Shifter: The First Time I Went Home

This is a new story about a SHAPESHIFTER

The lore is mostly pulled from the show Supernatural with influences from Norse mythology. I claim no higher or better knowledge on shifters; I just liked this particular brand of lore. And if you ever want to discuss lore, PM me because I know nobody who likes it D:

Warnings: cursing


The First Time I killed a man

The taller hunter came back.

I killed him.

The First Time I went home

The gravity of killing a man with my hands never came. I had dreams about it, still do, and the twisted smile on his lips would haunt me for eternity. He had jauntily walked into my apartment and just prompted: “give me a reason not to kill you.”

And it was instinct that drove me forward to rip into his eager flesh like it was pining for me. It wrapped around my fists like my own did when I shifted; the bones cracked in my adamantine grip like mine did when I shifted. I punched his teeth from his mouth after opening up his chest. I pushed his eyes back into his head after ruining his mouth. He wanted a reason for him not to kill me and the reason I gave him was “you’re dead.”

I stayed up for the next three nights. I had dumped him in the river on the second. I stayed up the night after, huddled in the corner, and crying like a kid. Bridget was screaming that I was a monster and the survivor in me was screaming for me to just get the fuck over it. I kill people, it’s part of the system; I kill people and that’s who I am.

On the fourth night, I left town. I didn’t pack anything, I just drained my accounts and hightailed it back to the east. I changed skins often, trying not to sap any one particularly dry. I slept in the backseat of my car a lot and I ate at places that looked like the rats ate better than the customers. I took showers with a water bottle because it was only out of old habits that I thought I needed one. Technically I was clean after every time I shifted; I always felt dirty.

Nonetheless, I didn’t know where I was going until I got there. I was standing outside my old home in a female librarian skin clothed in an outfit I just picked up at the local department store. Nothing fit quite right, but I thought I looked respectable. Of course, it wasn’t respectable I needed, it was Bridget I had to look like and I was forgetting her more and more as the days went on. She wasn’t quiet—no—but her voice had lost a lot of its tonalities and I could only recall that her hair might have been red.

It was hard to look on the house with its old paint and tilted shutters and to know I had once known it. Now it was something I knew in a round-about way, through hearsay and stray memories that bubble through like gas in tar. It hurt to know that I didn’t know enough to prove that I had once been Bridget. But I once was, right? Or had she just been a skin I walked around in too long and I killed her off, too—I just took her place up like a changeling.

I pandered around a bit until the night was so thick the world had suffocated. I broke into my own house like I used to when I stayed out too late. I looked at my sleeping parents and little brother, never daring further than the doorway. I looked at my old room and only saw a room. I looked at our dog, Sparky, and only saw a dog—a nice dog but just a dog. I began crying when I found the photo albums and it was just faces of people staring back at me, even the one with the auburn hair and the name ‘Bridget’ scrawled under her school photo was nothing more than another face.

In the end, I absconded with a few photos, stuffing them in my pockets, and took some food and cash for the travel ahead. On a whim, I wrote my parents a note that Bridget was okay and just eloped—then I realized that was silly because why would some creep break into the house to leave a note like that? So I threw it out and left with some pop tarts and photos.

When I made it to the state border, I killed a person and borrowed her skin. I took her ID and cards; I dumped her in the Metedeconk. I secured the photos from home to the visor with some bobby pins the lady—Hyacinth—had been wearing. When the glare got too sharp while I was driving the next day, I was facing a picture of Bridget over the unending highway. I smiled at her conspiratorially. She was another kill, just like Hyacinth, just like Dan, just like John, and just like Ryan.

After that day, it was only me in my head—who ever me was at this point, anyway.

part 1– –part 2– –part 3– -part 4– –part 5– -part 6 –part 7


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