The sun is already setting by the time you race into the trees. Your destination—the village. You might be in a place you don't know—you might not even be in the same country!—but surely you'll find help there. Comfort. A kind smile.

Someone will take pity on you. They're people, after all. Not monsters.

They'll call the police. They'll storm the castle. The monster will be frightened away, taken prisoner or destroyed. Then you'll return home. And this nightmare will be over.

You can't wait; it's what carries you through the trees at a breathless pace, and yet there's a little knot in your stomach you don't like. Despite yourself, tears prick the corners of your eyes.

You slow to a fast walk as you try to catch your breath. Though weak without food, your body is managing. Somehow, it's finding strength. Just like it did during your climb from the window, it surprises you.

You surprise you.

It's starting to get cold. You grip onto yourself, wishing you at least had a sheet to cover your nakedness. Too bad the sheets weren't long enough to reach the ground. You really could have used one of them.

You miss clothes so much.

Where once birds were singing, owls and frogs and crickets now start to take up their song. A soft grey light filters through the trees, which quickly turns deeper and deeper until the glare of the sun has all but gone. And yet you can see. You can see just fine: every branch, every rock, every root poking up out of the ground to trip you up. But it's not from the light of the moon, which is thoroughly blocked out by the thick branches above.

It's something else.

You lick your dry lips as you try not to think about it.

Thirsty. Hungry. Cold. Tired. How far is the village? It could be hours. It could be days. You're not very good at judging distances, but at least you have some hope. Besides, what else can you do? You don't believe in miracles, and waiting for someone to rescue you from the monster's clutches is certainly that.

Sticks snap beneath your bare feet. Leaves crunch. Again, like the glass, you hardly feel it. Such a great and terrible thing. You think of the monster's hard, leathery skin with a nervous swallow.

Once begun, the transformation cannot be stopped.

Not possible. It's not going to happen.

You stop with a cry, grabbing at your head. So far, the pain has been under control. Now it suddenly returns so savagely that it drives you to your knees.

'Go away!' you scream, bending far enough over that you press your forehead into the cool ground. You want to vomit but you swallow the acid back down. The last thing you need is to be sick again. After several minutes, it finally starts to fade away.

Resting back on your knees, you gasp for breath. Trembling and weak, you try to climb to your feet but fail, slumping back to your knees. The pain settles, then rises again. Settles, then rises again. Like the dying heat of cooling embers. Digging your fingers into your scalp, you're about to scream your frustration when something snatches your attention. You jerk your nose up into the air. What's that smell? It's faint. Thick.

You smack your lips.

Delicious.

It makes your eyes and mouth water. It carves a hole so deep in your stomach it overwhelms the pain. It makes you forget where you are and what you're supposed to be doing.

All you know is that you're ravenous.

You're moving again. Fast. Faintly, you know it, though it doesn't seem quite real, as though this is all just a dream. The trees are a blur as you speed through them. The sound of the leaf litter crunching beneath your footsteps does so at a rapid pace. The air in your lungs is warm and deep.

The smell grows thicker until your mouth is watering so heavily you're drooling down your neck. You slow down as you quietly approach whatever it is. It's just ahead through the leaves.

An animal.

A large buck is lying on the ground—it's dying.

There's blood everywhere, and you realise that that's what you smelled. It's been attacked by something, by another animal by the looks of it. Its belly has been all mashed up. Its intestines are hanging out. Barely alive, it's bleating softly. Its legs jerk spasmodically as its little tail flaps.

Even as tears prick your eyes, you step through the trees, excited, thrilled. Your heart is pounding. Your mouth is watering. The smell of its blood fills your lungs, your heart, your mind. You cannot resist.

Slumping to your knees by its head, you're weeping freely as you seize it by the antlers. 'I'm sorry,' you whisper. It gives a terrified bleat. With one hard jerk, you break its neck.

You stare at it, then look down at your hands, feeling numb. What's happening? How did you do that? You look back to the dead animal again, your eyes fastening on its bloodied flesh. For several moments you just sit there, fighting an internal battle.

Your old self loses as your new self rises.

Slowly, you get to your feet, walk over to its belly and drop back to your knees. You reach into its gaping wound. Its flesh is warm and wet and gooey. Your stomach roars as you rip off a hunk of muscle and push it into your mouth.

You chew, swallow and lick your lips. Then reach in for a second handful. Handful after handful you devour it. You're still numb. Your ears are ringing. Your pulse is throwing itself against the sides of your neck. Another migraine makes your eyes ache, it even makes your ears ache, but you're so focused on what you're doing it does not consume you.

It feels like a long time before you're thoroughly stuffed and you finally stop eating. Trembling, you grip your knees. A cool wind turns the tears on your cheeks crusty. The buck is so still, its eyes glazed. Its big tongue looks almost blue as it lolls out of its mouth.

Shivering, you grip at your arms, suddenly feeling horribly alone and very lost.

Then you hear something. Your ears prick up at the sound of footsteps from somewhere behind you. They're heavy and slow. Then they stop. You don't need to look to know who it is.

Bowing your head, you take a shuddering breath, wanting nothing more than to be left alone, wanting nothing more than for him to hold you and comfort you and tell you everything is going to be all right.

Even now, it's not over. Even after what you've done, there's still more to come.

Much more.

You can hear him breathing. Even amid the powerful smell of the buck's blood you can scent his musk. And it's stronger than ever.

'What have you done to me?' you say.