It begins with the feeling of heat, and the stink of cat urine and shit. The shit is humiliating, the heat oppressive, not helped by the tightness. Your hands are tucked tight in your stomach, you don't have space to uncurl. There's a cramp in your leg, but it's been there so long, at this point.
You can't breathe well, and you wonder if this is how you'll die.
The metal goes from hot to freezing, and you can feel the movement - jarring bumps, sharp turns. You can hear someone playing old, classical rock, someone laughing, someone saying something about how "we got the bitch this time," and you're not sure what they mean.
The car stops and you can feel the stillness. It hasn't stopped yet. The cuts and scrapes on your hands you got the first day that you were in the box, beating against the side of it, they're gone. A terrible patience replaced the fear, and now you can feel the rage tinge the edges of being in that box.
He opens the box, and it would have been poetic if that had been the last stupid thing he did. No, the last stupid thing he did was take a step back. The shift to this form has never been easy but suddenly you unleash the floodgates of rage. You're huge, because suddenly he is tiny, his gun a toy. You eat his head first, and someone screams.
The rest you play with. The other man first, you disembowel him and batter his body. The woman next, she runs, but that makes it a game. She lasts a little longer, until she shoots you, and the silver of the bullet is stupid, ridiculous. You take your time with her, still towering over her, but the swipes of your paw just graze her leg instead of taking it off the entire way. Cut muscles so she can still run but just barely. You catch your reflection in the glass window of the truck. You're over ten feet tall, all muscle, something larger than you've been before, mostly tiger but with the human shape, almost, if a human took so many steroids their muscles had muscles.
That makes you shift back just after you've put a paw into the girl's stomach. She stares at you, and hisses, monster, but you're too caught up with the hate that she so obviously feels for you.
You decide you'll watch her die before you call for help.
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You can't breathe well, and you wonder if this is how you'll die.
The metal goes from hot to freezing, and you can feel the movement - jarring bumps, sharp turns. You can hear someone playing old, classical rock, someone laughing, someone saying something about how "we got the bitch this time," and you're not sure what they mean.
The car stops and you can feel the stillness. It hasn't stopped yet. The cuts and scrapes on your hands you got the first day that you were in the box, beating against the side of it, they're gone. A terrible patience replaced the fear, and now you can feel the rage tinge the edges of being in that box.
He opens the box, and it would have been poetic if that had been the last stupid thing he did. No, the last stupid thing he did was take a step back. The shift to this form has never been easy but suddenly you unleash the floodgates of rage. You're huge, because suddenly he is tiny, his gun a toy. You eat his head first, and someone screams.
The rest you play with. The other man first, you disembowel him and batter his body. The woman next, she runs, but that makes it a game. She lasts a little longer, until she shoots you, and the silver of the bullet is stupid, ridiculous. You take your time with her, still towering over her, but the swipes of your paw just graze her leg instead of taking it off the entire way. Cut muscles so she can still run but just barely. You catch your reflection in the glass window of the truck. You're over ten feet tall, all muscle, something larger than you've been before, mostly tiger but with the human shape, almost, if a human took so many steroids their muscles had muscles.
That makes you shift back just after you've put a paw into the girl's stomach. She stares at you, and hisses, monster, but you're too caught up with the hate that she so obviously feels for you.
You decide you'll watch her die before you call for help.