Lycan Rising Chapter 1

Chapter One - Fear, the Formable Opponent

The sound of thunder stirs me from my dreams.

Then suddenly the smell strikes me. It’s revolting and my stomach lurches up to my throat with a wave of pain. Stomach acid burns my throat and vomit fills my mouth. For some reason, the not too surprising taste of blood coats my tongue. Somewhere in the depths of my mind a feeling of satisfaction flutters briefly but without reason to anchor it in my thoughts it flickers out like a match.

My insides feel as if they had been scraped out with a dull spoon and then hurriedly placed back without care. The severity and shock of the pain knocks the breath out of me.

I try to resist taking a breath but it is inescapable. I unwillingly trade the air that was stolen from me for something that only loosely fits the definition of breathable. It is so very pungent it assaults my senses. It burns my nose and eyes. Instantly my stomach turns with nausea. Once again, it threatens to give me a taste of my stomach contents.

Scrunching up my face in disgust only serves to slap me with throbbing pain. I open my mouth and try not to breathe through my nose. Ah… my jaw. Is there a part of my body that doesn’t hurt? As in answering my own question a nice pleasant migraine joins the party.

I imagine this is what neural surgery would feel like without anesthetics. This is truly an indescribable agony. Some people say a man could never feel the pain of childbirth. I beg to differ. My cranium has given birth to Dante’s Inferno, a whole world of torment. My whole head hurts, ear-to-ear, top to bottom. It aches to think. It aches not to think. It feels like my head been through a blender then spun dry. I’d lop it off with a single swipe if it’d stop the pain. Don’t ask me to do trigonometry.

All is silent inside the room. I hear only the rain pounding on the roof and a relentless knocking at the windows. I wish someone would answer them.

I futilely try to open my eyes but it’s like flirting with a portrait. It’s just a lot of effort, a bit of exhaustion, and no progress. I take a moment.

I only find success in moving slowly like the tortoise in the race. I slowly crack them open one at a time. Oh… they too are sore.

I look through the fog of waking. Blinking my eyes in an attempt to clear the haze in my vision, I try to look around. My stubborn neck, the bastard, refuses to move. I have no strength to push through its tenacious stiffness. I resign myself to look about from my peculiar position lying like a dog on my side upon a cold wet floor.

The room is pitch black, dark as the void between the stars.

As I lay there waiting for the pain to wane, chilling thoughts slowly meander into focus; I don’t know where I am, how I came to be here, or why I am paralyzed upon the floor. As I realize these things I start to become truly frightened to my core, maybe for the first time in my life.

Is this what true fear is? Is this what they mean by bone chilling? Fear is such an unknowable thing. It cannot be comprehended until you are held by its grasp of indifference. Fear doesn’t care who you are. Child or adult, man or woman it will stock you like a wild animal. Fear at times seems to have a mind of its own.

I never believed that fear was the only thing to fear; but I do believe fear is the most frightful thing in this world. It is something that is not tangible. There is no reasoning with it. It lives in our nightmares and feeds of our insecurities and trepidations. Only we give it form and strength.

I cling to the only comfort I have, I know who I am; at least… I think I do. And that, I hope is enough for now.

I go over the details in my head, if only to have something concrete to hold onto.
I am Alex Swift.
I’m 27 years old.
Brown eyes,
dark blonde hair,
and six feet tall,
160 lbs. with a slight athletic build.
I was born on February 29th, 1984.
I’m an only child of asdf and asdfa Swift.
I grew up in a small town called Stevensville.
I travel the world writing and taking photos for various travel magazines.
I am currently working on a piece about Prague for “World Traveler.” It’s a nice place.
I repeat the details of my life over and over in my head. It brings me little comfort. But it’s enough to be something to cling to.

I lay on the floor feeling quite confused and trying not to panic. My whole body is in throbbing agony. Although I wish I could, and it seems like it has already been an eternity, I can’t lie here forever.

