Sanity

“Do you know why you’re here?”

“Do you know how many of you guys have asked me that already?”

“Please answer the question, son.”

I sighed. “Yes.”

He scratched some notes on his pad of paper. “And what is the reason?”

My hand twitched against my leg. “Be-because my stepdad thinks I’m a major loon.”

He set the paper and pen on his lap. He leaned forward and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with one finger, like an aged professor.

Oh, how looks can deceive!

“We’re not here to place blame. This is no one’s fault.” He reclined, his paper and pen still resting in his lap. “Do you know what disease you have?”

My hand twitched faster. “Th-they say th-that I h-have l-ly-lycanthropy.”

God damn it! Not the stuttering again!

He lifted his pen and scratched out more notes. “Do you know what that is?”

My face heated with a mixture of irritation and rage. “O-of course I kn-know what ly-lycanthropy is! I can re-recall what p-people t-tell me. I’m n-not stupid.”

His eyes tried to be kind, but they only infuriated me more. He leaned forward again and placed his hand over my spastic one. The other hand immediately began to twitch.

“I am not trying to upset you, son. I am merely trying to help, and to do so I must first evaluate you.” His voice was slow and gentle, as if he were speaking to a lost three-year-old throwing a tantrum; he had lost all respect for me.

Damn this twitching!

“Whatever,” I grunted. I slid my hand out from under his. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He leaned back, appearing resigned. I smirked.

“Very well.” He sighed. “When did your hallucinations start?”

Hallucinations? Ha!

“Th-they started…”

My twitching stopped as I realized what he was asking me. He wanted me to recall when the transformations started and would then probably want me to recount the event that triggered them. My sigh was shuddering. I couldn’t take that.

He raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

I took a deep, shaking breath. “Th-they started a-about two years ago, one m-month a-after my father d-d-d-died.”

His face melted into an expression of true empathy, as if they had not already told him about that fact. “Can you recall your father’s death? Talking about it might help.”

I reached inside my shirt and touched the scars on my shoulder. I shook my head. If I tried to recount the memory, I would stutter to the point of incomprehension. Still, I couldn’t prevent the night from replaying in my mind.

~ ~ ~

It was the last weekend in July, and my father and I were on a camping trip at Whiskeytown Lake; the hot Shasta County sun was disappearing below the horizon, and my father was building a fire. His pile of twigs was carefully arranged, not a single stick lying where my father didn’t want. He knew how important it was to get things done right the first time.

“So, Johnny,” he said as he adjusted a stick, “are you looking forward to school?”

I shook my head and my voice was quiet as I spoke. “No.”

My father looked up from where he squatted by the pile. “No? Why not? You’ll be in eighth grade, the alpha dog of junior high! Surely you’re excited about that.” His chapped lips parted into a wide grin and his teeth shined seashell white. It made me smile as well.

I shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.” My smile disappeared and my gaze migrated to the dirt. “I just don’t want to have to spend it alone.”

My father sat on the dirt in front of me. “What do you mean? Don’t you have any friends?”

I shook my head. “They all make fun of me and call me Jittery Johnny.”

My father gently placed his hand on mine. When I looked up, his expression was filled with the love and concern of a million years’ worth of parents.

“Don’t worry, buddy. It’ll all get better soon. I promise.” His words caused me to smile again and like any ignorant son would do, I believed him. “C’mon. Let’s get this fire started before it gets dark.”

The next few hours after the fire started blazing were probably the best I had ever experienced. We ate s’mores, told ghost stories around the fire, and talked about what life was going to be like when school started again. It was your typical, picture-perfect, too-good-to-be-true father/son camping trip, and I couldn’t have been happier. Of course that couldn’t last.

The moon, shining like a candle in a silver crystal ball, was the only light to break the black that dwarfed the stars; we had only been asleep for a few minutes when we heard a growling outside the tent. At first, we lay still in our sleeping bags, hoping that the creature would leave when it didn’t hear or see any movement. After a few minutes, the growling was accompanied by another, much deeper growling.

My father pulled something out of his pocket and used it to light a lantern.

“Wolves,” he whispered as he eyed the shadows.

Slowly, carefully, he reached for his rifle on the dirt beside him—almost everyone in Shasta County brought guns to the lake for protection, though it wasn’t technically legal—and rose into a sitting position.

“Maybe they’ll go away if we’re quiet,” I whispered, my voice even quieter than his. My heart raced as I heard more growling, this time by my side of the tent.

My father didn’t respond and for ten minutes or so we waited in silence for the wolves to leave, but the growling never faded. The noise moved as the wolves circled the tent, calculating the precise moment to strike. My heart slowed during this time, and I started to wonder why the wolves had not attacked yet.

“They aren’t going to leave.” My father shifted to a crouching position, his rifle resting on his knee. He turned his head to me. “Stay here. Don’t come out no matter what happens.” His expression was grave. He grabbed the lantern, took a deep breath, and thrust the light out of the tent to blind the wolves.

I watched my father run out, his rifle poised for battle. The light of the lantern cast a shadow puppetry of the fight on the walls of the tent. The two wolves were abnormally large; their heads were easily on a level with my father’s—who was five feet, eleven inches—and their bodies were at least seven feet in length.

“Holy crud!” I heard my father yell, the closest that he had ever come to swearing. He tightened his grip on the rifle and my heart skipped a beat.

Somehow, his exclamation didn’t cause the wolves to attack. They slowly circled my father, and my father stood firm, his rifle always pointing at one or the other. My heart pounded. After what couldn’t have been more than five minutes but felt like eternity, my father pulled the trigger. I didn’t see where the bullet went but heard a wolf howl in pain and the other one growl. In the blink of an eye, the growling wolf pounced and pinned my father to the ground, knocking the rifle into the side of the tent. My ears rang with my father’s screams as the wolf began to rip his flesh. The shadows of the tearing alone brought me to tears and made me want to vomit.

