Blessed - Dark Moon

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Topic: Dark Moon (Read 42 times)

John Dark
Werewolf
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Superhuman Strenght, Speed, Smell, Hearing, Sensing
Transmuting inot a Wolf

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Dark Moon
« Thread Started on Sept 24, 2009, 5:13pm »

Before reading this, let me explain some things about it. This is my story about my character, John Dark. This version has nothing really to do with Charmed, or Blessed and is based on a different version of John. In my story, werewolves start out being quadripedal, wolf-like creatures the size of bulls. After about a century, they grow a second heart, which then triggers that final stage for most werewolves, which is your basic bipedal werewolves that are more humanoid than the first-stage werewolves. They can then control the change, and themselves after this. However, there is a rare, third form that only a few number of werewolves become, called Alpha's. They have more fur than second-stage werewolves, and evolve much earlier. That is all I can explain to you for now, without ruining too much of my story. Without further adeu, I give you the prologue, and chapter 1 of Dark Moon.
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Prologue

Bad things happen to good people and good things happen to bad people because the world is dominantly evil. Do you really think that the world is good? Or that the good outweighs the bad because there are a lot of good people in the world? I can tell you right now that no matter how much amount of good there is in the world, it will never outweigh the bad. Evil takes many forms other than a human face. It can take more than just the simple forms of a kind old man, who is really a sodding rapist, child killing wanker. They take the forms of the things that shape our nightmares. Things we pray could never be real. Things that make us pray to gods, or resort to scientists to be our saviors in our time for needing rational answers to help make sense of life. They are more than just human faces. I know, because I once saw the human face become something more than that. Something amazingly horrific. Something that I never put any purchase in until I became the very thing I thought could never be possible. My name is John Dark, and like my last name, I have lived a life of darkness, unfair torment, and hurt. I was never sure if reincarnation was real, but if it was, I must have been one evil bastard in a past life to deserve the life I was dealt this time around. I was born in London, England. My mother was Elizabeth Dark, and from what I was told, she was very beautiful. She was a librarian, and was said to have been a highly intelligent, and benevolent person. Growing up, I heard from neighbors and people that knew her that she loved me and my twin before I was even born. By now, you probably noticed that I only said before I was born, rather than my twin and I. The fact of the matter is, my twin brother was a stillborn, whom I was in the process of absorbing at some point while my mother was still pregnant with me, but for some reason never fully finished doing. I feel bad that I did so, but then again, I was simply a fetus at the time with no higher intelligence at the time. Constantly, I wonder what my life would have been like had he lived. Would we have been as close as people say twins are? Would we have been the closest of friends, or the bitterest of enemies? At least I know that a part of him, literally, lives on inside of me. My father’s name is Marcus Dark, a medic in Her Majesty’s Royal Army Medical Corps. That bloody awful excuse for a father was always estranged from my life growing up. Of course, he did raise me and did not neglect me completely, but when you grow up and constantly hear from the old bastard that you’re the reason your mother died, and that you are a mistake, you cannot honestly say that it was a good life regardless. It could have been worse I guess, he could have been an abusive drunk of an old bastard. Maybe then, he would at least notice me a bit more. Regardless, I was a good person growing up. I excelled in school, went to the finest medical college in all of the United Kingdom where I studied, trying to be a doctor just like my father, and prove myself to him. And even when I get my medical degree in surgery and am noticed as one of the finest doctors in all of London, the bloody prick I have to call father still neglected me! Well, I guess you could never really choose your parents, but I still say I would rather have been abused growing up without having a parent acknowledge me. Growing up with that kind of treatment leaves you more bitter than you would be if you were abused. Trust me on that one. A few of my friends had shitty dads like that and they each turned out with a sunnier personality that I did. I guess I can say that at least I turned out more successful though. It is one of the pros and cons of having those types of parents. You can have a neglectful parent growing up that blames you for his wife and son’s death, grow up trying to prove something to them and even if you become the most successful person in the world, they still do not recognize you, leaving you a bitter 40 year old that I have become, or you can be abused, hardly excelled because you are still dizzy from the night past’s beating, and settle for some back alley job somewhere. At least life did bring me one joy, before pulling another fast one again, like the sadistic bitch life is. Her name was Emily. And while everything else in my life was utter darkness, she was the shining light in it. The only good thing in my life. After receiving my license to practice medicine, I became a doctor at the Queen’s Hospital in London, the finest hospital in the UK. After a while, I decided to take mixed martial arts classes. My therapist suggested that I take on a strenuous activity as to help me further with my social skills as a person, as I was never the most polite of people. I met her on my first night, as she was a