The Town at The Beginning of The End

It was about time I had moved back home, to my tiny little port town in Maine. The sedated pace of life back home was something I once dreaded, and greatly criticized. But after a long ten years working in the corporate hell that is Tokyo, I yearned for that pace once again. I was aging like a deer corpse, mangled daily by scavengers, a breeding ground for maggots. During my restless work nights, in the single hour I would get to sleep, I often dreamt of home. Standing at the port's edge, watching the small fishing boats drift in and out of the foggy surface of the sea. I dreamt of the cold wind and soft drizzling rains.

I wanted to be a writer. I dreamt of watching my stories come to life on the big screen and crowded book signings. I dreamt of interviews on cozy little podcasts and a life in which I could move at my pace. I wanted to go into a book store and see my name on the shelves. I was tired of the long nights of overtime, often without pay. I wanted to talk to people about hobbies and family, not about sales and paperwork. I didn’t want to spend another night at a love hotel with a hooker. I wanted to be able to go home to a warm bed and a lazy dog.

I quit my job on the spot. I remember watching a few other people follow suit. I wonder if they too, had dreams they yearned for, and were waiting for that right moment to leave, that final push, just as I had. I hope they returned to a better life, one better than I returned to.

It was only a few years ago that it all began. At first it wasn’t so bad. I had a few novellas on the backlog that I never got the chance to finish. I got to sit down in my cozy little port side home and just get stuff done. It wasn’t large, maybe three or four separate rooms (not including the bathroom). I didn’t need much to be honest, I turned the living room into my office, filled the kitchen with cheap garage sale kitchenware and hand crafted wooden stools. The bedroom remained unfilled. Just the bedframe with a slightly stiff mattress and a single dresser for the few clothes I had.

A local bookstore did Indie publishing so I was able to get my books out on shelves in my town and a few surrounding areas, as well as online. I didn’t need much in the way of income, so the few stories I churned out quickly became enough to sustain me. Once I settled in, I was able to slow the pace of my writing. It wasn’t such a necessity anymore, so I only had to get a page or two done a day, something even just a sentence. It allowed me to go out, and live those moments that were once just dreams.

I’d often wake up to get my writing done as soon as possible, so I could make it out to watch the fishermen take to the sea. It felt like there was always a mist, a drizzle, and I liked it. I liked the cold, crisp morning air turning my nose red. I liked my clothes turning just slightly damp enough to be uncomfortable. I liked my daily cup of joe warming my cold hands on my stroll to the port.

I rekindled friendships with a few of the fishermen. They were all very much your stereotypical anglers. They were all shorter fellows, dressed in floppy rain wear, their thick white beards flowing haphazardly in the wind. Their faces wrinkled as they gave a toothy grin and waved me down, taking deep puffs of their cigarettes.

“I remember when ye were barely tall enough to stare at me belly button!” They’d say, patting my head as they used to, even though now I towered over them.

Often, after I finished my chats with the fishers and my cup of coffee. I’d stroll a little farther down the portside. A little floral shop sat quietly facing outward towards the sea. It still had remnants of being an old fish market, my parents' old fish market. My father was an angler himself, and my mother used to run the shop. I’d often go out and fish with my dad, once I was old enough (although apparently old enough to my father and the local anglers was four).

The lady running the store was a bit younger than me. Maybe twenty five or twenty six years old. She was a bit out of place in this little town, as other than the few passers-by, all the residents looked like they were living in the late nineteen eighties. The whole hamlet was a town left behind in time. Everything was more than just retro, even what little tech around the town we had couldn’t have been updated since the early two thousands, and most of the places still only accepted cash. It was a miracle I was able to get decent internet access here.

