Heart of a Lion

The attack came only after everyone had bedded down for the night while I was in a small tent that had been supplied by the tour company.  A terrifying scream rippled through the silence of the night and I ran out of the tent in a flash. A tour guide grabbed my arm, dragging me as we ran away from the screams, yelling for me to run as if my soul depended on it.

I can't tell you when the little man let go of my arm; I just suddenly realized that he had. Not having any idea where I was, or if I was running head long into even worse danger, I stopped. The African Savannah is not a forgiving place, especially for a tourist after dark. I saw evidence of the kills of the lions prides, not to mention the damage of a bull elephant and what they could do if someone came to close.  So I stood in the dark, hoping to figure out which way the camp was, and whether or not it was safe to return. Not knowing what was happening was bad enough, but realizing that I might not find my way back, really made me worried.

I chose a direction and began walking. I was just getting my breath back from the crazy flight away from camp, when I suddenly became aware of a thick musk scent. A primal part of my brain registered what the scent belonged to, but the rest of my mind didn't want to know -- not just yet. I walked faster. As I walked back, in what I hoped was the right direction, my mind play tricks on me. I know now, that they were not tricks at all, but at the time, I wanted to believe they were.  The shadows seemed to come to life around me.  I saw flashes of glowing eyes, low to the ground, and I would have sworn that I heard a low, soft, growl. But of course, I simply had to be imagining things. Being in South Africa for the fist time, I wasn’t sure I would ever find my way back. I was terrified, and most times I wouldn’t admit that, not even to myself.  It wasn't long before I thought I heard screams again. It seemed that the tour guide and I had not run as far away from the camp as I’d thought we had.  I wondered what had happened to him as I got closer to the camp and got a good look at what was happening.  I froze and my eyes registered what my brain refused to acknowledge.

These days, everyone knows that were-beasts exist and they are no different from the rest of us.  They go to work every morning, send their children to school, barbeque on Friday nights with their friends, and go to church every Sunday morning.  THEY DON’T EAT PEOPLE.  But, no matter how much of that crap I ran through my mind, it all just fell away to the awful truth before me. I hadn’t actually seen a were-beast in full form. After all, they are very secretive about it, and at that moment, I truly understood why. Something crawled up out of the pits of hell: those things, those deceptive were-beasts.  I believe them just like the rest of human-kind.  I believed that they were no different than the rest of us.  I was seeing the horrific truth unfold in front of me.

I wish I could say that I ran in and saved the few remaining tourists were still alive, but I didn't.  I know now, what the tour guide had meant. Run as if your soul depends on it.  He hadn’t chosen a strange comment at an inappropriate time; he actually tried to warn me.  As I watched, the people that I had come to know on the safari were ripped limb from limb.  Almost competitively, two of the were-beasts were pulling one of them apart, like two children playing tug-a-war with a favorite toy.  I don’t know which was worse, the horrible, pain-filled screams, or the awful sounds of ripping flesh.

With great stealth, I turned and ran as fast as my legs would allow, and didn’t stop when I noticed shadows were following me again. I didn’t stop when my lungs burned; I didn’t even stop when a creature hit me from behind with a playful stroke of its massive claws. I was still running when I hit the ground face first.

The creature wasted no time or effort, crawling on top of me.  Laying face down, I couldn’t see it, but in my heart I knew it was a were-beast.  A strange peacefulness settled over me. I knew I was going to die, and I knew there was simply not a damned thing I could do about it. I calmly lay beneath the large creature, feeling its weight crushing me into the moist dirt, and realized what I had first thought to be sweat, was in actuality, my own blood spreading across my back.

Even in my serene state, I was shocked when I felt the weight of the creature slightly lifted, and was certain it was the moment of my death.  I was certain that this was going to be the moment of my death.  I groaned when the sandpaper-tongue licked my back. I knew that there were more creatures surrounding us, at that point.  I saw them in the darkness, and felt lightheaded with hopes of bleeding to death before being consumed.

When all the remaining shreds of clothes were ripped from my body, I became more confused. What in the hell was going on?  Surely these creatures would be happy with just killing me, right?  After all, they wanted my flesh, right? I guess they did, in a strange sort of way. I was actually spared most of being rape. I remember the creature entering me, and then everything went black.

Three days later, I woke up in what is considered a small hospital for that part of the world.  The heat seemed unbearable, when it hadn’t before, then I realized I must have had a fever.  I had no idea how I got there.  I didn’t know that three days had passed.  I tried to sit up and became dizzy, falling back in the bed laughing, even though my back felt on fire. I was alive, somehow-- some way.