“Dad! Dad, no!”

I scrambled to my feet and ran to the flap of the tent. I barely saw my father when the wolf’s attention shifted to me. Blood oozed from my father’s back in a Nile of scarlet. His head, weak from the blood loss, turned and he looked at me with remorse and regret.

“Johnny…” His eyes closed. I couldn’t tell if he was dead; I feared the worst.

My attention was on the injured wolf as he took over the destruction of my father’s body. Even as the other wolf’s jaw clamped down on my ribs, its claws dug deep into my shoulder, and blood-curdling screams erupted from my own throat, my eyes stayed on the injured wolf and my father’s remains. I soon lost consciousness.

I awoke three days later at Mercy Medical Center, my mother weeping in a chair beside the bed. She told me that rangers heard the screaming and came in time to save me, but my father’s body and the wolves were nowhere to be seen. Our campsite was wrecked and the only traces of the incident they could find were ripped pieces of my father’s clothes, his rifle, and tufts of sandy brown and rusty fur. I didn’t cry in the hospital. At my father’s funeral—where we buried the sign for his hardware store in lieu of his body—I didn’t cry, even as my mother and three-year-old brother bawled. However, when I lay in my bed at home all alone, I cried myself to sleep because no one could see.

~ ~ ~

“Hello Johnny,” Dr. Huber said, smiling. “Are you ready for today’s session?”

“Am I ever?” I sighed and plopped down on Dr. Huber’s chaise longue (he taught me that word). “So, what’s going on today, doc?”

Dr. Huber shrugged. “The usual: I ask you questions, you answer them, and, hopefully, talking everything out will make you feel better and get you out of here sooner.”

I laughed, but it was dry and humorless. “It’s Hotel California, doc. I can check out anytime, but there is no way in hell that I’ll ever be able to leave.”

Dr. Huber snickered then attempted to be somber, but his young face betrayed his joy and his icy blue eyes shined. I smiled at his amusement and my muscles relaxed a little.

“Though I do not care, the staff prefers that you call it the Californian Mental Institute for Troubled Teens.”

“Hotel California. Got it.”

Dr. Huber snickered again then truly became serious. “So, tell me about your day.”

I lay back on the couch and folded my hands on my stomach as I collected my thoughts.

“Well, I was interviewed by another one of those doctors that analyzes the patients and updates their profiles. You know, this place has a lot of practices that you don’t hear of when people talk about mental hospitals. Is this place even official?” I paused but he didn’t answer. “I guess that’s what they mean by ‘progressive institution.’ It has different methods.”

“Tell me about your session. Which doctor was it?”

I shrugged. “D’nno. Frederickson, I think. Maybe it was Peterson. All the names start to blur after a while. Yours is the only one I ever bother to remember.”

His pen scratched notes onto some paper. “How did the session make you feel?”

My hands tensed into fists and my foot began to twitch. “I-it made me feel frustrated a-and angry.”

“Why?”

“Be-because they a-all ask me th-the same qu-questions over and over again.” My foot twitched faster. “‘D-do you kn-know why you’re h-here?’ ‘Wh-what di-disease do you h-have?’ ‘W-what d-do you th-think is happening?’ It’s a-always the s-same!” My face heated with rage. “I-I’m tired of i-it!”

Dr. Huber’s face was mostly emotionless, though his eyes were empathetic and sad. “Were there any particular questions that upset you?”

“O-other than th-the ones that in-insulted my in-intelligence?” I laughed. My twitching slowed as I remembered a few of the questions. I nodded. “Y-yeah. He a-asked me wh-when the tra-transformations started and tr-tried to get me t-to talk about my father’s d-d-d-death.”

He looked up from his paper, his eyes curious. “Did you?”

I shook my head, my eyes closed. “T-too p-painful.”

Dr. Huber sighed, as if he too were hurt. “Any others that upset you?”

I nodded and my foot twitched again. “Y-yeah. He a-asked me i-if I th-thought I w-was sane.”

“What did you say?”

“Y-yes, o-of course,” I said. I’m not insane! I just turn into a wolf. I swear I do!

~ ~ ~

It was the last Sunday in August, one month after my father died, and I had just finished reading If I Ran the Zoo to my brother, Tommy, to get him to sleep. That little booger sure took a long time to settle down. My mother was at my aunt’s for the weekend. She had slipped into a depression spell related to my father’s death and needed to get away from the house at the last minute. She had to take sick leave and reschedule a work conference. Of course, that meant I was the only one who could babysit. As I passed the grandfather clock in our hallway, the clock struck ten. When I reached my bedroom, I turned off the hall lights and closed my door most of the way; it was late and I needed to get some sleep since my carpool to school was going to pick me up at seven.

I was already in my striped maroon boxers and faded Dodgers shirt—my preferred pajamas—so I just stretched out on my bed, my door still slightly ajar. I clapped myself into complete darkness except for the light leaking through my shades. The light was uncomfortable, blinding; I threw my arm over my eyes but it did not help. After ten minutes, I groaned in frustration and sat up. What could cause such a light? Cottonwood was not a party town, so the lights couldn’t have been from a neighbor’s house or a car; there were no streetlights either, so that couldn’t have been it. I yanked up the shades and found that the answer was simple but, apparently, dangerous: the moon, bright and looming, was full. What happened next was unexplainable.

I collapsed and my eyes closed, as if I was suddenly asleep. Not a minute later, my eyes shot open, my vision hazy, and I began to scream. My muscles burned with the heat of a thousand hells and each bone felt as if it was being stretched to over twice its original length. I rolled onto the floor, still screaming, and closed my eyes against the pounding in my skull. My screaming soon turned into howling, and I felt something clawing at my arms, only realizing later that I was the one doing the scratching. After what could have been five minutes or two hours, the pain ceased. I waited a moment to recover before I opened my eyes.