At first, I was reminiscing on the days gone by. I’d sit on the wet wooden dock and stare at the hand carved wooden fish sign. It was never taken down, and the flower shop kept most of the original designs, outside of the few things that had to be replaced, else the whole shop fall into the sea. I saw the echoes of my childhood there. I saw the times when I’d run around the shop like a madman instead of doing my schoolwork. I saw the times when I’d climb on the shelves and get yelled at by my mother. I saw the times my dad would drag me out to sea when I would have rather stayed inside. I even saw the worst those times had to offer, and it made me smile a little.

I remember when I first met her, I’m not sure if it was a good thing, or a bad thing. It was kind of the marker of the start of it all, but I enjoyed those fleeting moments with her, and the short time of calm I had. It was perfect while it lasted. I was taken aback by her beauty when she first came out to greet me.

“Are you ever going to come in and buy something?” She giggled, looking down at me sitting criss-cross applesauce like a toddler, clutching my empty mug between my palms.

She was tall and thin all throughout her figure. Her hair was dyed gray, but it almost looked natural. She had a few piercings on her face. Two rings on each corner of her mouth, and two beads right in her immense dimples. She also had her brow pierced and her nose bridge as well. Her face was femininely chiseled, yet soft and homely. She wore a bit of a revealing outfit, a torn up work shirt thrown on over it. It was barely a shirt at that point, its only purpose was to show the shop's little logo and her nametag. She looked like she was going to an underground grunge concert. Beneath her fishnet legging and arm sleeves, she was lined with vibrant tattoos, which although quite poorly done, looked perfect on her.

“Oh, yeah.” I mumbled a little as I got up with an old man grunt. “I’m always staring into your shop, I’m sorry, I didn’t think about how weird that might look.”

“It’s fine, as long as you come in from time to time, too.” She smiled so deeply, her dimples began to engulf her face. In a cheery, high pitched voice she introduced herself.

“Names Isolde.” She reached out her hand.

“Elias.” I grabbed her hand and shook it. Rather than letting go, she held my grip, pulled me up, leading me into the shop. A little bell chimed weakly as we entered.

“Much better in here than out there, yeah?” She teased, dropping her hold on me.

“I don’t know, I like it out there.”

“Come on, even the people that have lived here their whole lives don’t like the weather around these parts.”

“Guess I’m the exception.”

“I’ll be waiting at the register whenever you’re ready to buy something.” She merrily skipped behind the counter while I began to peruse the selection of wilting flowers. There was an odd beauty in the half dead floral. There was a clear care put into all of the arrangements of bouquets, there was proof of intentional placement of each flower based on their needed light exposure, and proof of daily waterings. Despite that, they are all fated to die.

“Guess you got the same problem my parents’ had.” I chimed.

“What?”

“My parents used to own this shop but it was a fish market. That’s why I find myself staring at this place…” I grazed my finger across a wilted geranium. “The seafood didn’t last…no matter how fresh my father’s catch was, and no matter what steps my mother took to preserve the catches, it would all rot within the day.”

“Must be the weather. Thankfully people still buy my flowers, even the dead ones.”

“I think everyone here is used to it. Nobody eats at home, unless it's processed junk like sugary cereals. Even then those things go stale within the day. That's why all the coffee around here is bland. All of it has gone bad.”

“Huh. I never noticed that.”

“You must be in your own world then. I’d start checking your groceries regularly if I were you.” I dryly informed. “The restaurants here, or I guess the only restaurant here, serves fresh daily, even the water goes bad if you aren’t getting it from the tap. Guess that's why everyone drinks in this town. That’s why the anglers don’t get a day off.”

“Interesting.” She tapped her fingers, clearly a bit lost in my ramblings.

I picked out a single potted plant. It was just a weed, common blue violet, but out of all the plants, it seemed to be thriving the most. I rang it out cheap, thinking it cost me less than a buck. And on my way out, Isolde called out to me.

“Want to go to that pub tonight?” Her voice wavered a little, slightly nervous. “Try out that food, if they are getting it fresh daily, it's gotta be good right?”

“Sure, you’d be surprised though.”

