By Neil Ayres

“There’s a lot of ignorance about most things, but my immediate problem is to do with ignorance of nature, rather than an ignorance of science. (Despite what some may insist, these are not one and the same thing.)

“Lycanthropy is apparently the psychological condition whereby an individual considers him- or herself to be an animal, more usually a wolf. In fact, I’ve memorised the OED definition: A kind of insanity described by ancient writers, in which the patient imagined himself to be a wolf, and had the instincts and propensities of a wolf. Now occasionally applied as a name of those forms of insanity in which the patient imagines himself a beast, and exhibits depraved appetites, alteration of voice, etc., in accordance with this delusion. By that millennia-established definition, I’m not a lycanthrope, I’m a werewolf. A werewolf; a loups-garou; an hombre lobo; a wilkolak; an ulfverenar. Yes, it’s more than psychological. No, I don’t sprout fur, maul people in Underground stations or go crazy when the wolfsbane blooms. I don’t even grow fangs. More: it’s a sensual thing. And I’ve grown to suspect that some dogs share the condition with me. Certainly a lot of wolves do, but maybe they’d be more correctly termed wolfweres, garou-loups, etc.

“So: sensual. Yes. I learnt long ago I’m capable of devoting myself to a partner, but monogamy and me just don’t fit. And the most common misconception: the Change. There’s no change. How do you think I’ve not had my secret uncovered before now? And how do I know I’m not the same as everyone else? That I’m not what’s commonly termed normal? Well how do you know when an individual’s autistic? Or psychotic? A lot of the time you don’t, but there are quantifiers. It’s the same with my condition. For instance: can you hear through walls? How about through walls half a mile away? And scents? Can you determine the sick calf hindering the pack just from its smell? You see? It’s not only relative stuff. It’s not like I’m saying that the blue you see is the red I see, but it’s blue to both you and me and we won’t ever be able to gauge the difference. There are measurable differences and the differences are extreme. I’m not a normal man with extraordinary senses, like a Marvel superhero. I’m part wolf, in here, my head, and in here, if you will, my heart. Though I guess to you head and heart are much the same, except for from a purely physical perspective. I figured out long ago how our differences are possible, though we share similar frames. It’s nothing to do with science, mainly common sense. But that’s of no concern to you now.

“So no, I don’t just have a wolf’s senses, I have a wolf’s sensibilities. And a human’s too, just to confuse matters. And you’re thinking, ‘even if that’s so, and I’ll get you to prove it before I’m near ready to believe you, why are you telling me this?’ But proof’s such a transient thing; if we discard the concept that proof, similar to God
in this respect – though the antithesis of it – does not exist, a clever enough trickster could convince you that he was a werewolf – or a coyote at least. But I'm no trickster.

“Because, in the absence of any politically viable option from your government, in the absence of a member of your family’s love being strong enough to outweigh guilt, in the absence of any just law save my law (what Kipling, the misguided moustachioed imperialist termed The Law Of The Jungle), I’ve told you all this in order to help you understand my role here, to explain why I do this.”

The expression of the little girl in the bed didn’t change, nor did the look on the face of the man who reached forward and switched off the machine at her side. All that altered was that the sound issuing from said machine was culled, as were the lesser sounds – though he heard them with clarity – whispered until that action by the girl’s artificially inflated/deflated lungs. Not even the scents changed. They were the scents that had brought him here, the scents of death.