I was looking at the ground not from the height of a crouch but from the height of when I stand, though I was still on all fours. Where my hands had been were two large, black-furred paws; I literally panted as I tried to gather my thoughts, but none would exist long enough for me to gather them. I could see everything that I could not see in the dark before: my desk, the TV, my cell phone, my entire collection of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Ernest Hemingway novels. I could hear Tommy’s soft breathing a few doors down; I could even smell him, a mixture of dirt, Play-doh, flesh, and blood. My mouth watered at the smell and before I could register my own instinct, I had squeezed myself through my door and was prowling to Tommy’s room.

With my new sight I could see every detail of his room: Bob the Builder toys, cowboy wallpaper, Dr. Seuss books, and Tommy, curled under his Woody and Buzz comforter. His breathing was slow and steady, so I deemed it safe to walk closer. His smell was even more irresistible up-close; the kill would be easy for me and painless for him. When my head was only a foot away from him, I growled and he awoke with a shudder.

Tommy looked up at me, his eyes droopy with sleep, and then smiled.

“Doggy!” he exclaimed in his high-pitched voice. He looked me over and said, “Johnny! Johnny doggy!”

I never could figure out how he knew it was me, and at the time all I could register was that he was awake and he was my baby brother. In his amber eyes I saw my reflection, the image of a tall wolf with coal-black fur, razor-sharp teeth, and the same amber eyes as him. I whimpered and nudged Tommy with my muzzle then backed out of the room. Even as I walked down the hall to the living room I could hear Tommy say, “Johnny doggy! Johnny doggy!”

In the living room, I found no way outside. The doors were locked and the transformation and confrontation with Tommy had left me weak and confused. I slammed myself against walls, knocked over books, candles, and potted plants, ripped the stuffing out of the couch cushions, and broke glass picture frames, thinking that they were real humans and trying to attack them. All the while, the smell of human flesh and blood burned my nose and throat. All of my remaining self-control was needed to not go back. As it was, I imagined ripping out Tommy’s throat and lapping up the warm blood; the mere thought of the taste of flesh—a taste I had never experienced—made my mouth water. I growled, howled, and clawed myself, trying with all my might to not go back. After half an hour I fell to the floor, too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

I awoke to the sunrise several hours later. My head throbbed and my muscles ached with every movement; my arms were covered in scratches and still bleeding a bit; my entire body was covered in bruises. Looking around, I could see that everything that I had knocked over the night before was still on the ground. The cushions on the couch were wrecked and several frames were smashed. Just what I needed: a mess to clean up before Mom came home Tuesday. I looked down at myself, avoiding the scars on my shoulder and side from the wolf attack, and saw that I was naked. Though no one was around, I ran to my room, slamming the door closed.

As I dressed and readied myself for school, I thought about the night before and how impossible the events were. They had been like something out of a terrible, feel-sorry-for-the-monster horror film. I wrote them off to a vivid nightmare and sleepwalking.

After I had finished eating and called my neighbor to babysit, I went to Tommy’s room. He was awake and, like any three-year-old boy, was bouncing on the bed.

“Knock that off!” I yelled through laughter. I ran and caught him mid-air then sat with him on the bed. “I’m going to school, so Mrs. Nordstrom is going to look after you, all right?”

Tommy nodded, smiling brightly.

“Boys!” the high-pitched voice of our middle-aged neighbor, Mrs. Nordstrom, called from the living room.

“I’ll be right there, Mrs. Nordstrom!” I called to her before addressing Tommy. “All right. I’m going to go talk to Mrs. Nordstrom. Be a good boy.” I went to the door and turned to look at him. “Be good. Don’t move a muscle until Mrs. Nordstrom comes back here. Got it?”

He nodded again. “Johnny doggy!”

I paused then shook my head, figuring that I heard him wrong. “Bye, Tommy.”

As I walked away from the door I heard him very clearly say, “Bye-bye, Johnny doggy!”

That was not the last time I changed nor was it the last time that Tommy saw me in my wolf form. It was the only transformation during which I was not either stuck in my room or outside; all other times either the doors leading outside were unlocked or I was so scared for my family’s safety that I locked myself away.

~ ~ ~

I lay on my bed, counting the number of cracks in the ceiling as my roommate carried on a conversation with himself.

“But I don’t want to play ball,” he whined in his natural Californian accent.

“It’s America’s favorite pastime, son,” he then said in a deep, southern drawl.

“Eh, forget him. Watchin’ the sport is a lot more fun. Go Yankees!” he said with a Brooklyn accent.

He had multiple-personality disorder or something. I found that it was best to just not ask or get involved at all. I had more important things to not think about, anyway.

Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight—

“Yo Johnny,” my roommate said in his Brooklyn accent. “Can you tell these fools that the Red Socks suck?”

“Don’t answer him. He won’t shut up if you do,” he continued in his normal voice.

I nodded but my foot started to twitch. “W-whatever gets you a-all to sh-shut up, K-Ken.”

Ken tilted his head to one side. “What’s wrong Johnny, my boy?” he asked in his southern drawl. “Family visits are today. Don’t ya want to see your kin?”

I shrugged, my foot still twitching. “I-I would i-if it weren’t f-for one hi-hitch.”

“Hitch? Johnny, my boy, you ain’t making no sense. What hitch?”

I sighed. “M-my stepfather. I-I just kn-know that he’s g-going to d-do some th-things to t-tick me off the m-moment my m-mother is out o-of the r-room.”