She bit her lip and leaned back like one of those obnoxious leads in a rom-com.

“Come round here at five? That's when I close up shop.”

“Sounds good.” I confirmed, making my way out the door.

It felt like time barely moved since then. I can’t lie, I was excited to get out with her, I suppose that excitement made everything feel slower. But, the time eventually came, as it always does.

It got very dark quite early, which felt strange considering that it was late summer, and we weren't even close to fall back. I sat outside the little shop just as I always had, although rather this time instead of reminiscing about the past, I was looking towards the future.

She came out and locked up, turned around, and gave me a little wave. She and I didn’t really talk until we reached the pub. Maybe a few comments about the night sky, which was twinkling so bright, and the moon, seemingly inching closer and closer towards us.

“Do you see it?” She asked me.

“See what?”

“The moon. It’s huge. Never seen it like that before.”

“It does feel really close doesn’t it. Like we could touch it.”

“It’s a beautiful night. I’m glad the drizzle stopped for once.”

“I’m sure it’ll pick up again.” I commented before looking down at my feet and kicking some stray gravel that had made its way onto the docks.

We eventually made it, although it wasn’t far from the flower shop, our walk took a good amount of time. We walked like an elderly couple, with all the time in the world, yet our time also dwindling down to a halt.

The pub was a big angler spot. All the fishermen would go there after coming back onto land after a long day out on the waters. I wasn’t even sure if those guys slept. So, I was surprised to see a much more posh crowd inside the pub that night. Nobody I recognized, and neither did Isolde.

“Tourists?” She leaned into my shoulder and mumbled so only I could hear.

“Maybe,” I answered doubtingly, “but nobody like this would ever stop here. Lets just grab a seat at the bar.”

Everyone but us seemed to be dressed like this was a speakeasy back in the day. Cloche hats, fedoras, suits and flapper dresses. Lots of retro bobs and tightly greased hair, feathered accessories and sparkly jeweled bracelets. Almost all the people wore animal themed masks. Foxes for the women, wolves for the men. The bartender seemed just as confused as we were.

“Is there an event happening or something?” I asked the young girl, who definitely wasn’t old enough to be serving drinks.

“Nope, I got no clue what's going on.” She poured us the only beer on tap, an unnamed lager, brewed right here in our shitty little town. “All these guys are asking me for whiskey sours and random ass cocktails I ain’t never heard of. I can do whiskeys but what the fuck is a Dirty Boss?”

“Yeah I haven’t heard of that one either.” Isolde and I giggled with the bartender. “Can we open a tab?”

“Nah, it’s on me, since y'all are the only normal ones tonight. Y'all are a blessing!”

“Cheers.” I thanked, as I clinked glasses with Isolde and held it high towards the bartender, who pretended to have a glass in her hand.

She handed us a few menus, and got back to serving the plethora of time travelers.

We sat heads down in our menus. We’d whisper to each other about the happenings around the bar, and giggle a little about some of the party goers. A good amount of the patrons that night were a bit… gluttonous. There were plenty of stereotypical fat guys wandering the bar, their buttcracks and bellies hanging out of their clothes, but then there were some who were obviously a bit gluttonous in other ways. Surprised to say, but this party of old folks smelled like sex, drugs, and cigars.

There were a few women who were completely fancied out, and on top of that were loaded with botox and silicone implants. Some of the guys, too, seemed to be gluttons for money and a fancy facade. Comparatively, Isolde and I were completely and utterly humble, and I’m talking more humble than humble looking. She was still in her work clothes, plus a long pair of oversized pants she had thrown on over her fishnets, and a large jacket. I had been wearing the same sweats and jeans get-up for two days straight. It was a rotting pub from the 1800s, on the verge of closing up shop, so even wearing anything but mismatched junk clothes felt too overdressed for the joint.

