Free Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 by Happy Hour of the Damned

time, but the cloudy minutes of a dream. It could have been as long as an hour, or a few seconds, or days.
    Then, as soon as the spell came on, it dissipated. The aroma of freshly butchered meat filled my nose. It was the only scent. I noticed my teeth grinding, a fullness in my stomach. Calm.
    I was sated.
    I opened my eyes to a scene of horror. At my feet lay a pile of shredded fabric, bloody bones and assorted body parts 35 . The glass of the bus shelter was sprayed with blood. It dripped around me. Ricardo was chewing on an ear, like a potato chip, and winking.
    “Full?” he asked.
    “What?” I was groggy, like I had a hangover.
    “Are you full, no longer hungry?”
    “What happened?” I nudged the heap of remains with a gore-stained high heel; a jawbone slid out and skittered a few inches. It registered. The boys’ scent had drawn me. I hadn’t even noticed my own body’s movement. I was in a trance. At some point, I was on them, biting in, tearing at flesh and muscle, slurping at sinew and entrails.
    “You fed.” He brushed some loose hairs from his wool coat. “You caught the scent and you let it take you. It’s how it works. It’s lesson three.”
    “But, I didn’t have any control over it,” I said, pacing back and forth in the confines of the shelter. “I always have control. Always.”
    “Calm down. It’s a totally normal part of the process. You become more sentient as you grow into the new life. On some kills, you will be completely aware of your actions.”
    “That’s comforting,” I said, absently massaging my jaw. It was tired and sore, like I had given it a serious workout. Which, of course, I had. I continued to rub, until a sharp pain bit into my cheek. Reaching in, I withdrew a minute shiny metal chunk: a filling.
    “Jesus Christ!” I yelled, swooning, dropping the small piece of metal.
    Ricardo bent over and picked up the shiny ball from the concrete. “That’s not a problem, fillings are replaceable. Even for us. I know a very discreet dentist.”
    “That’s not it,” I said, looking back to the pile.
    “What is it, then?”
    “All my fillings are porcelain.”
     
    Lesson four was something I would have to deal with on my own. As it turns out, it wouldn’t pose a problem. You see, Ricardo told me that I would need to break ties with my friends and family, and likely, in time, my job. He told me this on the way back to the Well, after a quick spray of Scrubbing Bubbles, and a brisk wipe of the bus shelter. He even stopped mid-stride to comfort me, should the moment necessitate. It didn’t.
    Oh, where to begin?
    Right here …
    Ethel Ellen Frazier was a mother—mine—in the loosest, most perfunctory sense of that word. I was the product of her first marriage to my father, John Shutter, a carpet salesman who worked the hours of a long-haul trucker, with the same truck stop cravings (greasy prostitutes). He worked so often, I became Ethel’s confidante—as so many only children do—leaving the growing-up part to the other kids, orphaned to rec room cocktail mixology, doilied social etiquette, the proper delivery of humorous anecdotes, and the moderately interesting discussion of current events. These were Ethel’s primary pursuits and she accomplished them with a style—she called it panache—often mimicked by her acquaintances, but rarely up-to-par.
    I refer to the people that hung around our house as “glommers.” They seemed to have no other purpose than to reinforce my mother’s ridiculous ideas or negate her stream of brutal self-critique (the brunt of which transferred to me, with more frequency than I’d like to admit). One particular glommer, Mary-Beth Winters, had it in for me. A jealous bitch and cold—I often mourned the shriveling of Mr. Winters’ dick, as surely the weather called for snow flurries with each creaky spreading of Mary-Beth’s thighs—she’d often whisper to me, “You certainly like your food, don’t you Mandy?” or “Scared