"Do you know the percentage of men who have committed an act of violence on another living creature?" the old woman asks. She has her iron-gray hair in a bun, the same color as her colorless clothing, an apparition in neutral tones. She smokes a clove cigarette, the paper black as half-forgotten sins.
"I thought you said you were a witch," I said. I am hunched in a corner, like the animal I am; my legs, with their inhuman angles, with the massive paws I now call feet, no longer let me sit comfortably like a civilized man, and the slavering jaws I call a mouth still cause me shame.
Most werewolves have the good fortune of turning human sometimes. It has been three years since the night the Woman in Red took my hand in the bar the night I had my finest performance, my Iago on a London stage; since she took my hand and took me to her apartment high above London town. It's a story I've heard repeated fifty times since I began my investigation (investigation, as if I am looking for truth--the truth is I am simply looking for someone to say, "I can turn you back"). There are hundreds of us running across the globe, half-man and half-beast. And if I've found one thing for certain, it is this--there is no single curse for werewolves. It feels to me like cancer, or like some powerful virus, in that there are variations, in its virulence, in what it does to the human body. Some men change for three nights a lunar cycle. Some change at will. Some change in times of anger, or stress.
And some, like me, simply cease to be human.
"I am a witch," she said, sipping her black tea.
"You sound like a psychologist," I said, instead.
"You might say all witches and shaman are psychologists too," she said.
I consider eating her, but only for a moment. She was far too bony.
I killed and ate a Longbow agent. The phrase haunts me. It follows me. When I first changed, when I was first cursed, or infected, or whatever it is that has happened to me, I was not myself. I was not in control. I came to America stowed away on a massive cargo ship, on which I fed on rats and migrant workers, who would not be missed when we docked. I went first to the Rogue Isles, where I had only flashes of sanity and clarity. I killed many men. I tested my newfound strength wrestling on cavern floors with snakes shaped like men. And I was hunted, by the Red and the White. One I tortured, by accident. I say by accident because our battle happened during a moment of flashing lucidity for me--when the Beast wanted him dead and the Man wanted him saved, and the two went to war together inside of me, and that battle cost the Longbow agent a clean death.
In the end, I tore his throat out, while apologizing to him. I did this because I wanted him dead before the Beast regained control. I wanted to give him a cleaner death than he would have received otherwise.
"Do you know how many men," the witch said again, "commit acts of violence against other people?"
"I would say most," I said.
The old woman smiled.
"All men are monsters, in their hearts," she said. "All men are beasts of fang and claw. All men are terrible creatures, until they learn compassion."
It was Bottom who brought me back, for good. While I was under--while the Beast was in control--I would become lost in old roles. In whatever small, safe place I was locked away within my own brain, Shakespeare's worlds were alive and well, and I would play out the characters I had once played on stage. Mercutio and Macduff, Caliban and Coriolanus and Edmund and Laertes. But it was Bottom who brought me back to the surface, the only true Comedic role I ever played well. Ironic, of course, that the beast-headed man, the gentle actor in the sheets of a fairy queen, would provide me the strength to take control of the Beast, to put him under my thumb.
I climbed aboard another freighter, and went to Paragon City, whole in mind, if not in body.
"You have committed many acts of violence in your time," the old woman said. "And they began long before you began wearing the mask you now possess."
"This is no mask," I said.
"All faces are masks," she said. "All faces hide things."
I growled. She was not intimidated.
"You ask me to change you back. You ask me to make you the man you once were," she said.
"I do."
"And I tell you, my son, that you do not want to be the man you were."
I stared at her, waiting.
"You were a monster long before your mysterious woman made you one in the flesh. You may not have been a murderer, but you were a monster, in your own way."
"I was."
"And now?"
"What do you mean."
"Are you a monster now?"
"Look at me," I said.
"Look at yourself," she said. "What do you do with your days, my son?"
"I hunt. I talk to side-speaking lunatics like yourself hoping one of you charlatans can turn. Me. Back."
She shook her head.
"What do you do with your days, Titus."
"I... I hunt bad men."
"Why?"
"I... Because I can."
"Because you should," she offered instead.
I shook my head.
"No, because I can."
The old woman stood up, then, went to her window; outside the trees were swaying. A storm was coming. I could smell it. These are the little things they do not warn you about, when you become an animal; that you can smell clouds on the horizon, and they will wake primal fears in you that you never knew existed.
"Titus, you want your pretty face back. This is an understandable desire," she said. "I do not know if this is possible. I feel that it will happen, in due time. But understand, my son. You have already found your way back."
I snorted, an animal sound, deep in my throat. Anger rose in my gullet; but I choked it down. The Beast is collared by my hand now. He is only allowed to snap when I want him to. This happens less and less, now.
"If I wanted a psychology lesson, I would have gone to the university."
"You don't need a psychology lesson," she said. "You just need to listen."
With that I bounded off, on all fours, my claws scrabbling and grasping at her hardwood floors. I ran, towards the rain, and towards the frightened prey who would be fleeing it.
