Unnatural Instinct Book 1: Transform

Brushing your hair around your face, you try to straighten your back. You’ve picked out the nicest shirt you have. It brings out your muscles a little too much, but at least your boobs look nice.

Shouldering your bag, you wonder why you’re doing this, even as you walk over to him. To David. He’s wearing that kind smile as he speaks with one of his guy friends. He laughs, and it rings musically in your ears even from a distance.

At least he’s happy. That’s good.

His stark blue eyes swing your way as you approach.

David. You’ve liked him for a long time. Always such a sweet guy. Charismatic. Handsome. Kind. But you’ve always loved him from afar—never up close. Never did you have the guts to actually step up to him and ask him out. He isn’t like most. He’s actually nice to you.

It’s time. What is life without risk?

His friend looks over and frowns, forehead puckering up like he already dislikes you, eyes darting over you in dismissal in that way you have seen again and again and again.

You ignore him.

“H-hi, David. Can I—can I speak to you for a minute?”

His eyebrows shoot up. He shrugs at his friend. “Okay.”

You draw him a few meters away, out of earshot from the rest of the students on campus. You’re standing near a tree, yellow flowers and colorful butterflies at your feet. It’s all so pretty.

“What is it?” he says, glancing across his shoulder at a group of giggling girls.

You take a breath as your heart thunders, as your knees shake, as the blood roars in your ears. You hardly hear yourself announce the words. It’s like you’re watching yourself from above, standing ugly and awkward with a boy who is completely out of your league.

“I was—I was just wondering. I-I have some time off after my next lecture. Did you want to have some coffee or—or something?”

It’s hard to meet his eyes, but you see the answer clearly enough on his face. It’s only a flash—quickly come, quickly gone. But not quickly enough.

That look of disgust.

You feel too sick to cry. The tears will come later, you know. Right now, all you can do is clutch at your chest, waiting for your heart to slow as it pounds against your ribs.

The bins. That’s exactly where you belong—in the trash.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” You thump your fist against the side of your head.

Sinking your teeth into your knee, you close your eyes and wait for the worst of the humiliation, along with the disbelief at the sheer absurdity that is you, to drain away.

A group of boys walks past, laughing with each other. And you imagine they’re laughing at you. It feels like the whole world is laughing at you.

You sigh. You have to get up. You have to get home. But it’s so hard to do anything but wallow in your own misery right now.

A low growl takes that choice away from you.

You jerk your head up. It’s a dog. A stray dog. Sniffing around the trash. It growls again, hackles raised, teeth pulled back. It doesn’t like you. Not only don’t boys—and girls—like you, dogs don’t either.

Slowly, you stand.

“Okay. Okay. Chill, chill, doggy.”

You try to pick up your notebooks, but it snarls and barks, and you jump backward. You manage to scoop up your bag before making your escape. An onslaught of tears rages behind your eyes as you struggle with your bag, your zipper stuck. People watch you rush past as you frantically try to close it.

Giving up, you clutch your bag to your chest, face lowered, allowing your hair to conceal your face. The moment you leave the campus, you’re running, tears whisking away behind you.

It’s an embarrassing trip home. And that’s all the day is—layer upon layer of embarrassment. You’re like an onion, you suppose. The further you peel away the layers, the further it stinks.

And this day and your life stink to high heaven.

You feel the back of your neck prickle as you leave the bus, imagining the other passengers watching you, judging you.

Minutes later, you’re back home, in the quiet darkness of your little townhouse.

Entering your kitchen, you drop your bag upon the floor and go right to the fridge. Yanking it open, you pull out your bottle of wine and make your way to the living room, crashing into the couch. Twisting off the lid, you chug it.

God, you fucking hate yourself.

You hate yourself so much that you think about the knives in your kitchen drawer—not for the first time. There’s a nice, big butcher’s knife in there that could do the job fast and quick. Nobody would notice.

Nobody would care.

If only you had the guts to actually go through with it, but even with this you are a failure.

More tears fall from your face as you lean over your lap and drop your head to your knees. You don’t know what’s worse—the loneliness or the embarrassment.

Or perhaps you’ll never go back.

Or perhaps you should just fucking die.

Then there is your body—muscular, broad, powerful. Hardly any tits. If it wasn’t for your period, you wouldn’t even be able to call yourself a woman.

You rub your temples at a throbbing headache. It’s pounding at the back of your head. It’s pounding behind your eyes. The more you cry, the more you ache, the worse it gets.

You have to be careful when you get emotional. Things go wrong with your brain. Not only are there problems on the outside, but there are problems within as well. You suppose that’s why dogs don’t like you. Perhaps they sense something. Perhaps it was the same with your parents. They abandoned you too. Their own baby.

You weren’t even likeable as a fucking baby.

You drink the rest of your wine and let the bottle fall from your fingertips. It clatters loudly against the floor, making the pain pound deeper in your head. You grimace. You groan. Your vision blurs. You wince against the blaring sunlight coming through your window. It’s quite cloudy, and yet the light seems ultra-bright. Unusually bright.

You leap to your feet with a start, almost crashing to the floor as you stumble on the wine bottle. It bangs loudly against the timber floor as it rolls away. Your pills. You need to get your pills!

It’s hard to see against the stabbing light of the sun. It’s like someone’s slashing at your eyes with a knife. Grabbing onto the furniture, you make your way into the kitchen. You throw open the drawer, but it’s the wrong drawer. You can’t remember. Why can’t you remember where your pills are?!

You stop. You stare. Then the smell comes. That sickly orange-peel smell. Your eyes feel like they’re bulging in their sockets. Widening and widening. Your body turns cold. A sharp white light knocks you backward.

Darkness follows.

You wake with a groan, rolling onto your back, staring up at the ceiling in a daze. You’re so weak it feels like you’re sinking into the floor. Where the hell are you? What the hell happened? Just like most of your postictal phases, it takes you close to twenty minutes before you realize you’ve had another seizure.

You grab at the back of your head with a gasp and find blood on your fingers.

Rolling onto your side, you take several deep breaths and manage to shove yourself up, grabbing onto the kitchen bench as your knees wobble. Immediately, you open the cupboard and pull out your medication, downing two with a glass of water that shakes dangerously in your hand.

You suddenly notice it’s late, the early afternoon light now edging toward twilight.

You were on the floor a long time. It was either a bad seizure or a really bad knock to the head. Either way, you should go to the hospital. But you hate that place almost as much as you hate yourself.

Instead, you drag yourself up the stairs and enter your bedroom. Your bed beckons. Your eyes are already sliding shut as you fall into it.

The night is deep when you next wake. Moonlight is gleaming in through your window. Your sheer curtains are blowing delicately in the cool breeze. Crickets are chirping. A night bird is calling from the tree in your neighbor’s backyard.

Blinking, you roll your eyes. Your head feels much better, but your throat is painfully dry. Turning over, you reach for your bottle of water.

You freeze.

Your skin creeps. You close your eyes and open them again, thinking it’s just a trick of the shadows. Hoping it’s just a trick of the shadows. Or perhaps a long-lasting delusion of your seizure.

Then it moves.