Thanks to my great beta, Be My Escape, for proof reading for this story and for the helpful suggestions!
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight or any of the characters that inhabit Stephenie Meyer's world. pouts in the corner ok, read on . . .
There sat my dad; the T.V. was on, but he only had eyes for me. He watched me, studied my every move like I was the featured presentation of tonight's show. He took a long look at me. I was standing in the mouth of our front door, shaking with rage. Then he took a sip of his ice tea, still watching me, and said carefully, "Did everything go alright tonight? You look a bit strange."
Rage consumed my body; hairs prickled at the nape of my neck, blood boiled beneath my dark skin, and my hands clenched and unclenched in pure fury. I was slightly frightened at this new sensation of anger, but for some reason it felt natural, necessary. So I didn't fight it. I let the rage shake me to the very marrow of my bones; I invited the anger to fill me as I stood there, now shuddering physically with every audible beat of my heart. The tendons in my neck bulged and stood out prominently, while every single muscle in my body tightened to the point that I could barely move. Beads of sweat trickled down my face, which was contorted with sheer anger. My chest was racked with enormous spasms, and the pressure inside of me mounted until I thought I would have to jump out of my skin to escape it.
The room was too hot, the pressure was too great, and the rage was too fervent. My breath came in frenzied pants as I struggled to keep my composure, but it was a lost cause. My hyper heart was about to burst, but it continued to pump bubbling blood through my veins; I could hear it.
Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub.
I took a few stiff strides into the living room towards dad, about to give him a piece of my mind, and then it happened. The pressure became so great, my body started to combust; I was exploding! I was dying, I had to be dying. But before I could think another thought, the pressure dissolved. The room was still hot, but the anger that had consumed me before dulled slightly.
I felt dizzy for a moment. I realized my eyes were still shut tightly from the thought of dying; I opened them slowly, cautiously, to look at the damage I may have caused. Black spots penetrated in and out of my vision, forcing me to blink to adjust my eyes. I looked around, surprised to find that my head was crunched up against the ceiling. I glanced down, and noticed dad. He was still sitting in the recliner, but now he leaned towards me, studying me. I wanted to ask him just what he was staring at, but to my shock and horror all that emitted from my mouth was a deep yowling sound. The sound frightened me so much I jerked away from it, and careened back onto the kitchen table. The table smashed into pieces under me, I slipped on the linoleum tiles, and pots and pans fell to the floor with such shrieking clatters I felt like my ear drums would burst from the intensity of the sound. I cried out for my dad to tell me what was going on, but again all I heard was a fearsome growl that made the tiny house vibrate.
Dad was reaching out very slowly, as if not to startle me, trying to get a grip on his wheelchair that was sitting just a few feet away. I knew he wanted to get into his wheelchair so that he could move around more easily, but he was having a difficult time because I normally helped him into it. It was hard for me to watch him struggling, so I took a step towards him. The whole room shook violently with my single step. I stopped suddenly in utter confusion. My dad was still trying to sooth me, even though he was in an awkward position between the recliner and his wheelchair. "Jake, you're okay. Just calm down, alright? Breath."
Calm down? Breath I don't have a single clue as to what has just happened to me, but you want me to calm down and breath? Why was my dad telling me that it was okay to be a . . . well, whatever the hell I was at the moment? It was like he knew what was happening to me! My breathing was coming out in thick wheezes as anger, once again, consumed me. Realization hit me hard; he knew what was happening to me.
In what sounded like a bellowing roar, I told my dad to tell me what was going on. I took a step towards him, that single step putting me merely a couple feet away from him, close enough to reach out to him. But instead of hands, massive claws reached towards my father, coming dangerously close to his face. A look of genuine fear stretched across his face, and he tried desperately to roll his wheelchair away from me. I yelped loudly, and pulled my hand- paw back. Then I did a turnabout and looked at my body, or what had become of my body, for the first time.
Dark russet brown fur covered every inch of my skin, and a long tail protruded from my body like a dog's. I screamed again, or tried to; it still sounded like a blood curdling yelp. I looked at dad, waiting for an explanation, waiting for him to explain why I became this . . . thing. But he did no such thing. He sat there, shrinking back at first, but inching closer and closer; all the while speaking gently to me and trying to keep me calm. Then the phone rang. The piercing noise of the telephone ringing all but made me go crazy listening to it, but it kept on ringing and ringing.
A string of profanities came out of my dad's mouth as I stood there, shaking in anger because the noise wouldn't go away, when suddenly it stopped. Dad blew out a noisy sigh of relief, watching me as I relaxed a little bit. But the phone started ringing again no more than thirty seconds later.
I shook my head from side to side, in an attempt to keep the noise from ringing like a thunderous echo in my ears. I was getting to where I couldn't control myself; the clashing was just too loud. Dad sensed my agitated state, and reluctantly picked up the phone.
"Hello?" He grumbled, watching me carefully the whole time.
To my surprise I could hear every word that was said on the other line. My heart fluttered erratically when I recognized the voice as Bella's. She wanted to know if I had made it home yet; she was worried about me because I hadn't called her.
"He's here," my dad said, still eyeing me with caution.
Bella told my dad that I was supposed to call her. I wanted to, Bella, I would have . . . but again, a soft whimper was all that left my mouth. "He was . . ." My dad fought for an excuse to tell Bella, "too sick to call. He's not feeling well right now," he said in monotone. That was the understatement of the year, I growled under my breath.
Bella was still on the other line, now telling my dad that she would come down and help me out. Dad's eyes widened in horror at the thought and quickly shot that idea down. "No, no," he said in a rush, his voice gruff, "We're fine. Stay at your place." The way he said it was an order. She complied.
"Bye, Bella." He hung up the phone. Bella didn't even get to say goodbye to me, I whined bitterly.The hurt from that thought consumed the confusion of what was happening to me.
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