poor phyria

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Thousands of them watched Porphyria burn. Her husband clasping their
baby. Her sisters, with hankies dry. Lifelong friends shrugged. It was
for the best. Her tormented screams were that of an evil, inhuman
creature. Filthy demon. Let her blister, bubble and char.

She shakily bandaged her arm with cloth normally used as a nappy for
her child. Her husband would be back soon - he would throttle her if he
saw this. He may anyway, there was no meat for her to cook that night,
only cabbage she'd found near the forest. She had nearly lost her life
getting it, as she had been attacked by a vicious wolf. It hadn't hurt
her very badly, just a scratch on her arm. But she had sat at the
cottage and sobbed all day, knowing very well what was said of people
who were attacked by these creatures. Knowing what would happen to her
if they found out¦

The hunt for the werewolf which had seen fit to lurk amongst the dark
shadows of the forest was over and the body of Peter Stubbe was burned
quick to ashes, along with his wife and daughter. The wheel upon which
he was broken went up as warning to others who may have indulged in
wicked and damnable practise. Porphyria's husband was amongst those in
the hunt, killing many other beasts, this time thick with hair, as a
precaution. Porphyria was at home, nursing the wound which was open and
green on her arm. Another, on her leg. She knew nothing of how it was
obtained.

Have I been running with them in the evil night? How, then, have these
wounds and scratches appeared on my body if they are not of fellow
wolves or struggling of village children and maidens? Will my husband
notice the red of my teeth and my distaste towards the open sun? Am I
doomed to wander the forest each night as a demon and to kill and
devour?

The gentleman stood looking down at the dead sheep, in its side, 3 long
bleeding wounds, spilling red guts. He had been under the distinct
impression that the wolf under the name of Peter Stubbes was dead. So
was there yet another?

There are long patches of time that are hazy to me. My body is weak and
racked with pain, blistered and wounded in every place. I know I am
cursed for my urine burns red, the blood of whom? I am very unsure of
everything, I know not of where I've been or what I've been doing, at
times I do not feel human. My husband has been staring at me in
suspicion. He does not think I am ill. He knows what I am¦

He wished to give his wife into custody of the town officials. He
spread the word of her evil. How she was a werewolf, and hid her wolf
skin under a hawthorne bush in the early hours of each morning. How she
had mercilessly slaughtered sheep and horses, and even a child of the
town. He lit an anger inside the hearts of all the villagers and they
set forth to light torches and find and kill the beast.

It is so early that the dew has not yet been disturbed by harried
footsteps, only my shaking feet. Despite the earliness of the day, the
light carves my back, my face and hands up to ribbons of flesh. Saliva
slides down my chin and onto my clothes. I must gather vegetables for
today, but I'm almost overcome by pain. I'm fearful of the wolves but I
must press on for my husband and baby. But here emerges a bright sun
that was hidden behind a cloud and there a feel another wound upon my
face. I sense a fresh wave of vomit, and must lay down my body for a
moment.

As according with her husband's predictions, they found Porphyria near
the forest's edge, returned to her human form, but with telling wounds,
and teeth as stained with red blood as was possible. Her scalp near
bald and her skin's surface a mass of mutations. When she woke, she was
half insane, eyes rolling into her skull, and gibbering. Foaming
hungrily at the mouth, and as witnesses have claimed, attempting to
bite and claw at the nearest villagers. It has even been said that she
managed to swallow the majors hand whole before she was restrained, and
most believe it. She was taken straight to the town centre, to the old
wheel, and the wretched beast of the night was sent to it's native
hell, screaming the cries of an innocent young lady as it writhed then
died.