Eventually, once we had our less than decent grub and one too many drinks, we found ourselves talking louder than we should have been, and physically pointing at some of the more ridiculous party goers. She and I were having a great time, and I felt a bit of a spark between us, I could see she felt the same. She had a little twinkle in her eye when looking at me. I’m sure I had the same.

That glee was quickly interrupted, as some of the patrons finally took notice of us. Seemed like our drunken antics were about to get us in trouble. Two people, one older woman and a bit of a pudgier guy approached our flanks. They weren't the most attractive. The lady wore a thin, almost see through blouse and business casual skirt. She was probably the only one not really dressed like it was the fifties. She did, however, have a few feathery additions that didn’t match her outfit at all, which I’m almost positive she was borrowing from the other partygoers.

The guy looked like an oil baron, while still retaining that speakeasy vibe. His suit was basically breaking at the seams. While he wasn’t large like some of the other guys around that night, he was getting there. It looked like he was trying to tuck in and deny all the weight he was putting on, buying clothes two sizes too small. Underneath, he wore a gray shirt and a green tweed, paired with a golden wolf mask and large black oilskin hat.

“You two seem like you’re having fun.” The old lady approached my ear, the tip of her fox mask’s nose bumping into my temple. The thick smell of whiskey and bourbon poured from her mouth. Her raspy voice stabbed my eardrums and caused me to wince a little.

“Yeah, I suppose so.” I mumbled, “Could you back off please?” I pushed her gently back and she grabbed my bicep, pulling herself in. She ran her other hand down my thigh and onto my groin. I could feel my manhood shrivel up inwards.

“I like a man who plays hard to get!” The old hang pushed my arm in between her silicone breasts, caterwauling like a stray in heat.

I looked away, although I couldn’t see her eyes through her mask, I could feel them. Warm, in a gushy, moist way, disgustingly foul, ill intent in her mind. I glanced at Isolde, who had become pressed up against my right shoulder, as the chubby guy pushed himself into her. Melting into her side as he groped her in every uncovered spot she had, struggling to reach down and tickle at her ankles. His already tight suit getting tighter as he maneuvered around, looking for what little skin she had showing.

“You two would make great additions to tonight’s… celebration…” The chubby man laughed, belly and mouth full of food as he tried to reach into Isolde’s shirt. She quickly swatted him away and wrapped her arms around me, trying to pull herself as far from the fat man as she could. He seemed to read her, and for the time being, paused his advances, but one look in his eye said he wasn’t done trying just yet.

“Come around,” The old lady said, grabbing deep into my crotch, a pain shot through me. She leaned in and took a deep whiff of my neck. “Well, maybe…”

“It’ll be fine, Beatrice, my love.” The baron walked to the old lady's side and grabbed her waist, basically shoving his thumbs into her buttcrack. “It will love them all the same.”

“Yes,” She hesitated before caving into the baron’s disgustingly sensual embrace. “Yes I suppose he would be fine.”

“The Mayor’s house, up on the hill. Can’t miss it, you can see it from everywhere in town.” The baron grabbed an almost naked chicken bone from my plate of dinner scraps, before lifting his mask a little and shoving it slurpily between his lips.

“We look forward to having you.” The old lady lifted her mask enough to reveal a dry, poorly lipsticked mouth. She leaned in again for a whiff at my neck before biting down hard.

I winced and pushed her away.

The bartender was witness to it all. She eyed us both, gave us a nod and waved us off, understanding that we both now wanted to get the hell out of dodge. While fumbling for my wallet, she spoke up.

“Just leave. I told y'all it was on me anyway. I wouldn’t stay around these weirdos any longer if I were you.”

I nodded back at the bartender as I pulled Isolde quickly away and out of the pub. We felt pounds of eyes upon us, a few stabbing harder than others. Even after leaving the bar, it still felt like a million eyes were on us. It felt like something was shifting in this town.

