Center

I heard the weekly group session begin in the hallway: folding chairs, squeaky sneakers, chatter, laughter, then silence as Gina takes command of the room to begin the exercises.
I'm still in cell 9 in the hallway. You don't have to be a doctor to know that I'm currently unable to be around other people. The staff put it as best they could: I was a danger to myself and others. But most of the others.
My patients seem to have made progress in the last few months, but for some reason I haven't. And it's not like I'm broke. As far as I can remember, this is the first time I've been without a screen. No phone, no laptop, no TV. I don't even have an hour.
At first it was hard without my phone. I waited for it, having a relentless need to shake off the sense of boredom. There is a desire to see, to know things, to look for details in every thought that comes to mind. I think about my latest quest: how old is Jerry Seinfeld? Really -.
I realized that people my age didn't know how to ask questions. How did people live without ever knowing? Do you spend your life just wondering, never having access to a resource that would tell you on the spot? Fortunately, that nagging feeling has vanished. Now I only think about meat. And the breeze in the open air.
I don't have a pen to write with, though I don't know how I'll hold it with these long nails. (If only I could paint.)
I don't have a book to read. All my heightened senses would probably turn me away from such a visual act. The smells and sounds around me were as clear and identifiable as neon traffic cones or flames in the dark. (And to be honest, I’ve never been much of a reader.)
So I spent the time screaming furiously. I imagined myself as a singer reaching the high notes of a song, a song so unattainable it sends chills down the spine. I pretended the moon could hear me through those solid, soundproof walls. I imagined my breath destroying everything, the bulletproof glass of the cell door, the eardrums, the teeth, the minds of the onlookers. I thought at any moment my lungs might collapse like a curtain, a grand finale, my final salvation as my body gave way and crumbled.
But even the heady, adrenaline-fueled fury can get boring after a while. So tonight, on the eve of another full moon, I sat quietly and listened to tonight's band session.
Tonight I pretended I was there. Of course I couldn't see what was happening. I don't have X-ray vision, but if I sat still and breathed slowly, my keen hearing could fill in the gaps, and sounds would travel through the walls as if they were paper.
In my mind, I set up a spot between Trevor and Janice (and as far away from Zeke as possible).
***
I couldn't see Janice, but I imagined her staring at the floor in the center of the circle, avoiding eye contact with the others sitting around her.
"You know... I go through the motions every day. "I pick up my kids, I feed them, I bathe them, I love them with everything I have," Janice said, her voice breaking. "When I look into their eyes, I know they won't just be alone. They need me. But they don't know... "How can I tell them that... I'm... a monster," his voice broke into melodious sobs.
"Now Janice, remember what we said about that word," Gina reminded her, tapping the notepad with her pen. "No one here is a monster." I imagine he makes a point of looking at each of his patients with kind eyes. Janice sobbed as she screamed, perhaps throwing up her hands in surrender. "I'm sorry, I'm stressed because," she breathed shakily. "I'm pregnant again. And I'm so scared."
Well, that would be interesting. I think her face contorted in what would have been a moan. But she’s too kind to scream with abandon (like me.) Then I imagine her burying her face in her manicured hands, her diamond wedding ring sparkling in the eerie neon light. This was confirmed when I heard her muffled sobs.
After meeting her for a short while, I knew Janice was petite, perky, and athletic from the daily Pilates classes she liked to mention. She smelled like roses and baby powder. She was punished one morning while running a marathon. Her husband always told her to be careful running alone in the dark, so she always had pepper spray with her. But that didn’t help much.
Gina, who chairs the meeting, is stocky, with large brown eyes lined with laugh lines and a curly head of unruly burgundy hair that is usually held up by her drugstore purple reading glasses. Her ID badge identifies her as the Night Counselor. It hung from an orange cord around her neck and still rested comfortably on her generous breasts. Many wondered (okay, I wondered) if he was sleeping with her. She smelled of orange and tobacco.
Janice's eyes can move from floor to ceiling so that she can touch the corners of her eyes while holding a precisely crumpled napkin. Then she expertly styled her highlighted blonde hair and brushed it out of her eyes. I heard her expensive bracelets jingle.
Zeke, sitting to Janice’s left, was most likely leaning back in his chair, his hands in his pockets. The hood of his brown zip-up sweatshirt (that’s all I saw him wearing) was obviously pulled up over his greasy hair. Although he’s 24, his short stature, acne scars, and sparse facial hair make him look much younger. He smelled of weed, armpits, and, ever so slightly, chemical soap. I heard Trevor beep. "Maybe we're not monsters, we just have monsters. Like... annoying, sick animals, or disgusting children..." He trailed off, probably looking at Janice, who he knew was the housewife. "Lady Gaga has a lot of monsters," he ventured, wiping away her chipped neon nail polish. I laughed inwardly to brush it off, but no one understood. It smells like sandalwood and peppermint gum. I can feel his knees creaking.
