The First
By Evan Drake
© 2019, Evan Drake, All Rights
Reserved

Roame leaned over the toilet bowl and retched, the contents
of his stomach burning his throat and leaving the sickening taste of bile on
his tongue. The smell burned his nostrils made his eyes water even as he held
them tightly shut. The nauseating splatter sounds only urged him to vomit more
in an seemingly unending cycle. It only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like
hours had passed before he wiped his muzzle on the back of his sleeve. The
relief was short-lived as a second wave of vomiting started. This cycle
continued until at last he could only dry-heave into the bowl. He eventually collapsed
in the corner once he was certain his stomach had nothing left to give. With a
heavy sigh, he rested his cheek on the toilet seat and closed his eyes.

            “It wasn't
supposed to go like this," he mumbled to no one. The reassuring taunts of his
friends filled his mind. “An easy job," they had said. “In and out. A simple
smash and grab. Even a noob like him could do it." A small whimper escaped him.
They knew he had never done anything like this before, yet they still sent him
in alone.

Roame eventually groaned pushed himself
to stand again. He wanted to leave, but he knew he had to make himself
presentable first. It wouldn't do to walk down the street looking as if he had just
been in a bar fight.

            Getting the
sink was the easy part. Looking at his reflection was not. A spotted hyena he
barely recognized stared back at him. He was only 27, but he looked at least
twenty years older with tired sunken eyes. His sand-colored fur had been
stained pink and three long gashes decorated his left cheek. He paled beneath
his coat at the sight. His clothes were no different. His shirt had been torn
and stretched out of shape and hung loosely on his torso. It didn't help it was
also stained red with blood. His jeans weren't torn, but there were stained as
well. Thankfully they were dark enough he didn't need to worry about cleaning
them.

            Roame
turned on the water and splashed some on his face, wincing when the cold water
touched his face. Doing his best to avoid the cuts, he washed the blood from
his fur and paws. He carefully removed his shirt next and washed it as best he
could. Once the water changed from pink to clear, he wrung the shirt then put it
back on. It would take hours to dry and he didn't want to risk leaving it behind
by accident. His fur would have to air dry.

            He slowly
shuffled into the hall, leaning on the walls for support. Only his face had
been damaged, but his legs felt wobbly and his head felt light. Bloody streaks
lined the walls. Roame avoided touching the macabre decoration as he headed for
the exit. He wouldn't be taking anything with him; he was done with this. The
others would be angry with him, but he didn't care. A life of crime was not for
him.

Upon reaching the living room, he
froze. The room had been torn apart. The TV had a large hole in the screen. The
chairs were overturned gutted of their cushions. The one working lamp in the
room had been knocked down, its bulb flickering like a strobe light. The coffee
table had been overturned, three of its four legs snapped off. All that
remained was a large pool of blood on the floor. His tail tucked between his
legs.

His life was over. He hadn't meant
to kill them; it was an accident. The police wouldn't understand. No matter how
he tried to spin it, the breaking-and-entering charge wasn't going away. With that
headlining his story, nothing else mattered. They would find the deepest,
darkest hole they find and bury him in it.

            Roame
slammed his fist into the carpet. He had just thrown his life away on a dare, a
stupid, childish dare. The elders warned them not to go out at night anymore. At
this point in their lives it was too dangerous for them and for others. He knew
he should know better—especially at his age. To do something so stupid, all for
a few hundred bucks, was a serious offense. If he was lucky, they would just
hand him over to the police and not punish him themselves.

There was no way out of this
without the others finding out. Telling them was his only option. Better they
hear it from him than the police. With a shaking paw, he reached into his
pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Despite the tears blurring his vision, he
managed to find Rodney in his contacts list and call the older yeen.

            Rodney
answered the phone on the first ring, his gruff voice harsher and more
demanding than usual. “Where the fuck are you?"

            Roame never
thought he would be so happy to be yelled at in his life. “R-Rod? I…I need
help. S-Something's gone wrong."

            “Whoa, slow
down, kid," Rodney said, the scolding tone replaced by a soothing one. “What
happened?"

