Monroe D'etre

I hid beneath the table, behind one of Callahan's mahogany chairs. It seemed like a crazy thing, my friend of eight years, trying to track me down and do things that are unknown to me, maybe even kill me. I'd never seen such anger and frustration in Callahan's eyes, never before had I seen that strange sparking element that withered within his deep grey eyes. I had no idea what the sparking element was – but I was sure it was going to create a mess that would be somewhat difficult to clear up.

“Monroe, please! I just wish to speak with you!” I turned my head sharply, facing Callahan's silhouette. He stood there, his figure quite tall, tall even for myself, at six foot two. Callahan was six foot six. His shadow drew ever longer as he drew closer to the dimmed lamp on the living room table.

“Monroe, don't be so cold,” he began, his voice alluring and welcoming, but it still had a touch of impatience that warned me off. “Come forth and we'll sort this mess out.” He coughed loudly, letting out bouts of air and spit. I'd known Callahan was a smoker from the first time I met him, he was smoking a large cigar, sitting in his leather chair in the corner.

Callahan turned around to face the mirror, I backed out and jumped up, right behind him, taking him by surprise. He turned to me, surprised and sad, shaking his head slowly. “You didn't listen to me, Monroe,” His voice was low and frightening. “I only wanted to help; but you still insist that you want to become this... this thing?” I scowled at him, he didn't know how I was feeling.

“It's not a thing! It's a ware wolf!” His eyebrows lowered in question of my childishness.

“You don't want to become a wolf, trust me, Monroe... it's not a good being to become.” I scowled again, dropping my head and looking at my leather shoes. Perfectly polished, shiny and black.

“Don't you ever want to marvel at the moon again?” It was my turn to lower my eyebrows in question of his own. “What?”

“You'll never be able to see it without becoming a beast. You'll never be able to think of it without feeling sick, D'etre,” I lunged forward, punching his face with all my adolescent might. He flipped around, smashing my face against the glass table, shattering it skyward and all places. The floor covered in Callahan's antique coffee table, he stood upright, smoothing his jacket,

“That was an expensive antique table, D'etre,” he looked down at me, small inches of glass protruding from my neck and face, bits in my shoulder.

“Callahan, you fiend,” I stood up and straightened myself, brushing myself off, picking the pieces of glass from my cheeks. I groaned in pain as he stepped forward, hunger in his eyes.

“D'etre,” He looked down on me and clasped his fingers around my neck.

“What... what are you doing?” I choked, looking at his dead eyes.

“I see something in you,” He said, looking right back at my eyes, bulging from my skull as he squeezed harder on my neck.

“Y-you don't have to s-strangle me!” I choked the words out, wrestling his hands with my own as I tried to pull away from his freakishly strong grip. It hurt to be strangled by a loved one. He was my best friend and second father of eight years. And he wanted to kill me. Or so I thought.

“I'm going to make you one of my own.” His words were final, although I didn't know what they meant, I knew it wasn't good. 'one of my own'? What on earth could that mean?

“W-what?” I still choked, but finally he let go of me, watching me fall to the floor like a domino.

“What do you mean? One of your own?” He sat down beside me and yanked my jacket, pulling me ever more closer to him. Before I had the chance to complain – he changed. His face growing angry, his eyes still dead, yet still hungry. Suddenly his, ironically called, fang teeth grew, elongated. They were large and sharp at the tip. Without hesitation, he stuck them deep into my neck.