Two weeks later I flew home, the wounds on my back having all but healed.  I had to leave the country.  The local police visited me and told me that ‘my kind’ wasn’t welcomed in their country.  I was not even sure what “my kind” was, but I knew that my wounds should not have healed so quickly.  When I think about it, I did know what “my kind” was.  But I was still lying to myself, still trying to hide my true nature, even from myself.  I was still happily pretending that I could go back to my safe little world.  You know, the one where no one gets hurt, where flesh and blood are only things that you read about in a horror book, and where I could go to work every day, pay my bills, and some day, get married and fulfill the American Dream.

So I went home with memories of a horror I could never tell anyone.  The dream vacation of a real African safari was a soured thought in my brain.  I saved for years to take that vacation. I prepared myself for the long, grueling, safari itself, the heat, the lack of modern utilities, but I had not prepared myself for what had actually happened to me.  My parents had insisted that I come to stay with them, so I did.
 
It was very comforting to have my family around me.  The “official story” was that I had been raped and the rapist had cut me up.  My parents were not told the truth.  My younger brother and sister certainly didn’t know what had happened.  After all, they were barely teenagers. Yes, with the help of my loving family, I could pretend that nothing that horrible had really happened to me, that most of what I had experienced was a product of my imagination.  I had almost gotten to the point where I could live with myself again.  Even if I could not completely forget what had happened, I could at least live with it and move on.

Then came the morning, when I woke to the sound of blood dripping from my fingers onto the floor.  My eyes were almost caked shut, and the sun was shining very brightly, almost blinding me.  But I could still see.  I could see the scattered pieces of my family, so very much like what was left in that camp in Africa. 

My mothers hand.  That ever so elegant hand, with long piano playing fingers, her perfectly tapered nails just freshly manicured yesterday.  The sun, hitting the diamond of the engagement ring my father had given her so many years ago, and danced on her perfectly formed hand.  Pristine even, not a drop of blood or a broken nail to show for any of the horrible damage that was done to the rest of it.  The bloody stump where, once, it had lived attached to her arm, was still weeping blood; yet, not a drop had touched her hand. 

My father’s emerald-green eyes, stared at me from the corner of the room, where his head had finally come to rest when it had been torn from his body.  Then the flashes of memory came ripping through my mind, as I came to understand what I had done. 

Death had not yet discolored those eyes.  And my mind, being the cruel thing that it is, was happy to supply me with memories of those eyes laughing at me, smiling at me, tucking me in at night, and glowing with a love that only a father and daughter can share. 

And finally, my eyes came to rest on what was left of my brother and sister.  Flashes again, yelling and screaming, my brother was standing in front of me, me looking down at him.  Wait, he was taller than I am; how would I have been looking down?  But then I knew. 

My mind was no longer playing hide and seek with me, and I knew that I was one of the demon creatures raised from the pits of hell.  I knew then, that I had always been a predator pretending to be a human being. 

It was my long, hairy, arm with razor-sharp claws at the tips of my fingers that reached and sliced my brother open from gullet to groin.  It was my feline sounding voice that laughed at him as he tried to hold his intestines inside his body, and me that giggled with delight when he noticed his manhood lying on the floor.  And I was the one that roared with laughter as the light of hope bled out of his eyes, and he gave up his feeble attempt to hold himself together.  It was my pulse that raced at the smell of virgin blood, and then set my eyes upon my sister.  My sister, who in her shock, had not run, had not screamed, had not done anything but stand there with her beloved family’s blood soaking into the legs of her jeans.

She still didn’t screamed when I came closer to her and licked the blood off her face.  She did not whimper when, much like a house cat wanting attention, I rubbed my great, furry head against her hand.  Not a sound issued from her throat, not one tiny, little, sound did she make, as I gently slit her throat and lapped at the great fountain of blood that sprang forth like metallic ambrosia. 

I was so lost in memory that I almost didn’t hear the sirens.  I didn’t realize, until that moment, that this just happened.  That it didn’t happen in the dead of night with darkness to cover the horror of my deeds.  It had happened in the bright light of day, for the entire world to see my shame, my guilt, and worse, what I had become.  But wait, they didn’t have to know did they?  No.  No one here knew what had happened in that dark jungle, half a world away.  Even as that thought formed, my claws grew, and I reached up and raked myself across my breasts and quickly ripped my thighs open as well.  No, no one had to know that it was me.  As the sirens grew closer, and I felt the pain of my self-inflicted wounds, I realized there were only one other thing I could do to make the picture complete.  Only one thing would make them truly believe that I was a victim as well.  I reached for the candlestick holder, and before I could think about it further, I ripped off the little bit of clothing that was left on me, and jammed the candlestick holder inside me. 