beginner too. If you are married, or are in love, you know that feeling of love. How it possesses you completely and takes you over. It makes you capable of things you never thought possible. For me, it was the ability to interact with others better. I have never met someone that I connected with so easily. She was my best friend, my soul mate, and my first love. We dated a few times, but after the third date, I made love to her, and I must admit that although it was slow, gentle, and completely unlike any other shag I’ve even had in the past, it was by far the most euphoric event of my life. Heroin addicts did not get highs like I did the first time I made love to her. It was something that was supposed to be reserved for people that go to Heaven. For people that are higher than humans, and yet it pierced through the years of neglect that my father brought onto me, it nourished my soul in a way no beverage, or food could ever do. It was…well, I think you get the idea. After a few months, we were married. It was the happiest moment of my life because even my own father showed up, giving me some sign that the old bastard cared, or so I thought. He only showed up wishing me that I am left just as miserable as he was. If I was just as cynical and cold hearted as he was at the time, I would have hit him then and there, and made sure that I took a few teeth out in the hit, but I didn’t. I was not going to let that sperm donor ruin the one moment of happiness in my life. It was everything and more for me, and as I thought it couldn’t get better, it did. Three months later, Emily told me that she was pregnant. It seemed as if my life was finally going right for once. That fate only puts you through suffering to see if you could endure it and reward you in the end. I was wrong. Fate was a sadistic, and uncaring fucker just like my father was. Fate offered you shiny, beautiful apple and when you bite into it, enjoying the taste of the delicious fruit, you notice the black, slimy worm inside the apple that was eating away at it all along. Fate put me up on a tower of love, hope, and happiness, only to cause it to come falling like the World Trade Centers. As Emily entered her fifth month of pregnancy, I was working late, and so was she. See, she worked at a cosmetics shop, and as she was closing up, she was attacked by some bloke. She was raped, and tortured before the man finally got his sherries and giggles at last. When she was rushed into the hospital, I was the first there, trying to see if she was alright while security held me down. For forty eight hours I waited for her. For forty eight hours I wondered what was going on until finally, I learned the horrible truth of what actually happened. Hearing that your wife was raped shakes you to the very foundations, but what finally makes those foundations collapse is hearing that the rape resulted in a miscarriage. Time passed and she was released. I was at her side the entire time, telling her that it was alright, but I knew otherwise. She was never the same. Nobody ever is after those things. Something is taken, no, something is stolen from you that can never be given back. What was taken from Emily was not just the child, but also her sanity. For as long as I was with her, I could never reassure her that it was alright. And then…she killed herself. I came home late when it happened. I found her on the ground, a gun in her right hand, and her brains all over the wall. I’m not exactly sure what happened next, but I know that the next thing I know, I was in a police station office, looking at the floor and mumbling to myself. I was in tears and that was when I realized that Emily was dead. My child was dead. And most of all, God was dead. In my life, and in my mind, I knew that God was dead. What else could explain what happened? No rational being could ever cause such a thing to happen. I was given a six month vacation, but most of it was spent in therapy. When I returned, I saw everyone as the enemy. I saw the sorrow in their eyes, and that they wanted to apologize for what happened like they had some dealings in it. In my mind, they probably did, but I would not give them a chance to voice it. For four years afterwards, I showed them exactly how much their grief was not appreciated. And all of this. My father’s neglect, my brief time of happiness before being knocked further into the abyss of darkness, all of it. It was only the dark beginnings of something much worse. Something much more horrid and evil that could happen to my life than I could have ever thought possible. I would become a werewolf…

Chapter 1

After getting my license to practice medicine, I was offered a job at Her Majesty’s Royal Hospital. I took the job, due to the money I would be paid as a surgical doctor being enough to ensure a cozy spot for a good while. You don’t just get accepted to London’s finest hospital for making a C in class. They only look for the United Kingdom’s finest when it comes to this Hospital. Plus, they don’t give a sodding damn what you do in your free time, as long as you can get the job done while working. I guess that is a plus, seeing as how half the staff on my floor believe I’m suicidal. I don’t blame them a bit though. After Emily’s suicide, I have hardly pondered my purpose in life. My patient’s being my excuse would be absolute bollocks. My job is to keep them alive, and that’s what I do. In exchange, they pay me in kind and I get to live what sorry excuse of a bloody life I have. For the past six months, they watched me go from a depressed doctor, to a bitter, chain-smoking drinker. None have had the family jewels to question my personal life, because they have never lost everything important to them…as a matter of fact, I doubt those zombies at the hospital I work at even have anything important to them. They always seem to just…creep in a way. The only thing that keeps me from believing that they truly aren’t zombies is the fact that they move like normal humans, and actually eat normal foods and show some emotion, unlike me, who hardly gives a flying fuck about anything.