“I thought you said that your stepdad was a candy striper,” Ken said in his natural voice. He hopped onto my bed, his butt barely missing my twitching foot. “How bad can he be?”

My hands balled into fists and my foot twitched faster. “P-pretty b-bad.”

“What could he possibly do that’s so bad?”

I took a deep, shuddering breath. “H-he’s j-just not n-nice to me, th-that’s all. H-he d-doesn’t like me.”

Ken’s black eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose. “Why’d your mother marry him in the first place?”

That question put a stop to my twitching. I had to think back to a year ago when my mother had announced that she was marrying Henry. Our whole family had loved him then. Now, I could scarcely make sense of what happened. Not even my tell-tale stuttering showed my emotions as I spoke.

“I guess that my mother needed the emotional support. He’s nice to her and Tommy. He’s just not nice to me, at least, not anymore.”

“What do y’all mean by not anymore?” Ken asked in his southern drawl.

I shrugged. “He used to bring me and Tommy gifts, back when he and my mom were first dating.”

“He sounds like most abusive jerks.” I was relieved to hear Ken talk in his normal voice. “He gives you presents then turns his anger on you as soon as he thinks he can get away with it.” He sighed, looking straight ahead. “My sister’s dated enough of them for me to know the type.”

I shook my head with no sign of emotion. “No, he wasn’t like that at first. He just gave us gifts and was nice. After I got out of the hospital, he came to our house to make sure I was coping well. He played with Tommy and talked with my mom.” I let out a dry laugh. “We should’ve known something was wrong with him when he said that he’d been divorced twice.”

Ken looked down at me then and said in his southern accent, “Well, Johnny, my boy, I’m dyin’ to know. Why does your ma stay with him?”

I shrugged and lied, “D’nno.”

~ ~ ~

Two months ago, just after dinner, I knelt outside my mother and Henry’s bedroom door. I had told them of the transformations a few months before, but neither of them had told me their opinions on the matter. Henry asked my mother if he could speak with her in their room after he finished his roast beef, and by the way he looked in my direction, I knew it was about me. My ear was pressed against the door, my hands cupped around it to amplify the sound, but I soon found that I did not need to do that.

“I am not sending my son there!” my mother yelled.

“Tracy, it’s what’s best. The boy’s out of control!” I heard Henry’s voice bellow.

“But to send him to a mental institution? Isn’t that a little harsh? He’s only fifteen.”

I paled, yet somehow I was not completely surprised by Henry’s desire.

“There is such a thing as a fifteen-year-old psychopath, Tracy.”

There’s also such a thing as a wicked stepfather, I thought and snickered to myself.

“That’s going too far. Johnny’s a good boy. He’s just upset since his father died. It’s natural that he’s been having these dreams—”

“Dreams? You’ve seen what he does to his room and the living room.”

“So? He just sleepwalks.”

“Sleepwalks? Listen to yourself, Tracy! The boy thinks he turns into a wolf and destroys everything in reach. He’s sick and needs help.”

“But I hear that the Californian Mental Institute for Troubled Teens is…off itself. People walk in there one way and come out complete strangers.”

“That’s because they cure them!”

“No, Henry. They come out worse than before.” My mother paused. “Johnny isn’t crazy. He just needs to see a therapist or a counselor. He’ll get better with time. He’s just grieving.”

Henry laughed dryly. “You’re so blinded by love for him that you can’t see that he has some sort of mental disease.”

“Why are you doing this, Henry?” I could hear tears in her voice. “You’re not normally like this.”

I held my breath. A few minutes of silence passed.

“I’m sorry, honey. I really am. I’m just scared for our family.” His voice was smooth as silk and sweet as chocolate; he would have only spoken to my mother that way.

My mother sniffled again. “I know, but there has to be a better way.”

Henry’s voice became firm but stayed gentle. “Love, I don’t think there is. You don’t want him to end up hurting someone, right? Including himself?”

I heard my mother sigh around a sob.

“No.”

“Then we need to do this. He doesn’t just destroy rooms and furniture. He’s mutilating himself. At this rate, he may kill himself.”

My heart sank. Though I wondered why Henry cared about me enough to even think of that, I knew that he was right. The scars that I left on my arms each transformation were brutal.

I heard footsteps as Henry walked toward my mother, most likely to wrap his arms around her.

“I’m afraid that he’ll hurt Tommy at this rate.” I had worried about the same thing. “I don’t want anything to happen to my sons.”

“Neither…neither of them are your sons.” My mother sniffled amongst her words and though venom was evident in her voice, she sounded tired and defeated. “They’re Malcolm’s! He would’ve talked to Johnny first and taken him to a therapist before trying to enter him into an insane asylum.”

“Well, he’s not here, now is he?” Henry’s voice was a hiss. “I’m here now and what I say goes.”

I wanted so badly to strangle Henry with his own intestines. It was still my father’s house; he was nothing more than a vermin in it and needed to respect my father’s memory.

“You know, the only reason why you’re here is because Malcolm’s dead.” My mother sounded disgusted in Henry. It made me smile. She sighed and her voice softened. “Johnny just means so much to me. I don’t want to send him away.”

“I know you don’t.” Footsteps walked away from my mother, a drawer was opened and closed, and footsteps approached my mother again. “Just read the pamphlet.”

A few minutes of silence passed before my mother replied, her voice barely audible and completely submissive. “I suppose we have no other choice.”

Henry’s voice was gentle. “I know this is hard for you. Come here.”

I could imagine what happened next: he stretched his arms out to her, she walked between them, and he hugged her to his chest, as if he wasn’t sending me away.

I pulled away from the door and sat on the floor. I tried to register everything, but all I could understand was that I was being sent away because Henry thought I was crazy. He even had my mother on board. I put my face in my hand.

