I love my wife. I love her blue-eyed daughter, her dimpled smile and chubby fingers. I love them every twenty-seven nights except on nights like this.
It is for them I leave tonight. I will be back tomorrow, but tonight I need my solitude. They would not see the man they love. Only briefly they would see the beast, before I ripped their throats.
I cannot let is happen as it has too many times before. I know the bitter taste to lick my lips and taste a lover’s blood. On nights like these I need to be apart. Tonight is different form other nights.
I leave before dusk, and though the sky is covered in clouds the burning silver of the moon to will strike my eyes. I found an abandoned bunker a mile away, and I have equipped it with a time-lock.
I had a sheep delivered yesterday. My beast inside craves human blood, but a lamb will do.
Tomorrow I will wake, disgusted with my wool-filled mouth. I hate mutton.
I reach my prison ten minutes before sunset and lock the doors petting the poor lamb, knowing that tomorrow it will be dead.
The hour until moonrise passes slowly, with familiar tingles as my bones prepare.
It is dark and the door can only be opened from the outside until moonset. Grey shadows are moving on my prison walls and I can feel my nails becoming claws, growing hair are itching my skin, my teeth feels sharp against my tongue.
My mind is changing when suddenly the door burst open and my wife is there, daughter on her arm… moonsilver cursed.
Much later I am awakened by the bleating of the lamb — crying but sated.
I loved my wife. I loved her blue-eyed daughter, her dimpled smile and chubby fingers. But alas, I loved their flesh even more.
For Magaly at Poetry United I offer this gothic tale. Love the fiction challenge.
September 1, 2019