Chapter Text
Fuck. I need to act. I have to be careful. Deep breath, James. Brett isn’t himself right now. He’s stronger than you. Okay.
I look around the room. The picture frames won’t help – too tiny. I don’t have time to check the drawers and hope something useful’s in there. The TV is bolted to the wall. No. I’m starting to panic.
My hand shoots to my side. The crowbar… I incapacitated Craig for a bit with this. But I don’t want to hurt Brett. I couldn’t. I—
A spray of blood hits me, faint, and Joshua growls. “Uuurgh! Bastard!” His expression is growing serious. Fending off Brett isn’t going well. There’s a deep gash on his arm now. Since when are Brett’s claws so sharp? He grabs both of Brett’s hands with one of his own and punches him—
A blow to Brett’s jaw, connecting directly. Skin slamming against skin, loud enough that the punch hurts even me. Brett staggers to the side, supporting himself on the ground. And fear spreads across Joshua’s face, like he fears he hurt Brett. “Fuck. Brett.” He tries to sit up, but Brett’s weight on his waist doesn’t let him. Looking at him… it looks like his jaw is dislocated now.
And then Brett slowly turns his gaze to face him. His expression remains blank. Joshua lays back down. Brett puts a hand against his dislocated jaw… and pushes hard. A sickening wet click, and it snaps back into place. I didn’t know you could do that. “Wh…”
Brett growls again and lunges towards Joshua again… this time attacking with his teeth. He bites into Joshua’s neck, the lion howling in pain. “Fuck! Motherfucker!” He starts cursing rapidly in Spanish as his hands shoot to Brett’s back, harshly trying to find something to grab onto to get the man off his body. He’s bleeding. It’s not going to be fatal, but he’s bleeding. I’ll have to patch up his wounds later…
What…
What the fuck am I thinking? I need to get him off Joshua in the first place. Come on, James, think. What can I use to restrain Brett? He isn’t himself, but I can’t hurt him.
“J… James…!”
I’m starting to panic. Okay. Maybe the blanket. I can toss it on Brett and pull him off the man like that. Or the pillowcase. No. I’m starting to hyperventilate. Fuck.
What is wrong with me? Why am I so slow right now? Normally I’d be quicker on such decisions, like I was with Craig earlier. What’s going on right now? I need to help. Joshua needs help—
Joshua grabs Brett’s neck with both hands and pushes the salamander away, the man vigorously coughing and hacking as he chokes. Joshua’s gaze is intense… but hesitant. Brett’s hands go limp. “Fucking… stop!”
And the instant he lets go, while he’s readying his next move, Brett scrambles ahead and grabs the gun. He aims it at me. I’ve never seen the barrel of a gun like this. Brett’s gaze is intense.
“James!”
I have to—
…
A loud bang and a flash, and James crumples to the ground in an instant, like a puppet whose strings have been cut. A clean shot, inbetween the eyes, which destroyed his brain, from such a short range. A small, final thud as his antlers hit the wall, his whole body suddenly relaxed and splayed out on the ground.
Joshua stares on.
Brett’s gun arm goes limp, the gun falling to the ground and sliding away from the pair. He looks off to the side, blinking slowly. Joshua’s eyes slowly turn to the salamander.
…and Joshua just sees red.
The pain radiating from his arms, chest and neck doesn’t matter at that moment. Neither does the blood trickling down his body. He just has one directive in mind – he has to kill. With strength that failed him as he saw the salamander in front of him as a friend, he gets up, making the salamander fall on his back, his head slamming against the tile. Not that it matters. Worse things are to come.
His claws come out and his gaze becomes ferocious, as he looms over the red, suddenly insecure body in front of him. He only wants to kill. He bares his teeth – those sharp canines, a holdover from the feral version of his species, and furrows his brow deeply.
And he leaps. And he doesn’t miss. Sharp, feline claws meet tender, smooth skin, rending it deeply, tearing the clothing he’s wearing apart first, then the body underneath. Blood pours. More blood. More blood shall be spilled. Wide swipes and strikes in ample arches, to destroy the tender meat underneath, spraying blood all over the room – all over the TV, all over the dresser, all over the bed, all over the floor. All over the lion, and all over the corpse a few feet away.
It’s not enough. He bares his teeth once he’s destroyed the salamander’s jacket and shirt and torn them off his bleeding body, and he bites. He bites deep, letting the feel of blood spread through his mouth, before pulling back, tearing a whole chunk of flesh off his neck. And then another, and another. His chest, his shoulders, his arms, and the rest of his torso follow. His glasses crack and shatter under the force with which he’s slamming his face into the man’s body, but he doesn’t register it. He just keeps biting and clawing away, destroying the body under him.