It was around one in the morning. Gazing at the harbor as we hastily strolled back home, we saw all of the fishermen standing on their boats, staring out and downwards into the sea, as if something from underneath was approaching. Normally, they wouldn’t be out around this time, at this point you wouldn’t even find them at the pub. They’d be home clocked out and trying to rest up before they had to be up in the next hour. We continued down the port until we reached the connecting path that led onto main street.

“What a bunch of perverts.” I mumbled, looking away from the anglers and staring up at the moon. It looked like it had gotten closer. Isolde didn’t say a word, she just stayed tight by my side. I reached up and rubbed where the old lady bit me. It stung like a bitch. There was a deep indent, felt oddly symmetrical, and was extremely close to breaking skin. A little of her slobber remained, all though it had dried a little and became crusty in the cold wind. I was definitely going to be doing a deep cleanse on my neck when I got home.

I was less worried about myself, and rather Isolde. She seemed quite shaken up, as would I have been if some blubbery pervert rubbed all over me. Thankfully, outside of some minor inches of movement towards her more sacred areas, I didn’t see him do anything too extreme. Although, I think if we had stayed there a minute longer, he would have been pulling the same shit that the old hag was pulling on me.

“Can you stay with me tonight?” A desperate plea came from Isolde. I didn’t blame her, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to sleep alone either.

“Yeah, I can.” I wrapped my arm around her and gave her a few comfort pats on the back.

The very few street lights in our little hamlet flickered as we approached the street her house was on. It led into one of the few neighborhoods in the town. Although to be honest, calling it a neighborhood is overselling it. I flicked on my dinky little phone flashlight as we left behind the final, faded streetlight. It barely did anything, as the moon lit up almost every inch of the street perfectly. The only spaces that needed light, a few little nooks between the houses, were darker than the depths of the ocean. My flashlight couldn’t break through the vantablack wall.

The dirty, wet gravel road shuffled and scuttled beneath our drunken steps. I was surprised we didn’t slip, based on how many drinks we had that night. But, I'm sure our encounter sobered us up a little bit.

We approached her house, it looked almost identical to mine. There were a few additions; a porch, and an extended room off the left side of the house. They weren’t really painted or anything special, so they didn’t match, and were clearly not a part of the original house.

She fiddled with a keyring as we made our way up the damp wooden steps. The steps let out a wet creak as if they were molded, and were going to collapse under our weight. They held sturdy as I stepped up, I let out a faint sigh of relief.

The keyring echoed softly, the sound breaking the quiet and ominous night with a somewhat pleasant jingle. I glanced around, observing the neighborhood. I hadn’t been up here before. I was glad to be drunk at that time, as after we got out of the piggish eyes of the pub, my paranoia and concern subdued itself. I can’t say if it were the same for Isolde, though.

My subdued fears quickly bubbled back to the surface as the moon passed overhead, as if it were following us, guiding us. Its light bounced off the walls of the dark corners of the neighborhood, and lit them softly, although only just enough to catch an eye of what was between them.

Dozens of hungry eyes watched our every move. And must have been watching since we moved into the neighborhood, no, since we left the doors of the pub. Maybe even before we even entered the pub.

The bizarre barflys were now crouched like animals stalking their prey. Their naked bodies wet and oily like a fish, glistening and dripping in the moonlight. Their sparkly party masks look more like a part of their face rather than an accessory.

The animals' breathy exhales created thin fog through the mouth of their veils. All eyes were all locked on me, as I had taken notice of them. They began to take slow, cautious steps forward, delicate and precise, like a spider making its web. Positioned low in their prowl, those of larger stature slid and wobbled, their bellies grazing the wet grass beneath them. The older womens’ breasts sagged and dragged in tandem with the bellies. Oddly, the old, weak, frail, and unfit, led the pack of hunters.

A stench of pheromones and sea wafted our way as a breeze passed up and over the gravelly hill, through the little corners in which they stalked, and stepped up onto Isolde’s porch.