My day started off just the same as it normally does. I woke up in my flat around 6 o‘clock A.M., my head feeling several sizes too big, as if someone had played soccer with it all night long. Next to me is my normal girl, Lisa. I pay her for a good night’s of cleaning my pipes, took a cold shower alone, got dressed, brushed my teeth and said screw it to shaving, left my flat and made my ways to a good place for breakfast. There were three things that I had a craving for, and going from greatest to least: A smoke, a bottle of red wine, and an egg. I popped a cigarette in my mouth and walked down the street to the normal breakfast shop on my block that made a good egg. I inhaled the smoke deeply, hoping that this would be the one that finally gives me cancer. Then again, I have yet to get such luck, and no chance of any other type of disease that smoking causes thus far. Whether or not you would call it good fortune, I call it a mockery, but the Dark family has all smoked tobacco heavily, and not once had any family member died of anything that was similar to cancer, or emphysema, or bronchitis, or…fuck it, you understand where I’m getting at. Sadistically enough, I am trying to become the first one to actually get cancer and die from it with dignity. No chemo, no nothing to extend my life. I guess, in a way, I am suicidal, but I don’t like taking the quick way out like a pansy. Choking on my last, cherished breath and dying suffering is the way to go in my book. It wouldn’t be much of a bloody surprise if that is how I go, seeing as how my life has been nothing but suffering. When I finish the smoke, I toss it aside and begin to pull out another when I notice I’m at my occasional breakfast place. At last, a warm egg, toast with jam, and a hot cup of coffee go running down my throat. Nothing better to rid myself of a hangover, than my morning ritual. I eat the hearty breakfast with sarcastic glee, as if today is some bright and shiny day, when in fact, it is the same as it always is. Dull, shitty and absolutely nothing sacred to the day, except for a sudden paranoia I began to feel. On the way in, a guy in a black trench coat gave me this look as if expecting me. I was about to ask the wanker what he was looking at, and if he had a problem when my stomach growled. I passed by without hardly making any scene at all. Like always, I’m never one to make a scene. I keep to myself, and the rest of the world does the same in kind.

After my breakfast, I pull out another smoke and make my way to the hospital. It is of some small luck that I managed to get a flat nearby, thus cutting expenses on car ownership. Once inside, I am met with the same dull looks from each of them and make my way to the nearby elevator. I work on the third floor, and my office is this nice cozy room with a good view, a solid oak desk, organized and controlled like my temper…most of the time, and covered with paperwork that needs to be signed. It is here, that I spend most of my day at work. Not much out of the ordinary, aside from the fact that everyday, someone comes in with an emergency of some sort, in which I must amputate, attach, re-attach, remove, and add all sorts of lovely things that would sicken the average man. Once in my office, I finally smoke another cigarette and take out a bottle of vodka I keep hidden in my desk. Both the fire from the cigarette, and the alcohol give me a deep sense of comfort, as I take both in. Numbing all pain, and keeping me from having to deal with everyone else’s problems. My own, personal escape. My vacation. It is the cigarettes, the alcohol, the sex from prostitutes, and my work that keep me from ending up in a mental institution. Losing one’s path is infinitely times better than losing one’s mind. At least, that is my opinion on it all. I begin my day like any other day, signing away on paperwork until someone brings me in a fresh kill. I keep thinking about the man in the black trench coat. His gaze. It was as if he knew me, as if he was truly expecting me. Somehow, I feel he is nearby. I feel that he is watching after me now. Then again, it could be the vodka talking. All thoughts wash away with another swig from my alcoholic lover’s glass body. It is only when the intercom comes on, that I realize how much time has passed today.

