Point A to Point B by Laura Shell

He has ten minutes to go from point A to point B, or he will lose his coveted spot in line, but he's arrived early, so he will make it in time.

Point A. He enters the elevator, forlorn, his head down, dressed in a suit. He hates suits. They're for show. For his family, his friends. He's tired of them, tired of the people he has to be friendly to, the people he has to lie to, all the compromises, the pretending. It's not him, not his true self.

Shit, he even hates the family pets.

The elevator stops at the bottom floor. He squeezes the handle of his briefcase, the briefcase that holds fake documents he's passed off as his own work, just to make his family and friends believe his job is real. He's tired of doing that too.

Straight off the elevator, down the hall, he flings his briefcase, doesn't care where it lands. Off comes the tie, he starts to breathe a little easier, one corner of his mouth inches up, a half smile.

Point B is just around the corner.

His shirt comes off. Next, his belt, his shoes. He pauses in the hall to remove his pants, his underwear, his socks.

Naked now, he turns the corner, goes through the double doors, lifts his bare chest to the fresh air of the expansive forest before him, a forest full of human prey.

Full, deep breaths now. He deserves them. He deserves to breathe deep. And then the change happens. He doesn't mind the pain. It pales in comparison to being a suburban family man.

Some bones, tendons and ligaments lengthen. Some shorten. So much hair now, all over.

Blood trickles from his toenails, fingernails and teeth as they elongate and thicken.

His howl is so loud, it makes his own ears ring.

This is who he truly is, this beast, this werewolf, this hellhound.

And he begins the hunt, the hunt for human flesh.

These are the people he likes.