Reality is such a bitch. It easily takes apart the shell of protection my subconscious mind created around me in this moment.

I know I have to try to get up. I’ve always been such pragmatist. Sometimes I wish I could live more in delusions. Each time I attempt to move the pain strikes me down. Every bone and muscle in my body screams out. AH...ooo...What has happened to me?

I shiver and chills run up and down my body. Goose bumps are joined with lovely needles. Never was a fan of acupuncture. I realize then my clothes have been ripped away and most of my body is drenched. I’m covered with sticky wet...liquid…blood? Mine! No... It’s not. My body is wrapped in a cocoon of pain but I don’t think I’m bleeding. Cocoon huh yeah if this is my metamorphosis I can’t imagine what it could be turning me into.

If this isn’t my blood then whose is it? One more question added to the enigma.

The whole situation is almost too much to bear and I lose control of my stomach. It’s in knots and bile rises to the top of my throat threating to make another appearance. Once again the taste of blood invades my mouth and with it the familiar feeling of satisfaction, but as quickly as it grazed my thoughts it is gone.

The thunder crashes through the room bringing me back to the present moment. Present, ha, its suppose to be a gift. The storm is much closer. The whole room shakes from the force of the noise. And then for a split second the room is lit as lightning cracks open the night sky, a brief peak into the heavens. I see the room for only a moment but it will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Blood was everywhere. It had been splashed against the walls. It had been sprayed onto the furniture and was pooling on the floor. A body, not five feet from me…I close my eyes…beyond recognition. It was torn to shreds. It was difficult to see much more since I had been imprisoned on the floor by the relentless pain crashing over my entire body. At first I refuse to believe this is reality but all my sense tell me it’s real. Please be just a horrid nightmare.

Bang, the thunder hits. Once again the curtain of darkness is pulled back and the dreadful scene around me is revealed. I can see the bloody handprints on the wall where someone must have tried to escape. The shock of seeing this murder scene feels to weigh heavily on my body, almost like… mmm… I’m not sure. It’s something more than from just seeing it. Maybe…I feel… gui…mmm.

Each time the thunder echoes I welcome the pain and clinching my eyes tight I curl up tightly up into a ball. It’s a sad thing when you welcome pain because it offers a distraction from reality. I hope not to see the horrors that surround me, but even as the pain curses my body, there is no escape. My mind’s eye plays the scene over and over, the scene from hell, the curse of a photographer.

I have to get up. I need to get up. I must get away. But terror and pain refuses to let me go. They shackle me to the floor, more effectively than any metal bonds. My own body has become my prison.

BANG …….….BANG…... BANG… BANG. The storm draws closer and the frequency of the thunder increases. BANG SNAP crackle. No it’s not new cereal. The lightning strike sets a tree outside the window ablaze. The room is lit with the red glow of the fire. I brace myself and take a deep breath. The air is sickening. I swear I smell brimstone, Hell’s fire.

I melee with Fear, a formable opponent, but then I strike a maiming blow. Finally, I’m able to open my eyes once again. I can’t breathe. I try and try again but no air comes in. In the moments of hell the lightning had granted me I had not recognized the room I was in. The situation was much worse than I had thought even with fear whispering exaggerations into my ear. This floor I was lying on was the same floor I had learned to crawl and walk on. This room straight from a horror film was the living room of my parent’s home.

I don’t want to believe it, but there is no mistaking it. My parents were creatures of habit and habitual packrats. There was the same coffee table I hit my head on learning how to crawl and the same bookcase that almost toppled over onto me when I was trying to reach a toy when I was two. In the years I spent in this house growing up little has changed. They never throw anything out. My father was more of the mind that something should be fixed then fixed again however many times it took instead of being thrown out. He valued everything. Although I wonder if he ever put any in me.

