decided to hitch a ride. Not to mention all the trouble I went through with getting the smell out afterwards. Then there was the get together itself. The largest drunk therapy session I’ve ever had. And the only successful one I might add. Thing is, alcohol needs to be involved for another event like that one. There’s no way you can expect that I will do something similar again without being drunk. But I’m sober! I’ve been sober for almost a year now, and I don’t want to fall off the wagon thanks to a bunch of rotting corpses that can’t accept the fact that they’re dead. It really would be easier if they’d just desire to eat my face off. If they’d just crave human flesh. Cause then all I could do is decapitate them and call it a night. But in reality, doing such a thing may free me of my obligation, but I was never one to throw puppies into a sack and toss them in a river. Decapitating these walking dead would feel just like that. Like I was just killing the innocent simply because I could. Crash has liked my newly minted sobriety. Talks of me getting a steady job has started up again. I’ve even typed out a few applications, though I haven’t gotten any callbacks yet. Maybe it’s my resume? Perhaps I shouldn’t have “recovering drunk” down as my current occupation. Hmm… Zack, Kris and Shawn has even commented on me being a nicer person now that I’ve stopped partying with Jack, the Lord, and their Captain. Drinking on that night to deal with what I must do would possibly toss all of that away. The chance at an actual job. At a kinder relationship with my roommates. At a different kind of future. But maybe I’m just overthinking things. No one says I have to drink to do that. No one says I have to do it at all. What was it that Kris said? Lock the door and don’t ask questions? I could do that. But I’m not that kind of person. It’s part of the reason I joined the military in the first place, after all. I was never one to just duck my head in the sand and pretend that things would magically get better. Either you accept the world is crashing down around you or you jump head first into the mess and try and fix it. But this year, my therapy couch is closed. Maybe that’s what I should write on this stinky invitation. No thank you, I’m done. Once was enough. I don’t need a repeat performance. No way! You’re not getting me. You hear me zombies? Not this year. No! Not This Year! |
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