It had been at least two hours since he had escaped from that "hospital." Actually, it was not much of a hospital; it was more of a jail. He did not want people to find out about him, but he also knew that sooner or later someone would, and that when they did there was nothing for him to do but be taken away by so called "doctors." He found a way out though. He found a way to get past the security guards in between the time that they escorted him from his room to his testing. As the doctors moved him through the hallways he tugged loose of their arms and ran for it. Most of the security guards that were on duty were sitting at the desk and by the time they realized that he had broken free of his escorts he was too far away for them to catch up. The red alert went up just as he opened the door and half of the staff at the hospital dropped what they were doing and started after him. The last person that he heard yelling after him was his personal doctor named Janis Westington, who was saying, "Wade! You're making a mistake! Don't do this, if they have to they will kill you!" He didn't care if they killed him. He was sick of those tests, of the people, of everything. He wanted to die; he was just too scared to do it himself. Now he was in the only place that had ever made him feel safe, the only place that he had ever wanted to be in while he changed. This was where he grew up and where he used to go when he was younger and went through his tantrums. It was an old shed set up by a small forest near the city.
     It was dark and damp; one weak light bulb held a few slipping electric rays that dimly lit a corner. It smelled like blood and must. The room was a bit small, one twin sized bed sat by a wall, dirty and unmade. The walls were in a slimy state; a few green spots let themselves decay upon the once clean surface. There were no windows. On the floor lay a few scattered knives, shards of bloody glass and a silver shining gun. In the poorly lit corner, Wade sat in a chair, hunched over and holding his head in his hands. He was whispering to himself, and occasionally his voice rose slightly louder than he himself expected, but he got control of himself as fast as he could and quickly let his tone fall back to a whisper. His fingernails were unclipped and had a thin line of dirt underneath them. He had tried to cut them, but they would only grow back just as quickly as he clipped them. He let one hand slide through his brown dirty hair, which was much longer than most men his age would have liked, left un-groomed and wild. He had tried to cut it, but it would only grow back the same day.
      "Why?" Wade's voice was shaky and uneven. "Why did it have to be me? Why did I have to be this. . .this . . ." His voice began to trail off as he looked for the right words to say to himself. "Monster?" He took a deep breath and wiped his face free of the tears that had made their way down his cheeks leaving trails through the dirt. His hands felt the stubble on his chin that he had tried to shave, but, like his hair and nails, had only grown back just as quickly as he shaved it. He was emotionally and physically confused. He was someone that no one could ever understand. He was a werewolf.
     Slowly he reached for a shard of glass left from one of his tantrums. He found the sharp edge and set it on his wrist, then, slowly, pierced his skin, still muttering and whispering to himself. He asked questions and drove the shard deeper into his skin as if he could find the answers inside of his torn wrist. As the blood ran swiftly down his arm and dripped off his elbow, warm and red, he realized that there were no answers and that there never would be. He felt his eyes roll in the back of his head and change from a raging blue-green color to fiery red. The dim light suddenly became uncomfortably bright. He jumped up from the chair and started rummaging around the floor, looking for a lock or something that he could jam the door with. He found none.
     It was coming; he could feel the transformation starting already. He did not want to hurt anyone; he did not want anyone to die this time. His spine felt like it was ripping out of his back, his hands were shaking and his eyes were bulging out of his eyelids. He only had seconds to find something to lock the door with, something that would keep him in that room after he had changed into that horrible creature. The only thing that he could think of using was the bed, so he pushed the twin sized bed in front of the door using all of the muscle he could muster as quickly as possible. When he had changed, he hoped he would not be able to get out, after all, how smart are werewolves? Wade did not know.
     He was changing fast, faster than he'd ever changed before. He turned and looked at his bloody arm. Almost instantly he started licking his wound, slurping his blood like cheap wine and ripping his flesh off with his rapidly growing sharp teeth. His human half had lost complete control now, and all he could do was let the wolf part of him take over. He felt everything. His flesh ripping apart and replacing itself with hairy skin and his bones were restructuring, but once his transformation was complete, his mind took him somewhere else, and everything that was happening in reality faded.
     He saw himself in the first grade, eating lunch at an empty table, while all other tables around him were filled with friends talking and laughing. He saw himself at twelve years old going into his parents room and finding that they were not there, and realizing that they weren't coming back. At fourteen he stopped going to school because he was still sitting at the same lonely table. At seventeen, he saw the blue-gray wolf that bit him and turned him into what he was. He saw his first victim's body torn to pieces, bloody and mangled. He saw his second, his third, his fourth, their faces flashed one right after the other, dead and cold. Then his own face appeared, his own tears filling his eyes and overflowing onto his cheeks and lips. He knew he was a murderer. He hated himself and what he had become.
     The light flickered for a few seconds, and then swiftly went out as the huge beast rammed itself into the bed. He could see the door; he just could not get out. He felt weak; he needed a victim. He pawed the bed with his huge razor sharp claws, slowly lifting the bed, but as soon as it got a few inches off the ground he lost his grip and it fell back to the dirty, scratched floor. It sat for a minute, pondering and wondering what he should do. He sat for about five minutes, then stood on all four paws and lifted the bed with his jaw and within seconds he was outside, prowling the woods.
     The night was cold and quiet. The only thing to be heard throughout the dark trees was the breathless panting of the werewolf. His paw was still bleeding from what Wade had done, and he was getting weak. His brown fur swayed with each individual step he took, and his red eyes searched for the clearing in which the woods met the road. He stopped suddenly and lifted his nose to the air. He smelled blood and flesh. It wasn't far, a few yards at the most. He slowly made his way forward, following the human scent. As the trees parted, he saw something stir on the upcoming road. He approached cautiously and quietly, getting into position and trying to identify what was on the side of the road.
     "Stalled again, Roxie," a man was saying to a woman as he opened the door to her green Buick and stepped out. "Better look under the hood." He closed the door and walked over to the front of the car while Roxie popped the hood. As he rummaged around inside the hood, the werewolf inched closer to the edge of the woods. He could smell the warm blood flowing through the man's veins, he could almost taste the sweetness of death, it was perfect. Promptly, he got into his pouncing stance. He was at a flawless position; his long teeth dripped with spittle. The man closed the hood and the werewolf bounded. His claws were out and ready and his jaw was set. Roxie was screaming in the car and the man was pierced with fear. The werewolf did not yield. He was inches away from his victim.
     All of the sudden, there was a loud bang, and the werewolf let out a howl of pain. He fell to the ground, instantly turning back into Wade. He looked up at the man, who still stood stunned, then towards the direction that the bang came from. There stood Janis Westington, his personal doctor, with a silver gun in hand. She ran over to him and kneeled by his side.
     "Did I..." Wade gasped horribly as blood trickled out the side of his mouth, "Did I kill anyone?" Janis shook her head sadly; she had not wanted to shoot him but he had given her no choice. "No, Wade, no one died this time." She wiped his tear stricken cheeks with her bare hand.
     Wade smiled painfully, closed his eyes and with the last gasp of air he had in his lungs said, "Thank you." Janis could not stop the tear that ran down her own cheek, cascading down the side of her face and dripping off of her chin, landing on the finally painless and dead body of Wade, the werewolf.