“Johnny?” Tommy’s voice, quiet and timid, said. “Johnny, what’s going on?”

I looked at him and smiled weakly. “N-nothing, Tommy. G-go back to your r-room. I-I’ll be there in a mi-minute to read to you.”

Tommy cocked his head at me and held his toy truck closer to his chest. “Liar.”

I sighed. “J-just go back to your r-room. I-I can’t explain e-everything right now.”

Tommy sat beside me. “Henry’s sending you away. Why are they sending you away?” It was a statement, not a question.

“D-don’t be silly.” Because Henry hates me.

“I heard him. He’s loud.” Tommy leaned his head on my arm. “Please don’t go, Johnny.”

I looked down at Tommy and patted his head. I calmed completely, for him. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

Tommy closed his eyes. “Liar.”

I know, but you shouldn’t, I thought.

“Come on, little buddy. Let’s go play firefighter or read. Which would you prefer?”

Tommy shrugged. “Reading.”

“All right, reading it is.” I jumped to my feet. “What book? Choose any book you want.”

Tommy stood and looked up at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Any book?”

I nodded. “Yep. Any book.”

Tommy smiled. “Read me Harry Potter ’cause it’s about a boy that gets sent away to a good place.”

My heart stung, but I tried not to think about or show it. “Harry Potter it is. Come on!”

As I read the book to Tommy, I found myself wishing more and more that my life was like Harry’s. I wished that when I would go away, it would be to somewhere magical and worthwhile, somewhere where I would meet good friends and learn lifelong lessons. I also wished that Henry was like Uncle Vernon so that he would be fat and everyone would be repulsed by him, not just Tommy and me.

~ ~ ~

“Johnny!” Tommy, five years old, yelled as he jumped into my arms. “Johnny! Johnny! I miss you, Johnny!”

I laughed. “I miss you too, little buddy. Have you been good?”

Tommy beamed up at me and nodded, the widest of smiles plastered on his face. “I sure have! I’ve been the bestest boy in the whole world!”

I laughed again. “I bet you have!” I released him and smiled at the woman with him, a beautiful woman with long, wavy brunette hair, and sparkling hazel eyes. Her smile was broad but did not prevent me from being shocked at the bruise under her right eye. Still, I ignored it to temporarily keep the peace. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie.” My mother wrapped her arms around my shoulders and I wrapped mine around her sides. She pulled away and looked me over. “How are you?”

I shrugged. “I’ve been a whole lot better, but I’ve also been worse.”

“So you kind of like it here?” The hope in her voice was heart-warming.

I snorted. “I never said that. I just said that I’ve been worse.” I stopped and looked my mother in the face. She appeared about to say something but when she didn’t I added, “I want to get the hell out of here, Mom.”

“Language, son!” she scolded me.

“I’m sorry. I just really want to get out of here. Everyone’s either insane or condescending.”

She cocked her head. “I thought that you liked one of the doctors?”

I nodded. “Yeah, Dr. Huber, but that’s it.” I sighed and clenched my fist. My face heated and my foot started to twitch. “M-mom, th-they keep a-asking me the s-same questions o-over and over a-again. Th-they aren’t h-helping me and th-they make me f-feel st-stupid. I-I’m going c-crazy in h-here!”

“And that’s different from any other day how?” a deep voice asked. When I looked, I saw a six-foot, tanned man of muscular build in a blue-striped polo shirt and black pants. He had a full head of combed, fluffy, dark brown hair, and his thin lips were pulled back in a smirk.

My mother elbowed him in the stomach; she cringed as my eyes widened and his eyes narrowed. Her voice was sweet yet nervous as she spoke. “Henry, can you please be nice to Johnny? He’s going through some hard times, you know.”

Henry’s lips softened into a smile. “Of course, sweetheart. How rude of me.” He kissed her gently on the cheek then turned to face me. I could still hear a suppressed smirk in his tone. “Hello, Johnny.”

My insides roared in hatred. “H-hello, H-Henry. W-what are y-you doing h-here? V-visiting is f-for f-families o-only.”

Henry held my mother tightly to his side. “I’m your family as of a year ago, remember?” He kissed my mother on the neck. “Whose idea was this again, sweetheart?”

“Yours, love,” my mother said, smiling at the kiss. “For family bonding, remember?”

I wanted nothing more than to demand that my mother stop fearing Henry and divorce his ass, but the love in her eyes at that moment made me stop. Obviously, she still saw a bit of the candy striper in him. I looked toward Tommy, who was looking back at me with wide, sad eyes. My temper cooled quickly.

“What’s the matter, buddy?”

Tommy looked at Henry and then back at me. “Henry’s being mean. I don’t like it.”

To my surprise, Henry just laughed, though it was not joyful. “Sorry, Tommy. I’ll try to be better about that. Come, let’s sit down.” He escorted my mother to one of the tables, leaving Tommy and me to follow.

When we sat down, my mother turned her attention to me. “So, Johnny, do you think that this place is helping you?”

I shook my head. “Absolutely not. To tell you the truth, I don’t know why I’m here in the first place. These guys are wacko.”

Henry smirked again. “Well, it takes one—” He stopped and looked at my mother, who was scowling. “I mean, I’m sorry to hear that. I was hoping that this place would help you.”

I growled.

Henry raised his hands in mock-defense. “Woah! I guess he wasn’t lying, Tracy. He is a big bad wolf after all.”

“Henry, Johnny, please!” Her eyes were so sad and desperate that my anger ceased.

“I’m just playing with the boy, Tracy. You know that, don’t you, Johnny?” Henry faked a punch across the table at my arm. My mom winced at the sight of his fist.

I took a deep breath but nodded for my mother’s sake. “Y-yeah. I kn-know. It’s f-funny. Ha.” I glanced at my mother and she smiled gratefully at me.

