From: anon-1357@twwells.com (Silver Tiger)
Newsgroups: alt.sexual.abuse.recovery
Subject: FICTION *SPOILERS*
Date: 12 Nov 92 21:49:14 GMT
Organization: Anonymous Posting Service at twwells.com


Here's the story I mentioned earlier.  Nobody objected, so...here goes.
It contains medium-strength spoilers (at least by my reckoning) that
might disturb some people.  This story is FICTION, but some moments
reflect the truth of my life (as, I suppose, any short story reflects
its author's life).  So, enjoy, I wrote it as a short story first,
and it accidentally became an outlet for my feelings...but an 
entertaining outlet, I hope.  

Comments, suggestions, literary criticism is welcome, posted or emailed.
I hope you enjoy it!!!!

Silver Tiger


Freedom Has Many Forms

	When June sat there, in her modest one bedroom apartment in 
smalltown Saskatchewan, thinking of the best way to go insane, the 
thought of becoming a werewolf had never really crossed her mind.
	She sat in a soft, velour-covered chair, her mother's.  She 
supposed her mother would still be sitting in it, knitting needles 
clicking, like insects mandibles devouring long red strings of yarn -- 
if she were still alive.  If she hadn't killed herself after finding out.  
June clicked her teeth together, but the sound just wasn't the same.
	Eventually she had to get up and get ready for bed.  She had a 
week off from school (correspondence school, really, she was taking 
University by correspondence, she couldn't afford to move to the 
city) for her mother's funeral.  Not that school stopped for a week, 
she'd be a week behind but then hopefully she'd be insane and it 
wouldn't matter.
	The blame, of course, was on her father.  The man who had, so 
long ago, gone insane in his own destructive little fashion. He had 
come with blank eyes to her room, with dead eyes.  Those eyes had 
not seen his daughter, but had seen his release, and hadn't cared.  
The sexual abuse hadn't even been so bad, she consoled herself, 
pouring a bedtime glass of Coke.  It was the beating afterward, 
where he made it clear that it had been her fault and if she told 
anyone she'd be exposed as the little slut she was.  
	At age nine, she believed him.
	At age nineteen, drinking a flat glass of week-old Coke out of a 
dusty glass, she didn't.
	At age eighteen, a week ago, she had told everyone.  Nine years 
is a long time to keep a secret.  The nightmares, the anorexia, these 
her mother had helped her through.  The inner sickness was one her 
mother couldn't touch.  June realized now that her mother must've 
known, could have stopped it.  She had died peacefully, in her sleep 
(swallowing thirty sleeping pills makes for a very peaceful sleep), 
leaving only a note that said, "I'm sorry June."  No doubt she had 
thought June had forgotten it all.
	Some of June's family hated her, called her a liar, blamed her 
for her mother's death.  The others may have believed her, but they 
stayed away (no doubt many had their own secrets to keep).  Her 
father, who had broken up with her mother three years ago and 
lived with that tramp Marie in a trailer on the edge of town, didn't 
even come to the funeral.
	Even now, in the occasional dream, he hissed , "Kiss it," at her, 
and she remembered what he wanted her to kiss, and woke up 
screaming.  
	No, she swore to herself, emptying the rest of the Coke down 
the drain, crazy people don't have to think about things like that.  
They think about things that haven't happened to them, that aren't 
real.  Why cope with something you don't have to?
	Content in this thought, she walked to the bedroom.  Lying in 
the dark there, she found she couldn't get to sleep.  This gave her 
plenty of time to devise a plan.  She needed to think of a good way to 
go insane.  
	She could sit and drool and pretend she couldn't speak or hear.  
Or babble all the time about nonsense.  Neither of these appealed to 
June -- she wanted to keep what little dignity she had.  What if she 
believed she was the reincarnation of Elvis?  Wait-- that had been 
done.
	At midnight, she saw the light in her kitchen flick on.  Great, 
she thought, saves me the trouble of deciding.  About time.  And she 
got up to see what her psychosis looked like.
	When she reached the kitchen, the first thing she saw was the 
knife.  It sat on the floor, spinning gently, calling in serrated tones 
across the white linoleum.  It asked her to pick it up, and she had 
nothing better to do.
	The knife looked at a scar near her left wrist, one her father 
had put there with a broken beer bottle when she had tried to get 
away.  It asked to examine the scar more closely, as it was naturally 
interested in these things.  June said aloud, "Have a look.  It ain't a 
pretty sight, though."
	But the knife thought it was very pretty, so pretty that it 
leaned in and looked too close.  Accidentally bit her there.  It 
immediately pulled back and apologized.  She forgave it, it was only 
the knife's nature to look too close.
	She was sure she could have sat there until her blood ran out, 
watching it make rivers on her hand and trickle off a fingernail to 
stain the floor.  The voice disagreed.
	Why did you let the knife look so close?  It admonished.  Is this 
what you want?
	June looked for the source of the voice, finally realizing that it 
was in her head.  She said, "Not really, but it's the best thing to come 
along so far.  You got something different?"
	Oh yes.  It smiled in her mind.  I think you'll like it.  Think of it 
as a present from the world for the wrong you've been done in it.  Or 
don't.  Whichever.
	The deep cut the knife had made sucked closed, with not even 
a scar.  Put your left hand on the floor, the voice ordered, and June 
did.  Her sticky warm blood lapped at the edges of her fingers in the 
