So Many Questions
by Jeff Hill
You look around the room frantically, as the sirens blare and your head feels seven sizes too big. Who did you talk to last night? Why can’t you remember? More importantly, why is there blood all over the floor and what looks like clothes that can’t possibly be yours strewn across every piece of furniture? Come to think of it, where are you? What is your last memory?
Something smells like a burnt used diaper as you lift the sheets of what appears to be a king sized hotel room bed, when you notice that all of the bulbs in the lamps are either shattered or blackened. There is blue electrical or painting tape covering the edges of newsprint all over one of the two giant windows overlooking God knows what, and your feet feel like they’re someone else’s as you stumble across the room, careful not to slip on what you are now certain is blood. Your attention is diverted to the bathroom, where light is coming from a partially-opened doorway with a door hanging from one hinge, a giant set of what appears to be jagged claw marks running horizontally and ending with a mouth-sized chunk missing from the edge. The light is not incandescent, but rather bright orange.
There is a fire in the bathroom.
You grab the clothes that are most likely stolen and dress in the dark, immediately ripping down the tape to reveal an unfamiliar city skyline in what appears to be dawn. It is now that you glimpse your reflection in the mirror, and the body underneath the bed. Or rather, what looks like used to be a body. The hair on the back of your neck stands straight up. You want to vomit. You want to cry. You want to be anywhere but here.
You frantically look for your keys, your cell phone, your wallet, your pride, and forget about the slippery floor, falling flat on your face. The blood of strangers enters your mouth as you gasp for air. The taste is metallic. The texture is that of an animals’ fur.
And then it hits you. You remember.
This is where it happened. This is where you turned. And last night was a full moon.
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Jeff Hill is a moderately reformed frat boy turned high school teacher living the dream in Lincoln, Nebraska. He does freelance work and writes fiction, none of which is about corn or the husking of corn. His work has appeared in over a dozen publications and his mom has a binder full of printed copies for any doubters. He’s the Chief Creative Officer of Comic Booked LLC and has an active Twitter following as jeffhillwriter.