I lay on the floor among my dead family, and bled.  The pain was incredibly intense, but I never felt more alive than I did at that moment.  My hands had returned to human form, and I wept at the pain.  I knew I would fully recover from the damage I had done to my own body.  Even the damage that the candlestick holder had caused would soon heal.  I knew that in finding me this way, even a rock-hard cop would be hesitant to look at me as anything but a victim.  After all, I was lying in a pool of not only my own blood, but that of my entire family.  OH DEAR GOD in Heaven, look what the horrible criminals had done to me.  They had left me with their instrument of torture still inside me, to be found like the common whore they had tried to turn me into.  Even the most seasoned, veteran cop, would be hard-pressed to look on the scene I had created for them in calculating fashion, and realize that I was, indeed, the killer. 

But wait, something was missing.  As I laid there waiting for them, I realized something was missing.  What was it that I was missing?  I had created the perfect scene for them.  Blood and human remains scattered everywhere, my breasts torn open, my thighs cut to ribbons, and that damn candlestick holder, which was causing me more pain than anything else.  So what was I missing?  A voice in the back of my head, very small, very young, my little girl, the child that we all keep inside ourselves, the one that we rarely listen to as we grow older, told me the answer.  That little girl’s voice, my voice, told me that I should feel guilt, that in my hurry to prove myself a victim, I had lost touch with it.  Then again, perhaps I didn’t lose touch; maybe it was never there at all.  Even then, lying in their blood, I just wanted to roll in it, to cover myself in the sweet smelling nectar and slowly lick my body clean of it.  I felt no guilt, no remorse for killing the few people in the world that I truly loved.  True, I would miss them, but I felt no pity.  No pity for my sister who never knew the pleasure of making love, nor the joy of giving birth and looking in to her child’s eyes for the first time.  No pity for my brother, who would never know the sweet embrace of a lover or the joy of creating his own family.  No pity for my mother who would never again, lovingly bring forth such sweet music from the piano my father gave her many years ago, for her birthday nor have the immense pleasure of watching her younger children reach adulthood.  And my father, being a daddy’s little girl, with all the love he showered on me--what did it get him?    No guilt, no remorse, just flesh and blood, and the overwhelming desire to consume both.

Tires screeched to a halt outside my house, and at the sound of several people running I closed my eyes and faked being.  I heard cursing, puking, and then a woman’s voice.  I reveled in the glory of the crisp scents and sharp sounds.  I smelled the female cop’s perfume, and could taste it.  I almost smell her blooded as well, even above and beyond, all the blood that was in the room.  Oh yes, this was indeed, going to be fun.

Then her hand touched my face, I screamed long and hard and fought her.  I did this for two reasons. One: I needed to reopen my wounds, which were already beginning to close and heal. And two: I needed them to believe that I was in shock and fighting my imaginary tormentors. 

Instantly, she was calming me, stroking my face, her compassion for me emitting in her voice as she told me that it was alright now, and I was safe.  I almost laughed, but instead, I chose to scream pretending that he was still inside me.  That worked.  Everyone stopped as their eyes turned to my groin, and they realized what was there. 

The paramedics came in, immediately attending my wounds and talking to the hospital on their pagers, about the item that was inside me.  A strong scent, one I recognized, entered the room.  It made my blood rage and purr at the same time.  The command in his voice was as clear to me, as it was to everyone else in the room, and what was worse, was that I knew I was in trouble.  From the moment he drew near me, I knew.  I can’t tell you why. Perhaps it was the smell, that thick musk smell.  Or maybe it was the soft growl, almost a purr in his voice that only I could hear.  It didn’t really matter how I knew, I just did.  I knew that he would see what was done, and he would know that I did it to myself.  I knew, but I didn’t panic. 

As the paramedics made ready to move me to the hospital, his hand, not so gently, turned my head, facing him, and told me not to look at anything but him as I was being moved through the room and out the front door.  He got into the ambulance with the paramedics, telling them that since the person, or persons that had done this, were still at large.  He needed to stay with me to protect me, and I almost laughed.  I remember the sound of a motor starting, and the quick, easy, way that he snapped the paramedic’s neck, sat him down in the seat, and buckled the dead body in with the seat belt.  He reached under the blanket and roughly yanked the candlestick holder out of me, without so much as a care for the pain it caused me.

Then he looked at me, “Let’s just drop the pretenses.  We both know what we are and what you have done.” 

Again, I heard that growl in his voice.  I didn’t bother to answer him.  He was right.
“They would never dream of thinking that you are anything other than the helpless, little victim you pretended to be.  But make no mistake, little one, I know the truth.  I wouldn’t have thought of it myself.  You’re pretty smart, I’ll give you that.”  His voice was more of a purr than a growl. 

I decided to let the “little one” comment go, but I could contain my arrogance completely.  “Yes, it was a wonderful idea, wasn’t it?”  I know I had a smirk on my face, I was feeling rather pleased with myself.  I was not just pleased with my own ingenuity; I was extremely pleased that he had noticed it as well.