"That's right, Trevor, you're not here because you're a monster. "You're here because you have circumstances beyond your control. But with dedication and practice, there's no reason you can't contribute to your community, nurture relationships with those you love, and set goals," Gina says.
Everyone in the group seemed to ignore the spy. We've heard it before. We're the latest victims of an "epidemic," as the program's leaders call it. The quiet of the conversations had struck everyone. Their plastic folding chairs groaned as they twisted in silence. He knew the room they were sitting in was dirty and that the overhead light probably cast an unpleasant shadow on them that made them all look tired and old. The only windows that might provide natural light were cloudy and gray from the exterior security shutters.
The weight of the approaching full moon made us all nervous (wild is a better word). Gina, the program counselor, told us she could feel it lingering around us, like static in the air or steam from the asphalt.
“Well, I think this is a good place to stop and go to your dorms. I can tell you’ve all felt it tonight,” Gina said. I could hear the group sitting around him shaking their heads with sighs and groans, their folding chairs scraping the floor as they sat.
They followed him silently through the double doors that led to the cell block where I was placed. Lights flickered overhead, pipes crackled as the heat spread. Although they tend to be warm, we were told they couldn’t control the heat in the building in the winter.
One by one, each member of the group was taken to a side room and given monthly physicals: weight, blood pressure, signs of injury. Is there an increase in meat consumption? How are your energy levels? They illuminate our eyes, examine our gums. I have heard from many people that their vision is now perfect and that glasses and contact lenses are no longer necessary. Objects are rare.
Then, we do a brief psychological assessment. How angry are you? Are you getting enough sleep? Are there any energy outages? Have you noticed your pet behaving differently towards you?
We remember our progress, where we try to improve during our training sessions. We usually don't remember this, so our sessions are filmed. We watched with our therapist. As you can imagine, it was shocking.
Everyone was then escorted down a dark hallway to their windowless rooms, each with piles of blankets, padded walls, and sinks with drains. Outside each of our rooms is a colorful poster with a positive slogan in bold letters.
"Yes, Ly-can!"
"To shout... with laughter".
"We're happy to serve you!"
"We care"
"Don't let your struggles get you down"
The use of "were" is a annoying mental bait and switch. I've heard Trevor complain. He says he can find better puns, but not if they don't pay him. I've heard Jenica try to finish it, reading it out loud and over. I'm not sure he ever did. "Good night, aaaaallllll," Trevor sang from his cell, holding the last note. I tried to harmonize, but my cry was no good. "Good night Annie," he called to me. I appreciated the acknowledgement.
The others murmured their goodbyes. Once everyone was safely in their "dormitory," a loud bell rang and the thick metal door slammed shut.
***
I first broke out a few months ago, three weeks after I was bitten. Since then, I haven't been able to return to my "base form," even between moon cycles. Gina was suspicious, not because I was incompetent, but because I refused. For once, she was right. Since my admission (an eventful evening), I’ve learned that the Lycan Center is the first non-profit, HIPAA-compliant facility that helps prepare newly transformed werewolves to safely reintegrate into society. This somewhat progressive idea was founded in response to the inexplicable rise in violent crime across the country. While politicians blame it on animals or threatened human criminals (called immigrants), some medical organizations, and the current administration recognizes that lycanthropy must be addressed head-on. And the troops began refusing to do anything after several of them were killed while trying to fight off a lycanthropus in distress. Anyway. The goal is to complete all four stages of the "W.E.R.E." Plan:
Reception (admission, home base)
Assessment (needs determination, goal setting, individualized treatment)
Reformation (outpatient residency, monthly inpatient behavioral training sessions)
Compulsory (outpatient sessions only, submission of course to the government)
The problem is, I don't want to be fired and no amount of evaluation will change that. Whatever form it takes, I'm going to be in prison for killing my father (oops).
And even when he died, I've never felt so alive, so much like myself. If I have to be locked in a cell, I'd rather be that way, at the most terrifying moment. Otherwise, why would they accidentally bite me?

By Omnipotent

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