To rip and tear until he is satisfied. To rip and tear until he is done. Even as the body stops struggling. Even as the screams transform into croaks, and then into deathly silence. Even as the pinpoint eyes of the murderer stop staring at him and fixate themselves on the ceiling.
And this sensation isn’t altogether alien. It’s very much like the way it feels when his thoughts are displaced from his mind – either to be forced out of his mouth, or to force him into doing nothingness. Like his conscious mind is taking a backseat, and witnesses everything unfolding through his eyes, and like it’s this close to being able to take over… but doesn’t, because it doesn’t want to. Like he’s done it repeatedly throughout the week, before James forced him to speak his mind voluntarily, and while they were separated. Like he’s been ever since he came to the town.
But also, like he’s been his whole life, since he has memories, even as a child.
So maybe, just maybe,
He’s just like this.
He finishes. His blurry sight finally focuses on his work. A bloody spectacle in front of him, on the limp body under him. Blood splattered in every direction, thoroughly staining the surrounding floor, thoroughly coating his white fur red. Missing chunks of flesh on several parts of the salamander’s body – on the neck, on the arms, on the chest and the abdomen, where the glossy orange and yellow skin meets bright red flesh. A missing cheek, a missing eyelid, a missing patch of skin on the scalp – one that, as he retracts his claws, he can feel and hear hitting the ground.
It is done.
He slowly gets up, still breathing heavily from the exertion, conscious of his own body. Of the layer of sweat and blood coating his fur – of the stench of iron emanating from his body and his face, overpowering the cologne he put on that morning and the deodorant he wore every day. The foul taste of iron and raw meat permeates his mouth, as bloody saliva pours from the corners of his lips. His fangs and other teeth, stained red, clean themselves as he finally closes his mouth.
His sight turns to the other body in the room – the one he had no input in.
And for what? What was it all for? Why did he even do it? All the blood sprayed into the room won’t bring him back to life. All the chunks of flesh he tore off with his teeth and hands won’t make him laugh again. All the skin he rended with his claws won’t make him talk about his art fixations or listen to his own troubles again. All the sweat and energy spent, and all the blood dyeing his fur red, and all the blood he swallowed, and all the destruction he wreaked, and all the warm tears now pouring from his eyes won’t magically close the hole between James’ eyes and it won’t make him breathe, laugh, talk, or dream again.
Joshua gives the corpse a blank stare. The corpse returns an equally blank stare. His gaze is eternal, facial muscles forever locked into an expression of muted shock, as a gaping wound in the middle of his forehead pours endlessly, like a small, vile flower, its nectar blood and gray matter.
“…”
He slowly walks over to it, kicking the salamander’s leg out of the way. His eyes burn, but he doesn’t close them. He comes up right next to the body of hope, which won’t look at him ever again.
And he slowly kneels next to it… and cradles the body in his arms, holding the head like he might one day have held a child. A sensation he won’t have. And he just rocks the head gently, shushing a mouth that doesn’t speak, to bring it calm. “Shhh… it’s alright.” His voice is a whisper. “It’s going to be alright, Jamie. We’re gonna be alright. We’ll get out of this one.” A dry snort. “You’ve been telling me all night we’ll be alright, and now it’s my turn. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be alright. We’re going to be okay…”
He gently closes the corpse’s eyes with bloody hands, smearing his light brown fur and not registering the chunks of flesh between his fingers. “Just sleep a bit. I’ll get us out of this. I swear.” And he keeps cradling him for a few more minutes.
…
The moon outside grows brighter, the sound of waves crashing against the walls of the house now reaching his ears. Maybe the lake is growing. Maybe this is happening. Just maybe. Maybe he’ll rest a bit, too, lulled to sleep by the gentle waves and the din of celestial birds circling his head and the laughter of his friends and family beckoning towards him. Distant. Somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Somewhere he may reach one day.
…
He stands slowly, the head in his arms crashing to the ground and the wound on its forehead splattering blood against the wall.
He slowly turns to look at the ground near the dresser, spotting his gun.
He moves to it, stepping on the salamander’s legs and exposed ribs, crouching down, to grab it.
He checks the safety.
He stands.
…
…
All maledictions are enacted and the vessel is returned.
Shifting.