A dense fog covered the moon's light and the world around us went completely dark, only my phone’s flashlight dimly lighting a small space on the porch. There was pause, not a single sound pierced the darkness. Then, a small sliding click of a key entering a lock echoed against the dark walls of the night. As if on queue, the sounds of quickly shuffling gravel and the sporadic pat of paws on wet grass began. My eyes widened and Isolde looked back.

“What is that?” She shook as she fiddled with the key in the lock.

The steps came closer and closer. The pace of each stride hastening, their barks turning to vicious snarls and elongated growls. You could hear them tear through each other in their push to reach us.

“OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!” I turned the flashlight towards Isolde, hoping she could get a better look at what she was doing. She started frantically turning the key, as the warped, wet wooden door frame wouldn’t allow the door to unlock properly.

“I’M TRYING!” She jostled and jiggled, pulling and pushing, almost ripping the door from the hinges. Finally it swung open. She quickly pulled the key out and grabbed my wrist, pulling us both hastily into the house. I looked back, shining my flashlight back outward into the dark. Just barely, the light blanketed the porch.

Crawling like spiders hatching from their sack, a fleshy amalgamation of fat, sweaty, bloated men and women reached towards us, trying to grab at the edge of the door before I could close it behind us. A few fingers reached and took hold, but adrenaline fueled my strength, keeping my pull unhindered. A few fingers got caught in the close, completely severing them from whoevers hand they had been on. A dog like yip and wail echoed through the night, and the steps scurried away, but the sounds of movement faded too quickly.

No doubt, they had returned to the perimeter around the house. Waiting for their next opportunity to pounce. I watched the fat severed fingers wiggle and die, like a severed tail from a lizard.

“What was that?” Isolde quivered, scooching away from the door, not taking an eye off it, not daring to blink.

“I don’t know.” I moved forward a little and kicked the fingers out of sight, down a nearby vent.

“What do we do?”

“I’ll stay up, stay on guard. You get some rest.”

“How am I supposed to sleep after that?!?”

“I don’t know, you don’t have to sleep! Just get somewhere you feel safest.”

“Will you come with me?”

“Yeah, I will.”

She held my hand, shaking vigorously. A mixture of cold and fear caused both our bodies to dance wildly, unable to settle. Without taking our eyes off the door, she guided us to her bedroom. I checked my watch shakily as we wobbled our way through the house. It was 1:11 AM. It was going to be a long night.

There were no windows, and only one entrance. What little light there was in the room was coming from the entrance, and a few almost burnt out candles scattered around. The whole design of the room barely matched the rest of her house, so this must have been the extension put onto the house.

It was decorated like a typical midwestern girl’s house. Lots of subdued browns and white furniture. Plenty of flowery vines decorated various motivational Jesus pictures and polaroids of her and her friends partying like tomorrow would never come. There were a few bookshelves and drawers that looked to be handmade out of driftwood. The shelves were lined with various self help books and a few romance novels and smut novellas. The whole room spun, as I felt nothing but drunken confusion and anxiousness.

I stumbled forward towards her bookshelf, I couldn’t help but take a look at everything she had. To be honest, based on her outward appearance, I never thought her to be a bible thumping' midwestern millennial type of gal, but it seemed she was. Lots of her self help books were rooted in religion. It was funny, though, as right next to it were smut novels about hockey players and big corpo CEOs. From the decor of her room to the books and plants on her shelf, it wreaked of millennial mom.

I flipped through her books as she fumbled around in the dimly lit room and fell backwards on her bed. A strange book caught my eye, it’s binding familiar, yet I couldn’t recognize it through my hazy, inebriated vision. I grabbed for the drably colored book, and leaned in close until my vision was no longer blurred.

“The Town at The Beginning of The End, By Elias Maniar.”

There was a bit of rustling coming from the bed behind me. I turned around waving the book a little, looking for its acknowledgement. I was taken aback when I saw Isolde taking her shirt off. Quickly, I turned back around. She had still been dressed in work clothes when we went out, so I assumed she was just changing out of them while I wasn’t looking. It was a stretch though, as she most definitely would have said something if she were.

