Free Dwelling by Thomas S. Flowers Page A

revealing dark hair underneath. She has to be there, has to.
    The door to the house opened, light poured out into the dark, and out stepped the frail shadow of the happyish, black woman known to Bobby simply as Luna, who he’d come to love, though he’d never admit it openly.
    He could see with what he assumed to be now yellow-devil eyes. She was wearing a sky-blue ankle-length skirt and flower-print sleeveless shirt. A large and overflowing plum scarf covering her shoulders flowed behind her as she ran to meet him at the gate. Her dark skin seemed to glow hot behind his devil eyes as he pounded the dirt toward her, to reach her, to reach the cage before he lost consciousness. Before it was too late.
    “Cutting it close, are we?” Luna called out. A half smirk, half concern cloud drifted on her face.
    Bobby didn’t waste precious breath with a response. He undressed as he ran. He unbuttoned his shirt and let it fly in the wind behind him. Undid his silver pants button and bounded through the open gate. Quickly, he kicked off his beat-up Jordan’s and shoved his pants over his ankles and tossed both toward Luna who caught them but held the discarded clothes at arm’s length, making a funny face with her nose. Bobby wasn’t wearing any underwear. Lastly he handed Luna his only treasure possession, a sun-spotted and greasy black Operation Iraqi Freedom Veteran hat. The brass Combat Action Badge and service ribbon pin sparkled in the moonlight. He paused handing it to her, his hand still on the brim, shaking.
    His strange, mythical eyes bore into Luna with a deep profound sadness no one could describe, except for maybe Johnathan and Jake, and even that son-of-a-bitch Ricky …
    Luna took the hat tenderly. Turning it over in her palm, she seemed to notice the faded picture clipped within. The one of five teenagers standing beside each other in a row of smiling faces. Young. Joking. The innocence of youth. They were obvious friends standing in front of a modest looking farm house. She peeled back one of the edges of the photo without dislodging it from its hiding place and read out loud the words written on the back.
     
    Suicide Squad—1995
     
    Bobby was watching her, struggling to hold on to his humanity. His manhood shriveled in the cold. He didn’t care.
    “I’ll wash your clothes,” Luna thumbed behind her, toward his shirt left lying in the dirt. “And I’ll keep this safe for you.” She gestured to the hat he had placed in her hand.
    Bobby nodded, unable to speak. What would I say? What words would come out? Screams of agony? Laughing? Or would the sounds be from It, the wolf, howling?
    Luna smiled ‘It’s time’ without really having to say the words herself. Bobby backed away from the gate. Luna closed the fence on protesting hinges, “See you in the morning, okay?” she said, locking the final steel chain and then disappeared toward the house.
    Bobby fell to his knees. His teeth chattered and then chipped. He spit them out in fat droplets of blood. His flesh tore in one final, wet rip. Thick, black fur came up from underneath. Bones cracked and repositioned. His hands looked impossibly long. He was reminded again, for a moment, of Ricky and all his dumb horror movie marathon sleepovers when they were kids— Hell, what was that one Ricky just had to watch almost every other weekend? Bobby searched his memory. An American Werewolf in London ! That’s the one! Bobby thought of the movie now. Looking at himself, he realized he’d never be able to watch the damn movie ever again.
    His back snapped as it reformed into a hunch. He screamed, and then faded in the dark, snarling, yellow pool.
     
    ***
     
    Luna
     
    Hours later, Luna snuck a glance out her kitchen window. It was pitch black outside. The moon did little to penetrate the vines covering her grandfather’s old batting cage. Yet, something came into focus, stirring amongst the dark. She jerked back. Is that…? She leaned closer, her flat