“Now seriously, kid, is this place worth our money or not?” Henry’s voice was venomous and my mother paled.

“S-seriously, H-Henry, I d-don’t think th-that I n-need t-to b-be here.” My hand twitched rapidly under the table. “I-I am n-not m-making the trans-transformations up.”

“Henry, behave!” My mother shifted away from Henry, glaring at him. It made me smile.

For a moment, Henry’s eyes looked over my mother with a new light of respect.

“Of course, my darling.” He glanced at me then and his eyes were cold, but his voice was gentle as he spoke to my mother. “Tracy, why don’t you and Tommy go see if the food in the cafeteria is any good? Maybe we’ll have dinner here. I’m going to stay and have a chat with Johnny.”

My mother shot me a please-behave-for-me glance then stood.

“Of course, love. We’ll be back soon.” She kissed his forehead then held her hand out to Tommy. “Let’s go, Tommy. Maybe they have those big cookies you like.”

“Cookies!” Tommy grinned broadly and jumped off the bench. He grabbed our mother’s hand as they walked.

Henry watched my mother and Tommy leave the room; my furious eyes never left Henry.

He turned to me once he was sure they were gone. “You seriously still think that you’re a werewolf?” His voice was low but vicious. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

My face reddened and my hand began to twitch under the table again. “N-no, I’m n-not. I ch-change into a w-wolf.”

“Oh, come off it!” Henry said so loudly that the entire visitation area turned to watch our conversation. “You cannot change into a wolf.”

My face reddened deeper from embarrassment, but I refused to raise my voice. “Y-yes I c-can.” My hand twitched faster. “J-just be-because you h-haven’t seen it—”

“Has anyone seen you change?” His voice still echoed through the room.

I couldn’t restrain myself anymore. I yelled, “T-Tommy has s-seen me a-as a w-wolf!”

“Tommy’s five. He probably dreams about seeing you as a wolf because you fucking brainwash him during the day with all your stories.”

Before I could reply, a blonde-haired woman in a white button-up blouse and skirt tapped Henry on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir,” her voice was soft and quiet, conditioned for speaking with overly sensitive patients, “could you please keep your voice down? You’re disturbing the other guests.”

Henry’s face melted into a warm smile. His voice was like honey as he spoke to her. “I’m so sorry. I promise that we will be quieter. You have such lovely hair, by the way. Is it natural?”

The woman blushed and touched her golden locks. “Why yes, it is. Thanks for noticing.”

Henry patted her hand, still smiling. “It’s very beautiful. If only I wasn’t married.”

The woman giggled.

I shook my head, my hand still twitching. What liars and fucking flirts.

“Well, just so long as you promise to keep quiet, I’ll let you be.”

The woman left, her cheeks redder than her scarlet lipstick. She kept looking back to see if Henry was watching her.

When the woman was finally gone, Henry glared at me. He leaned forward and whispered, “Get it through your skull that you’re sick, son. Sick or a liar.”

“I-I am n-not s-sick and I-I am n-not a l-liar!” I stood, my hands on the table. My twitching became more rapid. “I-I am a w-werewolf! H-how else w-would you ex-explain w-wolves as tall a-as a p-person a-attacking m-me and m-my dad?”

“You were the only one who saw the wolves and lived! You could have been so scared senseless that you thought they were bigger than they were.” His voice was still low and he glanced at the nurses out of the corner of his eye. “Keep it quiet, or else.”

“O-or else w-what?” My voice rose further. “Y-you’re the o-one that st-started this!”

“Don’t you dare turn this on me!” Henry stood and slammed his hands on the table. He didn’t seem to care that two nurses were rushing over. “Look at yourself! You twitch, stutter, and think you’re a werewolf. Honestly, do you think you’re sane?”

That question silenced me and shoved me onto the bench. I didn’t know how to answer.

~ ~ ~

I shoveled puréed chicken and carrots mixed with mashed potatoes into my mouth and gagged. It didn’t taste bad; the texture just didn’t feel right. I spun my tray around to put the desert in front of me. Cherry jell-o, again. I had been at this asylum for just over a month and all they had served us was mashed crap and jell-o. Solid foods were for visitors only. They wouldn’t even let us use forks! Did they really think that a lycanthrope would stab themselves?

Well, maybe not stab themselves. My eyes drifted down to my arm. I rolled the sleeve up to reveal fresh, red claw marks the length of my forearm and winced. Last night was rough. I couldn’t believe that no one had talked to me about it. The camera must have caught it on tape…

All I remembered from the night before was the normal pain of change and the self-mutilation brought on by the tantalizing aroma of the hospital’s human patients. The flesh, the blood, it was all so close that I couldn’t ignore it, but the damned walls barricaded me and the only thing that I could attack other than my bed—which I thoroughly destroyed—was myself.

The very thought of the smells and my previous desire for them put the taste of vomit in my mouth. I quickly tried to eat some jell-o. Bad idea. The vomit almost solidified and I had to spit everything into a napkin. No wonder I had lost ten pounds since I arrived here.

“Not exactly appetizing, is it?” I heard a man’s voice say through laughter.

I smiled weakly up at Dr. Huber. “Not really. What I wouldn’t give for a Big Mac!”

Dr. Huber snickered. He sat down on the bench opposite me and leaned forward. His voice was a whisper.

“Well, I don’t know about a Big Mac, but I have some Arby’s in my office if you want a bite.”

My eyes must have widened because Dr. Huber laughed quietly.

“Won’t you get in trouble for sneaking outside food to a patient?” I whispered.

Dr. Huber grinned. “Don’t worry about that. I was told to talk to you anyway, and I can’t really get in trouble for talking to a patient in my office with the door closed and locked for privacy.” Even so, his voice was low. He stood and gestured for me to follow him. “Come. Leave your tray; one of the cafeteria workers will get it.”

