by Daniel Jarvis
The creature peered through my bedroom window for the third consecutive night. Except this was no ordinary creature. My classmate from Ms. Johnson’s English class, Jerry Collins, had become a werewolf.
During the day, Jerry appeared as a typical high school student; however, I noticed one glaring difference that nobody else picked up on – his yellow tinted eyes. I tried to tell Ms. Johnson, but she ignored me. My parents wouldn’t listen either. Only I knew the truth about Jerry.
On the fourth night, two creatures peered through my window. And on the fifth night, five of them were gathered outside. They just stared at me, like I was a grand meal yet to come.
At school, more and more students had yellow tinted eyes. Because Jerry was the first, I figured he was the leader. I just couldn’t pinpoint how and where he was turning the others into werewolves, and why I hadn’t been chosen.
Everyone in town was oblivious to the impending danger – or were they in on it too? Mr. Bronson, the owner of the General Store, also had yellow tinted eyes. It seemed like I was the only one who wasn’t turned. This only meant one thing: I had to slay the werewolves.
I started with Jerry. I followed him home from school on a Wednesday afternoon. He entered his home through the garage door, but as it was rolling open, he dropped something on the ground. When he reached down to pick it up, I made my move.
The hammer made a loud thumping noise when it struck the back of Jerry’s head. I pulled his unconscious body into the garage, shut the door, and hacked off his head, arms and legs with my father’s machete. Jerry’s blood splattered all over the concrete floor of the garage and all over my favorite t-shirt.
Next was Ms. Johnson. I once read somewhere, or maybe saw it in a movie, that fire was a full-proof way of killing a werewolf. I waited until late that Wednesday night (there was no full moon, so it was safe), and pried open her back door. She was sound asleep when I arrived to her bedroom.
I poured two gallons of gasoline over her sleeping body. When I finished, she woke up and screamed louder than a newborn infant. I hit her with a baseball bat to shut her up. I then lit the match, dropped it on the bed, and watched her burn.
I walked outside her front door and was tackled by several police officers. When I stood before the judge a few weeks later, he said I was mentally unfit to stand trial.
They placed me in a tiny room with white-padded walls. My arms and legs were constricted. One night, they poked and prodded me with needles, despite my protest. The next day I saw my reflection in the tiny window on the door of my cell. I had yellow tinted eyes.
Daniel Jarvis is a freelance writer and sports blogger at bigbluenationsports.com. He works in downtown Denver, and spends his weekends skiing and hiking in the Rockies. If you would like to reach him, send an email to firstname.lastname@example.org.