Metamorphosis

A man undergoes an extremely physical transformation.

He sat watching the seconds tick by; the devils hour was approaching.  Ten years to the day since his last episode -  had it begun again?

 

He could feel his brain throbbing and pulsating, neurons bouncing with limitless energy.   He held his head in his hands, the pain ripped through him like an electrostatic pulse, searing down to the microns of his DNA.

 

Stumbling through the dark room, he fell into a desk, tossing papers and pens up into the air, his heart beating wildly out of control. The pain, where was it coming from? He couldn’t locate it precisely.  It seemed to be all over him, like a rash.  He lay on the bare wooden floor, the dust smothering him, the beam of light from a nearby lantern showing how uncared for the room was.  Large portraits of unknown origin of unknown scenes littered the room. 

In the centre of the room, there was a box - a storage box maybe  - that dominated the space, its lid recently opened.

 

A small window at the head of the room was being battered with rain.  The strong moonlight reflecting amidst the stormy clouds, almost like God himself was searching with a torch.  For him maybe? But he wasn’t one of his creatures.  He came from the other direction.

 

Curled up on the floor, he could feel his body scream out in silent agony, he wanted to shout, but he could not and must not.  He wanted to leap through the small window and be rid of this pain, but there were bars on the window.  He was a prisoner of his insanity.

 

He started to crawl on the floor towards the enormous wooden door with its shiny black metallic handle.  He noticed his fingers beginning to elongate, his nails stretching in their place, the flesh pulling into another position.  His straggly hair started to fall out, his beard came away in clumps.  Was he dying?  He didn’t remember it being this bad before, but then it only happened once a decade, and his mind was old and foggy.  Time had taken its toll.  But even as he tried to remember, his mind became as clear as glass; he found his recollection perfect as every memory since he was born was crystal clear.  His recollection of his life was staggering and overwhelming.  Memories came flooding back; brutal memories.

 

Filled with alarm and guilt at his past misdemeanours he started to cry.  He could feel he was getting taller and stronger, his arms seemed to feel ripped with muscles, yet did not look any bigger.  He slowly tried to stand-up-straight, his backbone cracking with gut-wrenching snaps as it straightened.

 

He slowly staggered towards the door, his weeping ceasing, his strides becoming bolder.  His tattered clothes fell from his pale body as he reached the door.  His breathing became slower and slower; his movements were more deliberate and measured; his hair now perfectly short.

 

He ignored the handle and stood up straight in front of it.

 

It slowly swung open, and a darkened creature, hunched in the shadows knelt forward and lay a robe at his feet.

 

“Welcome back...Lord Dracula.”

 

Author's Note

Part of the #BePositiveWriteNow : First Sentence project. Instagrammers give me the First Sentence, and then I do the rest. Happy reading.