I nodded and obediently stood to follow him.

The walk to Dr. Huber’s office was quick. It was just down the hall to the left of the cafeteria. On our way there, we walked past a dozen offices, each occupied by a patient and a doctor. Some patients quietly discussed their problems, others screamed at the doctors as their hands waved wildly, and the rest just stayed silent. Each doctor listened, scribbled notes, and nodded, all with the same blank expression on their faces. At least Dr. Huber had emotions.

Once in his office with the door securely locked, Dr. Huber and I sat in our respective spots. He tossed me a Philly beef toasted sub and I nearly dropped the covered au jus container. I quickly walked over and grabbed my curly fries before he could throw them at me, too. I had just begun to dig into my sandwich—it was so good—when Dr. Huber spoke around a mouthful of roast beef.

“Now, I was told,” he swallowed, “to tell you that you will be getting a roommate starting next week. His name is Ken.”

I groaned before taking another bite of my sandwich. I knew that I would to have to share my room eventually, but I was hoping that it wouldn’t be so soon after my first transformation here. I felt Dr. Huber’s eyes on me and swallowed.

“Sir, I think that me having a roommate…might be a problem.” I gnawed on a curly fry as I tried to think of how to explain. “You see, at the full moon, when I change—or at least, when people say that I think I do—I…well…I tend to hurt myself and everything around me.” I lifted my sleeve to show him the cuts. At least I could explain this to him without stuttering.

Dr. Huber winced, as if he knew that kind of pain. He then smiled kindly at me, his eyes empathetic.

“I understand completely. The security camera was broken or turned off last night, so I came by your room before I went to the cafeteria to see how you were doing.” He chuckled quietly. “Fantastic job on your bed.” He chuckled again as my face heated. “Don’t worry. It’s being replaced as we speak. As far as the possibility of you hurting your roommate, I could arrange for you to stay in the privacy room at the infirmary during the full moon. It’s a one-person room. There’s just a security camera like everywhere else. What do you say?”

I swallowed again and grinned. “Sounds great!” My grin became sheepish and I scratched the back of my neck. “Thanks, Dr. Huber. I knew you’d understand.”

Dr. Huber nodded, trying to keep his face unreadable. However, there seemed to be a smile in his eyes.

“That is what I am here for, Johnny.”

Five minutes of silent eating passed before he spoke again.

“Now, there is something else that I want to talk to you about, something that I can’t say in front of the rest of the staff.” Dr. Huber sighed and set down his sandwich. “Despite my inheritance, there are many reasons why I need this job, but I really think I need to tell you this.” His voice was strained and his eyes were dull, but the rest of his face was expressionless.

I set my sandwich in my lap. “What is it, Dr. Huber?”

Dr. Huber shook his head. “Just bare with me, Johnny, and please stay quiet until I’m finished.” He sighed and looked straight at me. His next words sounded rehearsed, completely void of all emotion. “I know you’re going through some tough times right now.”

No shit, really? I thought, still listening with my mouth firmly shut.

“Trust me, though, it could be a lot worse.”

Worse than being stuck in the loony bin, having “doctors” telling me to “trust them?”

“I just want you to know that you are not insane.”

I laughed mentally. Really? Prove it!

“You are not alone in this situation. There are other people going through exactly what you are going through.”

Perfect, there are other crackpots who think they’re turning into wolves. Isn’t that great?

“It’s perfectly…well, not normal, per say, but not uncommon, either. In fact, I know of several people going through this very situation right now, one of whom is a very close friend of mine.” Dr. Huber paused, his eyes swirling both dull and light in internal conflict. “You will be joining them soon, not next week or even in the next month but before the year is over.”

My hand twitched on my knee and I could only think the worst.

In other words: we’ll soon be transferring you to a specialty clinic because you’re too much of a handful for us. Got it.

His eyes jumped to my twitching hand. “Don’t worry; you are no less sane than they are.”

I huffed. Yeah, that makes me feel better. I’m no crazier than a bunch of deranged freaks.

He shook his head. “I know you don’t believe me. I wouldn’t either. I just need you to trust that I know what I am doing. I will help you through this.” He threw off his emotional mask and his whole face appeared desperate. “Please, I just want to help you, Johnny.”

My hand continued to twitch. “I-I just wish I-I kn-knew what you w-were s-saying.” I stared him straight in the eyes. “Wh-what are you t-trying to t-tell me? A-am I g-going to a new f-facility? D-do you have f-friends with th-this condition? W-were you c-cured of i-it?” My twitching quickened at the final possibility. “Are y-you a-a w-w-werewolf?”

Dr. Huber lowered the mask once more. Only his eyes revealed that he was calculating his options. His voice was soft and cautious, more like the other doctors than my Dr. Huber. “Let’s just say that I deal with cases like yours everyday, only outside this facility.”

I could see fear in his eyes, fear that I wouldn’t believe him. I didn’t believe him but decided to not push the matter. I forced myself to calm a bit.

“V-very well, Dr. Hu-huber.” I bit into my sandwich. After a few minutes of chewing, I was relaxed again. “Thanks for the food.”

Dr. Huber smiled, laughed, and lifted his own sandwich in a mock toast. His voice was once again his, alive and full of joy. “Anytime, my young friend, any time!”

We did not bring the subject up again. Even when Dr. Huber introduced Ken to me, it didn’t come up. Our sessions continued with me slandering the facility and Dr. Huber trying not to laugh. Still, his words ran through my head each night, sometimes entering my dreams. They were comforting. Thinking that Dr. Huber understood me and that there were other people with my problems soothed me. It also made me wonder exactly how sane those people were. If Dr. Huber was dealing with them, were they in asylums too? Did everyone think they were crazy? Were they in a specialty clinic and that’s what Dr. Huber meant by I’d be joining them? Even if we were all werewolves, how could we know for sure? We could all just be insane.