“This,” I cleared my throat. “This is my book.”

There were a few steps behind me, the nightingale creaks of the wood floor approached my back. I felt two hands slowly rise to my shoulders and a buxom body press upon my back.

“I know.” Isolde sensually tongued my ear. “I’m a big fan, although I was pretending not to be during our outing. I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“I-I don’t think that would have scared me off.” I really didn’t think now was the time to be getting romantical, and I could barely think about her in any way without my mind whispering back to us getting groped at the bar and the stark naked bodies that chased us like hungry hounds.

Something wasn’t right, my mind knew that, but my dick was speaking for me. I was too drunk to think any more logically than I had been. Everything I had done had been barely rooted in decision since I stepped out of that bar. Only the cold winds aided in keeping my mind clear enough to have some sensible train of thought.

Now, in the warmth of her house, and out of visible dangers, my mind gave up, and let my body do all the talking.

“I don’t think that would have scared me off.” I used my free hand to softly grab at one of her legs. Isolde was an extremely petite girl, yet my hand barely wrapped around her thigh.

Before I could turn to face Isolde, the dim lights faded completely. She began to dance me to her bed. I simply followed, like a lemming my fate was in the hands of the leader.

“You know,” She grabbed the back of my neck as we fell onto her bed. Pulling my ear close to her mouth, she licked repeatedly like a dog and sensually whispered, “I sometimes finger myself to your book.”

At this point, I was frozen. She was undressing me, and I couldn’t do anything about it. Her voice sounded a little different. A little more raspy, a little deeper, there was a faint smell of alcohol to her breath. Not like beer alcohol, but something a little fancier, harder, nothing I remember drinking that night with her.

I couldn’t stop myself, rather, I couldn’t stop her, as my mind could barely speak for itself and with her guiding hand, I was eventually inside her.

A foul odor of sex and animals entered my nostrils. I felt like puking, but with her strong grip, I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted to pull off but her legs were like handcuffs, unbreaking and painfully tight around my body. She grabbed my wrist and guided my hand across her figure. She was rounder than before. There were a few rolls that slimmed out into an artificial physique. Palming the back of my hand, she aided me in grabbing her breasts. They hung a bit low, and were stiff, the texture of skin and silicone filled the cracks between my fingers.

This was not Isolde.

Whoever was beneath me, grabbed my chin and took their pointer and middle finger, and slipped it into my mouth. Half of the fingers were gone, and I could feel roughly severed and splintered bones tickle my tongue and teeth. The slow drip of coagulating blood filled my sublingual space. Behind me, I felt a presence approach. A warm breath puffed upon my neck, coating my back with a damp, breathy saliva. My fight or flight finally kicked in.

I bit down, cutting more of the already mashed fingerbones. A few bone splinters fell into the crevasses of my mouth. A gush of blood kicked my uvula and I almost puked. The woman beneath me loosened her grip. With a wail and a yelp she backed a little away from me, giving me enough room to slip out. With a wet, mushy pop, I was free. Almost.

Whoever was behind me bit down on my neck, the previous spot I had already been bitten. This time, this was no playful bite. I could feel the surface of my skin break like the plastic wrapping on a tightly bound package. Hot blood dripped down my shoulders and onto my chest, then splitting into a million random directions across my body. I felt my body dress itself in my own blood. A fuzzy, matted hand pushed the center of my back, forcing me painfully back into the wailing and growling woman. With every ounce of inebriated strength, I pushed back on my aggressors, and began raining jabs and scratches at whatever was around me. I was no more human than the fiends around me at this point.

The huffs and wailings and barks of the rabid dogs quickly mixed and the room sounded like a dog fighting pit. Cheers of gamblers and bookies, the rapid chomps and snarls of the battling dogs. I was a gladiator in the pit, and I was going to come out the winner.

