Growing Pains

There was only one rule: don't open the door.

Papa locked each of the dozen steel bolts at dusk, whispering a prayer with every clank. Vasile didn't ask why, he knew the answer: "For protection."

Nightmares visited him:

Papa stuffing him under the bed, guarding the door with sword in hand. Violent pounding shaking the walls. Flickering flames.

"Open up, Petre! We know it is inside. It has no place in our village!"

Sweat beading on Papa's brow, his prayers no longer whispered. "My God, have regard to help me, for there have risen up against me...great fears, afflicting my soul. How shall I pass through unhurt? How shall I break them to pieces?"(1)

The ruckus quieting, solemnity gripping the invisible voice: "Leave them. No peace for those who shed innocent blood."

He still wasn't sure what the dreams meant.

Tonight Papa had given in to sleep long denied, and Vasile had a plan.

He'd met her chopping firewood. Summer curls encircled her forest-deep eyes. Her tongue clicked as garnet berry juice dripped onto her white skirt, like blood. She was greater mystery and more profound comfort than his father's locked door.

Tremulously, he opened the locks. Instantly, Papa's hand gripped his shoulder. "My son, you know not the danger."

"I know not the moonlight!" Desperation for it now seized him. Throwing off Papa's heavy hand, he rushed into the darkness.

Overcome with thirst -- bloodlust -- searing pain transformed him. Terrible claws erupted from his fingertips, fangs from his mouth. Salivating at the scent of his father's blood, he despised himself. A frightening, animalistic howl escaped his throat.

Papa had protected him, he wouldn't consume his own flesh and blood.

He knew where to find tender meat tonight, but no.

"No peace for those who shed innocent blood."

(1) 15th century, Thomas A. Kempis, public domain

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