“Yeah, well, you’re just lucky that the candlestick holder wasn’t real silver.” 

Again, the growl was back.  I began to see a pattern to his speech.  The purr came when he was pleased or flirting with me.  He saved the growl for when he was annoyed by my less than cute, mannerisms, or when I did something silly.

“Real silver, what do you mean?”  I was trying to be serious but could not keep the giggle out of my voice.  The whole silver thing was just a bit too cliché for me.  I already knew the full moon thing was not true.  I knew that I could change whenever I wanted and that it didn’t have to be a complete change either.

“You‘re drunk on blood,” he said. A painful, sad look etched on his face.  “This must have been your first, true change. But, you had to have known what was coming.  I know you weren’t born this way.  Who infected you?”

“If I have changed before, I don’t remember it; hell, I don’t even really remember this change.  And does it really matter who infected me?  Does it matter that he raped me and left me to die?  Do you really want to know the sorted details?  You’re a cop, figure it out.  None of it matters anyway.  I just slaughtered my entire family.”

I realized when I said it, that my guilt was still absent, and I felt oddly calm.  I couldn’t force myself to even begin to feel remorse that I should have.  It simply didn’t matter anymore.  My change was complete.  I was no longer human in any sense of the word.  Or, so I thought.

“We should get you to the rest of the pride,” he purred.  We left, and I felt something that I had not felt in a long time, maybe never.  I felt comfortable in my own skin.

That was all 20 years ago today.  I remember it as if it just happened.  I still do not feel the guilt that I know a human would feel.  I have come to understand myself more than I ever imagined was possible.  I am a were-lion.  I am the most dangerous predator that walks the face of the earth. 

This is the truth of what we are, and that makes the hunt ever so much more fun.  I want you to know that I hunt you.  I want you to know that the smell of your flesh and blood excites me more than the thought of sex.  I have no remorse for those that fall to my teeth and claws.  They are nothing more to me than prey and food.
 
I am the reason that you draw your shades against the darkness late at night.  You tell yourself that you do it so that the neighbors will not be able to see into your home once you turn the lights on.  The truth is, you can feel me pass by your house in the darkness.  Like the rabbit that smells the fox and crouches down to hide from him, you crouch down in your homes with the blinds drawn, hoping that your small, frightened movements will not draw my attention.

“Now damn it Leo, as cute as you are, and as much as you remind me of your father when you play with your food like that, kill her before her screams get on my very last nerve….” I growled at my young son who, like so many other children, has to be taught not to play with his food. 

Today, 20 years after my first change, I will finally have to face the truth that all mothers face at some point in time.  Today the new lion comes for us.  We have remained hidden in the mountains all these years.  The detective had indeed, made good on his word.  He had taken me to the pride, where he reined as lord and master, and where I replaced his queen.  Today, he will fight to the death, to defend his pride. And we, the lionesses, will watch. 

We know the mother’s truth.  If our male loses, our children will die.  The new male will kill them, if he can.  If we are not strong enough to defend them from him, if our mother’s love does not give us the strength to do what must be done, they will die.  We are not human, but we do have laws.  We can not challenge him openly.  We can not sneak up on him in the middle of the night and slit his throat.  We can not defend our male.  We can only defend our young. 

He will only try to kill them once, and of course, he will not come for them all at the same time.  He will pick them off, one or two at a time when we are not looking, when we are busy hunting, or perhaps when we go to bathe.  Yes, I know what you are thinking, the silly human that you are.  You think that we could take turns watching the children.  But you are human and don’t understand the lessons of flesh and blood and what they have taught me.  I, alone, know both the lessons taught by the human world and the lessons of the flesh.  My sisters were not born into the human world.  I can not make them understand, and even if I could, it would not matter.  Their mother’s love is not strong enough to withstand the loss of their entire family, the pride.  But my love for my son is strong enough to withstand anything.  HE WILL LIVE.

Now, I truly understand that morning, so long ago, and now I will tell you why I mentioned it at all.  My mother had known from the beginning.  She had been faxed a copy of my medical records from my doctors in Africa.  They tried to protect my family.  Not me, my family.  I know that my mother believed that I would never hurt them.  My father found the records, and like most men, he had plotted his course of action to protect his family.  He purchased the silver bullets that he needed to have if it came to that.

  My mother tried to stop my father that morning.  She still believed in me even as I began changing.  Her mother’s love, her instinct, was so strong, that it overrode her common sense.  And in the end, in the last few minutes of her life, her instinct compelled her to place herself between me and that gun.  My mother bought me the few precious seconds that I needed to finish changing.  She had been strong enough to save her child.