I felt my knuckles meet skull. The face shape was inhuman, almost, yet some features remained similar too. I felt omnivore teeth bite down on my fist as it collided with a fox-like snout. The wet nose bent and snapped out of place. I straightened my fingers and stabbed at where I felt the eyes were. There was a stiff squish and crunch, a mixture of my fingers breaking from the force of my jab and the popping of the eyes like tapioca balls. Whoever was under me had enough, and pulled themselves out. I could hear them scramble to the door.

Where a pushing hand used to be, I felt a heavy, greasy weight flatten me to the bed. A hot, naked belly held me down. Defensive and aggressive barks split my ears. I could feel a shuffling towards my bottom and a hard grasp on my legs. Another hand began to try to pull my pants off, but in that moment where they had to raise some weight off of me, I flipped around and bit.

I felt my teeth shatter through pounds of extra chin, and eventually, just barely, reaching the throat. The fat body pulled off, my mouth taking a huge chunk of fat out of his neck. I spat it out and yelled. Standing on the bed and shouting random garble at the intruders, trying to make myself look as large as possible. I heard a stampede scramble out of the house, and a desperate call.

“ELIAS!!!” Isolde screamed my name from outside the house. It felt so close yet so far. I stumbled off the bed and made chase. Fumbling with my belt, I buttoned up and exited the house with as much haste as I could muster. The cold wind hit my shirtless body like a bullet, the soaking blanket of blood freezing almost instantaneously.

“ELIAS! HELP ME PLEASE!!!” She screamed once more. It was so far away, yet it still sounded right next to me. I faltered and glanced around. The moon peaked out once more through the dense, dark clouds, lighting up a pack of various felines and canines. In the middle of them, Isolde was being dragged naked on her back, across the jabbing gravel path.

I tried to call out, but the adrenaline was wearing off, and as I took my next few steps forward, reaching out as if I could grab her hand. I fell flat on my face. The world went black in an instant.

I shot awake. My head pounding and my body aching, I winced and clutched my head, leaning forward into a ball. A few of my fingers felt stiff, pulling my hand away from my face. I blinked a few times, my hazy vision adjusting so I could make out my hand. There was a thick brace wrapped around my pointer and middle. I pulled it away further from my vision as my eyes were still adjusting. My knuckles bumped my bedsheets and shot out a numb sting. I flipped my hand over to the sight of a haphazard bandage job.

My neck ached like hell, and it didn’t help that I was hungover as hell and my head felt heavier than a ton of steel. I reached up and rubbed the side of my neck. There was a light tugging, and my skin felt sensitive and raw. I slothed my way out of bed. My brain was slowly piecing together the events of last night. I looked at the clock. It was still 1:11 AM.

I had a button up on, definitely not something I would put on to sleep. It was almost pristine compared to my pants which had turned a dark reddish brown, the blood staining all the way to my knees. I still had my muddy boots on. I glanced around, trying to get a grasp of reality, smacking myself in tandem on the sides of my face. I looked at my bedsheets, the once clean whites and grays had been stained with the mud from my shoes and a thick layer of dried blood. A few pieces of gravel had fallen out from the bottom of my boots and gotten mixed up in my bed sheets.

I stumbled, standing to my feet with the aid of my nightstand. I grunted like an old man and wobbled my way to the bathroom on the other side of my house. It barely looked like it was the middle of the night, the moon was so close to our little town that it was impossible to avoid its shine.

I approached the foggy mirror in my bathroom and wiped away the condensation. Leaning my head to the right I inched forward for a closer look in the mirror. An immense chunk had been taken out of my neck, and roughly stitched shut. The same goes for the brace job on my fingers and bandages on my bloody knuckles.

Whatever happened the night before, someone took me home, someone patched me up, but this was no doctor's job. I’m surprised I didn’t die from the amount of blood I lost.

That was beside the point though. I didn’t care what happened to me, I needed to find out what happened to Isolde.