RP: Where am I going?
Bill had a few minutes, tops, before he transformed. He was curled up in a fetal position on the hard cement of the basement floor, whimpering while tendrils of flame licked his organs, the beast was screaming his head so loud he couldn’t think.
With a muffled moan, Bill rolled onto his knees and forearms, his forehead flat on the ground, rocking and shuddering with pain. “Make it stop! Make it stop!” he sobbed.
Something was wrong. This shouldn’t be happening. This wasn’t how Remus acted while on Wolfsbane. This pervading, unceasing feeling of fire and aches, the nausea, the screaming (was that him or the voices?) . . . was worse. Even worse than the last month when he’d shattered his knee and dislocated his shoulder.
The moon rose and the watery light hit the inside of Bill’s cement cell. A scream tore its way through his throat and he could feel the tips of his ears and his canines lengthening, his nails growing sharp, the thick hair breaking through his skin, but it wasn’t enough. The transformation, such as it was, was never enough to give him relief.
He was always cursed with a human body, one he wanted desperately to break free of, one he wanted to rip apart, tear, break, destroy.
A slow, feral grin spread across his face as he lifted his head. He felt stronger this month, emboldened, and more like his pack brothers running far a field. What he could do with that. What he could do to him with that. Yes, this was going to be a fun night.