“Dr. Dark?” asks the elderly, feminine voice on the other end.
“What is it Mary?” I ask dully, and yet with noticeable irritableness.
“Sorry for disturbing you, but-” She began, but I did not let her finish just yet.
“You always disturb me, but that’s just how you are. Now, what is it?” I ask freshly.
“A body just came in with gunshot wounds to the chest, you are needed for surgery, stat.” She says, trying to hide the hurt in her voice. I don’t tell her that I’m on my way. Rather, I simply get up and look out at the now-night sky and notice the large, silver moon in the sky. It is ironic as to how that night I was drawn to the moon. The silver beauty of it all, and how magnificent it was as it hovered in the sky. I finally look away, realizing I have a patient to tend to. Exiting my office, I make my way down the medical hall, and get prepped for surgery. As I enter the room, the guy is naked and a complete mess. I wonder to myself why he was naked, but I do not ask aloud because I already know none of my team would have a clue. Sighing to myself, I put on a pair of rubber gloves, a simply get to moving the bullets. As I worked, I took a look at the patient. He was Caucasian, and a burly guy with a somewhat hairy body, and wild, stringy hair. I want to think he is a hobo, but then again, I could have been wrong. The man’s heart rate increased, showing signs that he would not make it, but as I begin to pull one bullet out after another, I cannot help, but notice how shiny the bullets are. I am finally finished when the patient picks the right time to flat line. “Does anyone know who this guy is?” I ask, looking around the room. Their faces gave away the answer to that question, so I slowly shake my head and say, “Shit.” under my breath. I call it, citing the man died at 11:30 p.m. and go to look at the bullets. I pick one up with a pair of forceps and study one of the bullets in silence. It then hit me as to what exactly the bullet was made of. Silver! I thought. Before my mind could race and ask myself as to why someone would shoot a man with silver bullets, the heart monitors began to blare loudly, and I look back at the gunshot victim. To my everlasting horror, I saw that all of his wounds had closed up, and were good as new, aside from some blood still on him. His eyes were open, looking dead at me. They were bloodshot at first, by then began to go darker. His body began to suddenly shake, muscles going through spasms, and miraculously bulging out, as if he were becoming the bloody Incredible Hulk. As the nurses go to restrain him, I look to my horror at five, crescent-shaped and razor sharp finger nails fly into the air, tearing out both nurses throats in one swing. “Jesus Christ!” I cry out. I step back, watching in horror as the man’s entire body began to shake and grow even more hair. I wanted to scream and run, but I was paralyzed in fear at what I was seeing. Something completely extraordinarily amazing and yet also extraordinarily horrifying at the same time. His entire spinal column began to grow a thick patch of hair, along with his head, which grew pointed, elongated ears, like a wolf, and a snout with rows of razor sharp, slimy saliva-coated fangs that looked as if they could tear flesh from bone without any effort. I watch as he falls to all fours, and flips over the operating table.

I cannot see what happens to him from then on. Only hear. I listen to the sound of crackling bones, and the sounds of groans and moans turn into unidentifiable growls. Inhuman, beast-like growls that chill my very spine and give my life the first adrenaline shock, since the night me and Emily first had sex. Back then, I welcomed it, and now I damn it for keeping me frozen in fear, when I should be using it to get the Hell out of there. I hold the forceps containing the silver bullet tightly in my hands, as if it were a cross that would ward off any trespassing evil. Trillions of thoughts go through my head at once as I listen intently to the sounds of the man behind the operating table. The crackling finally stops, and there are is no more groaning. Only growls. What walks past the table and looks dead into my eyes was something that would forever haunt me until the day I die. It was a massive wolf-like creature, the size of a bull. Fur going from the base-tip of the beast’s spine, to the head and shoulders, which was coated in thick-black fur. The rest of its body had just a little fur. The creature then looked at me with bright, acid-yellow eyes that were more feral and vicious than anything I had ever seen. The beast stared me down, looking at me with only the most basic of desires: to rip me to shreds and feed. I clutch the forceps tightly and I watch as the creature crotched low and lunges for me. In defense, I raise the forceps up in defense and as the beast approached with inhuman speed, I feel warm, wet fluid ooze down my hands and I hear a barking cry, and then I feel the monster’s teeth sink deeply into the side of my shoulder. I do not remember anything else, except the pain, and blacking out...

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Phranx Kreed
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Re: Dark Moon
« Reply #1 on Sept 24, 2009, 8:30pm »

It's really good!I really like the way how you cover his whole life with misery, because after all life isn't just Good, actually it's most Evil, and in the end we all end up shrouded in that evil, in that misery. Or at least I hope that is the message you're trying to pass.

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