~ ~ ~

I lay on my bed again, trying to not think back on the day. Even so, my mind drifted back to the session with Dr. What’s-his-name, the talk with Dr. Huber, the fight with Henry, and Dr. Huber’s words from a few weeks ago. All of it had brought up the same question: am I sane?

Of course I’m sane! I thought. Then again, Henry’s right. Thinking that you’re a wolf isn’t normal, and…well…relying on your five-year-old brother as a witness isn’t exactly a good idea. Still, I couldn’t have made those wolves up. I just couldn’t have, no matter how scared I was. They were larger than life and you just have no choice but to remember those kinds of details correctly. Then again, that’s how big fish stories get started… This battle raged in my head for what felt like five minutes or so. Father saw the wolves, but he can’t vouch their size for me. Either Henry and Mother are very deep sleepers or Henry didn’t want Mother out of bed to check on me, so only Tommy has seen me as a wolf. Still, something in my gut told me that I couldn’t be crazy. I remember all these things so vividly that they can’t have been imagined.

I stopped myself; it was a stupid question. I was no less sane than Henry or any of the doctors at this stupid hospital, and reconsidering my sanity would just make me insane. I buried my face in my hands. I at least hoped for Tommy’s sake that I wasn’t crazy. He didn’t need another problem.

“Johnny! Johnny, my boy!” I heard Ken say in his southern drawl. I hadn’t even realized that he was in the room. “You was staring at nothing like you have a lot on your mind.”

I glanced over at him and shrugged. “I guess I do, Ken.”

“That’s Sergeant Ken to you!”

I tried not to laugh. “Sorry, Sergeant Ken.” I scrunched my face in thought. “Sergeant Ken, can I ask you a question?”

Ken shrugged and jumped on my bed. “What you need, my boy?”

I hesitated. “What do you think about werewolves? Do you think they’re real?”

“Maybe, sonny, maybe. I seen a lot of crazy things in my day, so you never know.”

Ken added in his Brooklyn accident, “That seems like a bunch of mumbo jumbo, if you ask me. Nothing but folktales and nonsense.”

“He’s right,” Ken said in his normal voice. “There’s no evidence that anyone’s ever changed into a wolf. Usually, people were hallucinating because of bad bread or being scared shitless by some serial killer.”

My foot started to twitch. “Wh-what about those di-diagonsed with l-lycanthropy?”

“They only think that they’re changing. It’s a mental condition, like bi-polar. I don’t know the specifics; I’ve just heard bits and pieces about it. In my opinion, though, those guys are whack jobs stuck in their own little worlds.” Though I was relieved that Ken said all of this in his normal accent, it stung my heart. “That reminds me; you never told me what you’re in here for.”

My sigh was shaking and my foot twitched faster. “I-it’s b-because of m-my st-stuttering,” I lied. “Th-they th-think that it’s a n-nervous dis-disorder or s-something.”

“I see. Sorry, my boy,” Sergeant Ken said and jumped off my bed to do God knows what.

I stared at the ceiling, seeing only a world of confusion.

Edward Cullen and Harry Potter never had to go through this, I thought. They were never questioned. “I’m a vampire and I want your blood.” “All right. I love you!” “I’m a powerful wizard even though I’m abused.” “Great! Save us!” I huffed. Then again, that’s fiction. This is reality. Not everyone gets a fucking happy ending and can be controlled and forced to not question things. Henry would just love that.

I closed my eyes. Henry, the doctors, and Ken all believed that what I thought was nuts. Even my mother didn’t think that it could be the truth, just the nightmares of a grieving boy. Who believed me? Tommy—and he’s five—and Dr. Huber. At least, Dr. Huber seemed to believe me and perhaps he was one too, or he just didn’t want to upset me. Either way, almost everyone I knew thought that I was hallucinating and sick, probably even insane.

My eyes shot open.

“I’m mad!” I yelled, throwing my hands in the air. “I stutter, twitch, and turn into a wolf. I’m mad as a fucking hatter! Pretty soon I’m going to be having tea with a dormouse and the March Hare!”

“I’ll say that you’re mad, talking to yourself like that,” Ken said in his natural voice.

“Let the boy talk to himself, sonny. It ain’t hurting nobody, and we all need to talk to ourselves once in a blue moon,” Ken said, this time as Sergeant Ken.

“Yeah. I know for a fact that all the greatest men in the world are mad enough to talk to themselves: Woody Allen, Daniel Benzali, Mel Brooks, and a whole bunch of others,” Ken added in his Brooklyn voice.

“Ken!” I snapped. My foot twitched. “C-can you a-and your f-friends just sh-shut up for a f-few mi-minutes? I-I need to th-think.”

Ken looked hurt. “Fine. You’re the one talking to yourself.” He walked to the other side of the room and flopped on his bed, face down.

I turned on my side so that I faced the wall, my back on Ken. I closed my eyes tight and thought, If everyone is saying it, then it must be true.

You are not insane. I will help you get through this, Dr. Huber’s voice said in my head. I squeezed my eyes tighter.

I believe you, I replied, but no one else does. Everyone else says I’m insane, so it must be true. Even if I don’t think it is, it must be true.

I curled tightly into the fetal position. “I’m mad,” I murmured, as if to convince myself. “I’m mad, I’m mad, I’m mad.”

***

Author’s Note: This was written several years ago, when I was sixteen. I know that it still needs a lot of work, but after seeing Paul Stewart’s Weegie Wolf (link below), I had to dig it up and post it. I hope you at least like it a little!