I have to take a closer look at the body. It can’t be someone I know. It just can’t be. Fear and anticipation adds another weight to the chains of pain that bound me. My breathing quickens and I start to hyperventilate.

This is all too much. Quietly walls I had built long ago start to crumble and tears begin to trickle down my face. Tears haven’t touched my face in a long time, not since I had left this house.

I lie there for what seems forever. Slowly I pull the pieces of my broken sanity back together and cling desperately to the edge. I have to confirm what I fear is true.

I get my… I get my breathing under control and try to breathe only through my mouth. The air tastes as foul and metallic like a slaughterhouse. I try to focus on the task at hand and block out as much as the pain as I can. Just turning onto my stomach is almost too much. I place my hands underneath me. Gritting my teeth and holding my eyes tightly closed I brace myself and try to rise up off the floor. My hand slips in the pool of blood and my head slams hard onto the floor. The dull pain of my forehead striking the floor is nothing compared to the pain I already feel. I almost don’t notice that my forehead feels soft almost malleable. Taking a breath I try again. I make it to my knees.

Resting on all fours I open my eyes. I slowly take a look around. I cringe at what I see. The bloody scene casted with the gloomy firelight makes it even more horrific. I sit back and close my eyes. I take a moment and then open them again. Turning to my right I see the body. The long blood matted hair hanging loosely from the scalp tells me it’s a woman.

Her face...is mangled...but somehow familiar. It had been slashed three times across from ear-to-ear and her jaw is hanging loosely. Her neck is coated in blood and a pool has formed below it. What looks like a large animal bite has crushed her throat? Two bloody paw prints on either shoulder must have been where the creature had held her down? Her clothes are splattered and stained with blood. I can look no longer. I close my eyes and shudder.

I have to get up. I need to get out of here. I don’t know how much more of this I can handle. I’m not doing so well with what I’ve seen already. I feel like I am sitting on the precipice of insanity. I’m teetering on the edge and ready to let go.

Am I crazy? Is this just an aberration? I hope so...I hope I wake up soon. I wish this is just a horrid dream or vile mushroom trip, but the pain raking my body tells me it isn’t so. It is the only thing that anchors me to the threshold.

I try to stand. My legs scream at me but I absolutely refuse to listen. I feel weak like all the energy in my body has been used up. My legs are trembling and then give out. I crash back to the floor.

I sit back up. It’s only slightly easier this time. The effort still takes its toll on me. I look around. The tree outside the window set ablaze casts deep sinister shadows in through the large glass windows of the living room. They dance with the red light of the fire. The entrancing scene around me questions my gripe on reality. For a moment, I waver and think about just throwing in the towel, I could use a towel, I’m freezing, and collapsing back down onto the floor, to not rise again.

NO

Finding myself as a pawn in this enigma, struggling just to move, the agony wrapping my body, the horrors that surround me, and the realization that the woman lying mangled in her own blood is… is probably my mother, it’s too much. It all too much, I’m not going to be a casualty too. I must get out of here before whatever monster did this comes back.

A spark of determination and anger ignite in my gut. I focus on that anger. My short temper was always a fault, that society had dictated, “Has room for improvement,” but now will be my crutch. I will not stay here helpless. I will not be some animal’s midnight snack. I will survive. I will that spark to become a flame. I pound my fist into the floor. Why did this happen to me? I pound my fist again. Why am I here? Tear of fury flow freely down my cheeks. I strike down again. Finally, I yell out, “What the FUCK is happening? To hell with you! To whatever did this, I will not stay still any longer. I WILL KILL YOU!” The anger inside me is now a raging inferno. I scream out into the night. It’s a primal howl. It lacks all signs of humanity.

I couldn’t stay still even if I wanted to. I feel alive. I realize a lot of the pain is gone and feel replenished. I grasp this energy and leap up to my feet.

All my senses seem to be sharper. I can see clearer as if in daylight. Details jump out at me. The room still smells of blood, but it has lost its nauseating effect. My stomach moves. Hunger? And I hear scurrying. It’s a mouse in the wall.