"Do you know the percentage of men who have committed an act of violence on another living creature?" the old woman asks. She has her iron-gray hair in a bun, the same color as her colorless clothing, an apparition in neutral tones. She smokes a clove cigarette, the paper black as half-forgotten sins.
"I thought you said you were a witch," I said. I am hunched in a corner, like the animal I am; my legs, with their inhuman angles, with the massive paws I now call feet, no longer let me sit comfortably like a civilized man, and the slavering jaws I call a mouth still cause me shame.
Most werewolves have the good fortune of turning human sometimes. It has been three years since the night the Woman in Red took my hand in the bar the night I had my finest performance, my Iago on a London stage; since she took my hand and took me to her apartment high above London town. It's a story I've heard repeated fifty times since I began my investigation (investigation, as if I am looking for truth--the truth is I am simply looking for someone to say, "I can turn you back"). There are hundreds of us running across the globe, half-man and half-beast. And if I've found one thing for certain, it is this--there is no single curse for werewolves. It feels to me like cancer, or like some powerful virus, in that there are variations, in its virulence, in what it does to the human body. Some men change for three nights a lunar cycle. Some change at will. Some change in times of anger, or stress.
And some, like me, simply cease to be human.
"I am a witch," she said, sipping her black tea.
"You sound like a psychologist," I said, instead.
"You might say all witches and shaman are psychologists too," she said.
I consider eating her, but only for a moment. She was far too bony.
I killed and ate a Longbow agent. The phrase haunts me. It follows me. When I first changed, when I was first cursed, or infected, or whatever it is that has happened to me, I was not myself. I was not in control. I came to America stowed away on a massive cargo ship, on which I fed on rats and migrant workers, who would not be missed when we docked. I went first to the Rogue Isles, where I had only flashes of sanity and clarity. I killed many men. I tested my newfound strength wrestling on cavern floors with snakes shaped like men. And I was hunted, by the Red and the White. One I tortured, by accident. I say by accident because our battle happened during a moment of flashing lucidity for me--when the Beast wanted him dead and the Man wanted him saved, and the two went to war together inside of me, and that battle cost the Longbow agent a clean death.
In the end, I tore his throat out, while apologizing to him. I did this because I wanted him dead before the Beast regained control. I wanted to give him a cleaner death than he would have received otherwise.
"Do you know how many men," the witch said again, "commit acts of violence against other people?"
"I would say most," I said.
The old woman smiled.
"All men are monsters, in their hearts," she said. "All men are beasts of fang and claw. All men are terrible creatures, until they learn compassion."
It was Bottom who brought me back, for good. While I was under--while the Beast was in control--I would become lost in old roles. In whatever small, safe place I was locked away within my own brain, Shakespeare's worlds were alive and well, and I would play out the characters I had once played on stage. Mercutio and Macduff, Caliban and Coriolanus and Edmund and Laertes. But it was Bottom who brought me back to the surface, the only true Comedic role I ever played well. Ironic, of course, that the beast-headed man, the gentle actor in the sheets of a fairy queen, would provide me the strength to take control of the Beast, to put him under my thumb.
I climbed aboard another freighter, and went to Paragon City, whole in mind, if not in body.
"You have committed many acts of violence in your time," the old woman said. "And they began long before you began wearing the mask you now possess."
"This is no mask," I said.
"All faces are masks," she said. "All faces hide things."
I growled. She was not intimidated.
"You ask me to change you back. You ask me to make you the man you once were," she said.
"I do."
"And I tell you, my son, that you do not want to be the man you were."
I stared at her, waiting.
"You were a monster long before your mysterious woman made you one in the flesh. You may not have been a murderer, but you were a monster, in your own way."
"I was."
"And now?"
"What do you mean."
"Are you a monster now?"
"Look at me," I said.
"Look at yourself," she said. "What do you do with your days, my son?"
"I hunt. I talk to side-speaking lunatics like yourself hoping one of you charlatans can turn. Me. Back."
She shook her head.
"What do you do with your days, Titus."
"I... I hunt bad men."
"Why?"
"I... Because I can."
"Because you should," she offered instead.
I shook my head.
"No, because I can."
The old woman stood up, then, went to her window; outside the trees were swaying. A storm was coming. I could smell it. These are the little things they do not warn you about, when you become an animal; that you can smell clouds on the horizon, and they will wake primal fears in you that you never knew existed.
"Titus, you want your pretty face back. This is an understandable desire," she said. "I do not know if this is possible. I feel that it will happen, in due time. But understand, my son. You have already found your way back."
I snorted, an animal sound, deep in my throat. Anger rose in my gullet; but I choked it down. The Beast is collared by my hand now. He is only allowed to snap when I want him to. This happens less and less, now.
"If I wanted a psychology lesson, I would have gone to the university."
"You don't need a psychology lesson," she said. "You just need to listen."
With that I bounded off, on all fours, my claws scrabbling and grasping at her hardwood floors. I ran, towards the rain, and towards the frightened prey who would be fleeing it.