puddle on the floor, comforting her.  Then it disappeared, all but a 
short line of it.  The line touched its ends in a circle, then began to 
spin.  Wondering, she touched a finger to the middle of the whirling 
ring, and it spun up onto her index finger, resting at its base.
	Once the ring was there, the voice returned.  I have the perfect 
idea for you, it enthused.  The red ring of June's blood began to 
pulsate, and something began to reform on it.  Afraid, but 
mesmerized, June peered closely at it.  When it had stopped moving, 
a tiny snarling wolf's head was jutting from the ring, fangs gleaming 
bone white against ruby red fur.  It held a certain dark attraction.  
June touched a finger from her right hand to the wolf's forehead, and 
felt warmth and life there.
	Go ahead, the voice breathed, anxious.  Try it.  Put it on your 
right hand.  June hesitated for the first time.  The voice urged her on.  
	"What if it isn't what I want?" she whispered. "What if I don't 
like it?"  
	As you took the ring, you can give it, she was reassured.  
	Slowly, afraid to break it, she took the ring from her left hand 
and put it on her right.  She expected pain, or joy, or something -- 
but all she felt was a tingle.  Then her skin and clothes were splitting, 
her fingernails growing, and she felt agony.  June could hear the 
ghastly crackling noise as her nose and mouth grew out to form a 
muzzle.  When it was all over, she held up her newly furred and 
clawed hands to her face and noticed the ring.  It was back on her 
left hand, and on it was a carving of her face, seemingly screaming.  
It still shone ruby red.
	Suddenly she had to see.  She leapt up and ran for the 
bathroom's mirror.  There she saw, and howled in a mixture of awe 
and fright.  Her head was a wolf's, her body mostly human, but 
muscular beyond anything she had ever been.  From nose to tail, she 
was covered in deep brown fur, silver-tipped.  Her eyes were still 
her own, and their deep blueness stared back at her in wonderment.   
She smiled, and fangs were shown, long and glistening.  This, she had 
to admit, was an entertaining way to go insane.  But why had she 
wanted to go insane again?
	Come on, the voice urged, don't you remember what you were 
going to do?  The night's quick and dark, you have to hurry.
	June raced out of her apartment, reveling in newfound speed 
and strength.  She howled, and dogs chained in yards answered, 
envying her freedom.  Her running footsteps made no sound, and her 
silver-tipped coat shone like liquid moonlight.
	At last she was in front of the trailer.  A blue light flickered 
inside.  She sniffed the air and caught his scent, and the noxious 
scent of alcohol.   Snarling silently, she crept to the door.  It wasn't 
locked, and she walked in.
	Her father must have heard something, for he staggered to 
meet June at the door to his bedroom.  She growled lowly.  She 
couldn't remember exactly why, but she hated this man, he had 
wronged her somehow, and she wanted to kill him.  
	"Jesus!" he screamed, throwing himself toward the door.  He 
underestimated the distance and his own speed, and found his throat 
pinned to the wall by a furry hand.  June grinned wider, knowing she 
could crush him or claw him at any moment.  She raised a hand, 
spread out her claws, and prepared to rip his throat out.  He 
gibbered, bald head slipping down the wall as his legs gave way.  She 
sank with him until she was crouching before him.  Still she stayed 
her hand.  The voice was back.
	So this isn't what you wanted?  it asked quietly.  She couldn't 
remember what she had wanted, but knew she couldn't want this, 
not looking into his eyes and seeing the helpless fear.  She nodded, 
muzzle bobbing, and turned her head away from the smell of fear on 
the man.
	The ring can be given.  The thought came to her as she relaxed 
her grip on the man's throat and wondered what to do.  What did 
that mean?  Let me show you, the ring replied.  It let her remember 
enough to know what the other way was, and the price to be paid.  
She knew it well, and turned to face the pitiful puddle of a man on 
the floor.  He was regaining his senses and looking for escape.  
	Looking into his watery blue eyes, she took the ring off her left 
hand.  His right hand was caught by hers with such speed and force 
that she heard bones snap, and his face went white.  The ring slid 
onto his finger easily, and once it was there, June stood up.
	Her father immediately clawed feebly at the ring, trying to 
take it off, but it wouldn't move.  His screams began when he saw the 
ring begin to sink into his finger, cutting his flesh.  Then it was inside 
him.  His screams grew more frantic as he tried to shake the ring out, 
grinding the broken bones, but it didn't work.  The screams died off 
to silence.
	What is happening to him? June thought, a bit scared herself.  
The voice consoled her.  He has received what he once gave to you, 
that which you do not remember now.  The experiences, the 
memories.  June looked doubtful, but the voice continued.  Just think 
of it as sharing an experience.  Now go, someone is coming in.  You 
must run far away.
Looking at her lean brown-silver body, June knew that was true.
	June stood to see Marie in the entrance.  Marie hadn't seen her 
yet, and when she turned to go to the bedroom, June made a leap for 
the door.  Marie turned too quickly, and screamed once into June's 
lupine face before fainting.  
	The last thing June heard from her father as she left was a 
whimpering, "Daddy, no..."
	Free of the town at last, June turned her yellow wolf eyes to 
the prairie, her thick fur keeping her warm against the chill of the 
night.  She stopped to howl every so often for the pure joy of it, the 
joy of being the sanest werewolf that ever lived.
	



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