Escaping the Curse

He walks through the door, a smile lopsided on his face, his cheeks slightly red. Perhaps it’s the cold, perhaps it’s the long afternoon spent in the garage. He had been loud before, quite loud. His green eyes flash bright, like his teeth. His curls are messy, streaked with grease and kissing his forehead. Internally, I flinch. Familiar chords pluck in my chest in a painful pinch. But, not him, never. He’s not afflicted with the same curse as my parents, as many are. I was careful in my choosing.

Already, he is tugging off his black shirt to go shower. Tugging off his pants as well as he thuds up the stairs. He’s saying something, but my ears don’t focus. Silence rings through them like the blast of a bomb. When I hear again, the water is running. His brother trails behind him, kicking off his shoes and talking about something. It really does not matter.

My eyes flicker to the window, to the clouds scattering across the moon outside. His brother is afflicted, but he’s had his shot. He goes to the sink and scrubs his hands. Working on cars is messy; I would know. I stay perched on the couch and softly close my book around my fingers to hold the place. I clasp it tight as my husband emerges from the shower, fresh clothes on him, and a towel rustling his hair. He tells me there is more work to be done tomorrow. Something about my car being next. Sure, of course there is. He leaves to put the towel away and returns with his toothbrush.

The bristles grind against his perfectly straight teeth, scrubbing away traces of the day. He’s shirtless and briefly I wonder why he looks so full. So incredibly stuffed. His usually smooth belly bulges, absurd like a ogre. They were gone for a while, on a test drive, but they did not get dinner. I know so. His brother announces loudly from the kitchen that he’s still hungry. Still?

“Did you get dinner?” I ask, knowing the answer. My husband shakes his head and disappears back into the bathroom to spit and rinse.

“No, did you manage to eat something?” He asks me, concern etched slightly in his brow as he treks down the stairs. My eyes drop to his gut. He laughs and pats it.

“Been gaining weight,” he calls to his brother. “It’s all your fault. We usually eat pretty healthy.”

My skin feels cold. As if I have stepped out into the winter snow, a chill creeps over me I cannot wriggle free of. Under my sweater bumps sprout. My eyes hurt as I feel them widen, unfocus, refocus. Deep inside, an old alarm wakes up and whispers for me to run. I step back and my eyes dart around. To the lamp. Then the fireplace. They freeze on the poker.

His brother slips past us, a snack from the fridge clutched tightly as he vanishes downstairs to the guest quarters to shower and turn in for the night. They pass words, a brief exchange of politeness. Then, my husband closes the space between us.

His bare chest presses into me, warm as a pan from the oven. He rests his forehead against mine and wraps his arms around me, his large hands pin me close. His breath smells of copper as it fans across my cheeks. The toothpaste could not mask it. A million memories slam into me with the force of the scent. Of my father snarled and hunched over. Of my mother, half transformed and leering at me. Of blood on the floors, the walls, on me. A child version of me hiding in the closet, ears covered and rocking.

My siblings had their turns too. All but me. While I am infected as well, I take my shot every day. I monitor things. I am careful. Calculated. Controlling. I have never turned. When you’re born with the curse, it’s easier to control than when you’re bitten. And, like my siblings, it was mine by birth. I married a man born without it, with the hopes he would never get it. I married him knowing his brothers had it. Knowing it’s easy to hide for quite a while. I put a lot of trust into this man. A stranger really.

Run, my gut beseeches.

I wriggle free of his grasp. I chide myself for the thoughts as his eyes, loving and sleepy focus on me. But, something is off. I can feel it. My instincts have never been wrong, after all, they are that of a beast. Even if I have not turned.

“I need to shower,” I tell him. “I’ll see you in bed?”

His steps match mine, fence we away from the stairs. When I falter and retreat from him, he tilts his head. My eyes glance back. Then a well placed sidestep puts him between me and the fireplace tools.

“What’s wrong?” He asked knowingly. I have no poker face. My emotions flit and flicker for him to read like I am a novel written just for him. My hands fidget into fists. There’s nothing for me to grab now except a vase on the table full of flowers he bought me.

“Nothing,” my voice shakes. My eyes sting with the urge to cry and my throat suddenly tightens with a suppressed scream. The moon breaks from behind the cloud and throws beams across the living room floor.

A wicked smile twists up his cheeks, crooked and wrong.

“I love you,” he croons. “Give me a hug goodnight.”

Bolt. I could. The front door is six steps away. Then a small doubtful voice reminds me I could be wrong. Assumptions can cause harm. My own anxiety could foil things. Shatter our trust. Bitten cannot spread the curse. He would not have been able to get infected by his brother. He would have had to purchase a vial of it from someone. Chosen it. Truly, that is the only way. Because so long as I am punctual on my shots, I cannot spread it.

My hand goes the spot on my arm where I stuck it this morning. I step closer to him. In a large stride he closes the space between us and yanks me into his arms. The moonlight washes over us both. My eyes, an unsettling green, peer up at him, nervous. The silver light scorches his features. Smudges and redraws them. His ears curl to long fury points. His nose protrudes, with teeth too sharp for his perfect smile, and fur ruptures from his back, tickling my palms.

I struggle now, writhe and kick as I did when I was little. Nothing hurts quite like the claws of a beast, and his rake down my back, tearing my sweater into strips. My flails get me free enough to yank the vase from the table. I smash it across his back, and he chuckles. Hardly perturbed. He gets taller, twisted, dark. A howl, long and horrid rips from his chest. My flesh stings and he digs his paws in, forcing me closer.

The scream I had kept captive erupts from me, followed closely by another. And another. I’m too late. Too trustful. Too stuck. I plant a kick in his chest and my screams morph into roars. Anger. Hate. While the chase is new to him, I spent my childhood running from monsters. I know the rhythm. I kick again and barely manage to twist my ankle free when his hairy hands grasp it. Blood trails down my foot. I scrambled over the couch, dashing to the kitchen.

As he reaches me, laughing, I rip open a cabinet and start hurling the dishes at him. An assault of cups break into colorful glass shards on the floor. Orange. Green. Red. The splinters sparkle. I peg one right into the side of his skull. Blood trickles down his brow and he growls. The snarl show ugly gums and nasty teeth. He lurches closers and I yank out and slam an entire drawer into his stomach. He gags and doubles forward. The force is enough to make him vomit up a little. Red and flesh. I know the sight too well.

I dash around the corner, to the dining room and back door. My fingers brush the lock as his hands curl around my wrist. His human hands. The clouds must have masked the moon. He spins me to face him, his eyes wild and frightened. He’s not sure what he’s done, not entirely, but he knows it cannot be undone. My foot stomps down on his and I head butt him sharply. My skull throbs as he grimaces but holds tight still to me.

“Listen,” he tries. The reasoning always follows their outbursts. Their quick pleas and apologizes. But I know better. It will happen again, it always does. And, furthermore, he chose this. After hearing tale after tale of my nightmares. After building a peaceful life with me. He would shatter it. For what? For the strength? For the gleeful rush running under the moon brings? I would not stay to ask.

“Let me go,” I insist sharply. But, the time is gone. His humanity fades again. Then, before I can fight again, his teeth, long and curved clamp around my throat. I whimper, my scream silenced by his jaws. My blood is hot against us. Dripping to the floor. He howls over us and the moon bounces against my skin, laughing. No one escapes. It taunts. No one. As my hand drops to my side, I think of my shot, of my plight. All for naught.