Beasts and Savages (The Beastly Series Book 1) Read Online Free PDF

given me a headache.
There was an audible pop in the room followed by intense burning in my right hand. I squeezed my left hand over it and yanked it back. A welt on my left palm was going numb. I had poked myself with one of my own bristles. Several fiery pangs on my hands sent current after current of pain up my arms. I knelt down and placed my palms flat on the cool floor, gritting my teeth so I wouldn’t scream.
Once the pain began to wane, I opened my eyes and inspected my hands. Hard brown bristles spiked out of the tops of them. When I flattened my hand, they lay flat against my skin. I made a fist. The short spines poked up into the air. My nails had hardened and grown to fine points. Blood welled on my thumb when I pierced it with a nail. I stuck the wounded thumb in my mouth. The metallic taste came at the same time as a flash of red.
I pulled my thumb out of my mouth and stood. A red fog invaded the corner of my vision. I closed my eyes and shook my head, willing it away, but the fog grew thicker. The hunger deep in my core called to the mist. As it clouded my vision, the red beckoned the want. I rubbed my eyes with my palms, careful not to poke myself. Nothing would erase the soupy haze.
I sat on the bench and tried to think of a way to stop the red clouds in my eyes. My mind moved slowly and words would not come. Several frustrating minutes passed. I clenched my fists tightly. I needed to think and the only word that would come to me was red. I clenched harder, until my nails threatened to punch through my skin. My vision flashed and for a moment the world was nothing but hot embers of anger.
There was a burst of pain in my hand and the rage subsided. The fog thinned. Pain. My agony had lifted the haze. I stabbed my hands and arms with my nails, relishing the clarity that came with each puncture. The sleeves to my green cotton tunic had snags, puncture holes, and blood marks from my wrists to my elbows. Finally the fog was nothing more than a red mist in the corner of my eyes.
I wanted a way to remember how I felt while changed, a way to record this event so that I could remember it and be prepared next time. I held up a bloodied index finger and began to write words on the wall: hunger, pain, anger, red, fog.
As the pain subsided, the mist thickened and crept back into my mind and vision. The aching hunger mounted. I looked over my hands and arms. I couldn’t bear to cut myself up more. I paced and massaged my temples, willing myself to think of another way to keep the red anger at bay. I counted my steps. The fog slowed, but still ebbed at my consciousness.
I had lost track of time. The intensity of the change left me weak and tired. I lay face down on the cold floor and pressed my forehead against it. The coolness was wonderful on my flushed skin. I closed my eyes and hoped that sleep would come before the hazy rage could completely take me over.
***
The hum of the lights filled my ears. It was smaller than I remembered, less intense. I opened my eyes and squinted in the light. The fog was gone. I pushed myself up. Red splotchy circles covered my hands. The bristles were gone; my changing was over.
I sat on the bench and thought back to the last thing I could recall. My mind was cloudy, like I was trying to relive a dream after waking up. My head ached slightly and my neck was sore from sleeping awkwardly on the floor. I remembered fog, and red anger, cutting myself to make the mist disappear. The bristles. I knew the agony that came when the bristles punched through. I examined the words written on the wall with my blood.
Everything. I remembered everything.
I strode to the box on the wall. I had to get the combination carved into the door frame to open the lock. My fingers traced each number and deftly turned the dial. After the final number, it clicked. I opened the little door and pulled the lever, expecting to hear an alarm. Nothing happened.
I lowered myself onto the bench and waited. Minutes passed. No