I hear something else. It peaks my interest. I tilt my head and listen carefully. It’s breathing, very shallow breathing. The pelting rain must have masked it. But I hear it clearly now as if it was at my ear. And a ...a heart beat. It beats like a drum. BaBum... BaBum... BaBum.... I frantically look about the room. I have to admit knowing someone else survived is making me a little excited and I don’t know why but also my heart race in anxiety. I can’t see the body but I can tell it’s coming from behind the sofa.

I take a slow and cautious step. The wood floorboard creaks underneath my foot. I hear the breathing quicken and the heart skip a beat. Whoever it is they are afraid and probably hurt. I stand still for a second and then take another step. I cross the room one small step at a time. With each step I can feel the person is getting more and more fearful. I am positive that if they could they would run for their life. It’s strange, I feel myself growing slightly excited.

I hesitantly stand at the sofa now. I stand just a step away from discovering whose heartbeat is drumming in my ears. What if this person is revealed to be my father? He would’ve never won father of the year but still. Do I really want to see that? I have to know who it is. Maybe they can tell me what did this. I take a deep breath and step around the sofa and look down at him. It’s my father...

He is a large and strong man. 6’2” I think and at least 250 lbs. Farming and working a metal forge had given him sizable muscles. He was well known for his bravery and strength. He spent many years as a volunteer firefighter. I have never seen him afraid. He had never known fear.

Although he has always possessed a reassuring and sometimes frightening strength, that strength and courage that never failed him didn’t help this time. He was lying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood. A leg and arm was hideously broken, bent at impossible angles with bones projecting out of the skin. Whatever had done this seemed to enjoy the pain and agony it had caused. A small smirk danced at the corner of my mouth.

My father and I never really saw eye to eye. And growing up I suffered quite frequently from his strict disciplining lessons often administered by a belt or worst a willow branch. I was never physically or mentally strong enough for him. I never measured up to his expectations. But no matter how much you might not like someone, nobody truly wishes to see him or her in this state. Broken, both mentally and physically.

I could tell he knew I was standing over him. I knew he was struggling with a debilitating fear just as I had just moments before. He witnessed the slaughter that surrounds us. But he is strong, stronger than I ever was. He will look up at me. I call out to him, “Dad.” My throat is hoarse and it’s difficult to speak. My voice sounds quiet and a bit strained. His body shivers when he hears my voice. Clinching his eyes tightly he lets out a painful moan. I’m sure his whole body is awash with pain.

He finally gathers his nerve and opens his eyes. Upon seeing me they stare wide open like a deer caught in the headlights of car and his face turns even paler than it already was. He is afraid of me. He is deathly afraid of me. Why would he be afraid of me? …I’m his weak son that was never good enough.

I kneel down beside him and I ask him what happened here. He says nothing. He is still too afraid to speak. Again I ask him, “What happened?” He says nothing. His mouth moves but nothing comes out. This is going nowhere. My frustration stirs. His silence is only adding to my anger. I find myself yelling at him, “What the HELL happened here? Tell me!” He says one word but I can’t quite make it out. I kneel down and lean closer. He looks at me in the eyes and yells, “YOU!!”

In that instant he quickly grasps a knife he was concealing under the sofa and stabs me in the thigh. I scream out and bolt up to my feet and in a fiery rage I bite down on my lip. My teeth puncture my bottom lip easily and blood begins to dribble down my chin. I go berserk and stomp repeatedly down onto his neck. One thought is screaming in my mind, “LIAR!!” Blood splashes about as I slam his body into the puddle beneath him. Snap. His neck is broken. He is dead.

What have I done? What kind of monster am I? I have killed my own father. And I don’t know why but I can’t help but feel responsible for my mother’s death as well. I collapse onto my knees and cry. Once again the only sound is the rain. tap tap tap tap...