            Roame
launched into his explanation, his voice breaking with every word as fresh tears
streamed down his cheeks. “You told us not to go outside. You said it was too
dangerous. And I didn't listen. I didn't listen, man. I'm sorry. It was an
accident. I couldn't control--"

            “Roame, I
need you to breathe," Rodney interjected gently. His voice trembled as he asked
his next question. “Now, did you… haver your first transformation?"

            Roame
nodded, but quickly realizing the old yeen couldn't see him, he replied with a
shaky, “Yes."

            “Shit. All
right, it's okay. Was anyone hurt?"

            “Yes," Roame
said, his voice just shy of a squeak.

            There was
silence. At first Roame feared Rodney had given up on him, but then the old
yeen spoke again. “Listen, I'm coming to get you. Where are you?"

            “Uh, 1497 Cottman
Avenue.."

            “Okay, now
I want you to carefully approach the window and peek outside. Do you see or
hear any sirens?"

            Roame did
as he was told. He saw no police cruisers or flashing lights and heard no
sirens in the distance. “No, there's no one coming."

            “Good. That
makes this easier. Lock the door and sit tight. Do not open it for anyone other
than me. If you hear or see any cops, call me, understand?"

            “Yes, I
understand. Listen, Rod, I'm so sorry--"

            “I know you
are, kid. But now isn't the time for that. You can worry about making amends
when you get home safely." The call ended and Roame returned the phone to his
pocket.

            Roame
pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead on them then started
crying again. Curled in a ball like this, he could still the smell the blood in
his clothes and his fur. He could still smell the feral scent of the wild hyena
he had turned into.

He had no memory of what happened
after his transformation. He remembered walking up to the house, picking the
lock and entering the residence he had been assured was empty. Next, he was waking
up in the middle of a destroyed room, clothes torn and face covered in blood.
The sight of the carnage was too much and he rushed into the bathroom to vomit.

The first bedroom he entered, he
froze. The room had been wrecked just like downstairs was. The queen-sized mattress
and bedframe hid any signs of a body, but the ruined state of the bedroom and
the streak of blood leading away from it all told Roame he didn't want to see
it. He felt nauseous again and leaned on his knees, taking several deep
breaths. It didn't help as each inhale filled his nose with the scent of fresh
blood.

Looking down, he noticed the blood
streak led outside the door and further down the hall. Something else was in
the room and had been dragged out. The yeen's question echoed in his mind again
and he followed the blood trail. The trail led back downstairs and towards the basement.
Roame hesitated at the sight of the blood pawprint on the door knob.

He reached out and slowly opened
the door which swung soundlessly on its hinges. Swallowing some of the fear and
nausea, he forced his legs to move and descended. Each step made his heartbeat
quicken and the silence grew heavier. He slipped halfway down and tumbled the
rest of the way, landing at the bottom of the stairs with a loud splat. Ignoring
that blood was likely on his clothes and in his fur again, he continued to lay
there in agony. It felt as if every body part had struck at least two stairs on
the way down.

Roame had no idea how long he lay
on the floor, but it wasn't until the pain had begun to ebb that he pushed into
a kneeling position and checked to see if anything was broken. After learning he
would only be sore for the next couple of days, he stood and continued
following the blood trail.

The trail led to a door at the end in
the back. Roame tried unsuccessfully to swallow the lump in his throat and
approached it. The smell of blood grew stronger. It made his claws itch, and
his was surprised to find himself salivating and a low rumbled emanated from
his stomach. With a disgusted grunt, he wiped the drool from his chin, but he
continued moving toward the door almost as if by magnetism or some other strong
attractive force.

The sound knocking upstairs made
him freeze, but then he heard Rodney's voice and relax. “Kid? It's me. Open up!"

Roame stopped and looked up. It
felt as if he had woken up from a dream. He looked back at the door. So close,
and yet part of him didn't want to know what happened. But the questions also
nagged at the back of his mind. Why did he drag the bodies downstairs? Why did
he kill them? Who was in there? He heard of many transforming and never
committing a single violent act.

Roame turned away from the door and
headed back upstairs. It was better some questions remained unanswered.

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