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Marshall twitched, an annoying convulsion of his neck that drove him insane. Whether it was nerves causing it, or the drugs slowly taking affect in his body, it was annoying as hell. His skin itched, his eyes were irritated, and overall he felt like s**t. He blinked fast, glancing over his shoulder for the people that he knew had to be coming to check up on him. “Damn it,” They were taking longer than usual, he needed the feeling, and it wasn’t happening fast enough. Usually, it took about ten minutes for him to feel the drug coursing through his veins. Maybe over the years, his constant use had caught up with him, making him become immune to it, like everything else he’d tried. Blood flow, that was what he needed, and fast, or he’d be twitchier than all get out, and someone would notice. He stopped pacing in his room, long enough to drop down on the bed, undo his pants, and get himself free.
He swore loudly, and came to himself, feeling the rush from both his climax and the PCP finally coursing through his veins. This was what life was all about, the rush. With the drugs side effects, Marshall was invincible. He felt no pain, only pleasure, it made him think better, faster, unlike anyone else on the planet. In essence, he felt like a God. None of the other wolves could do what he could, not when he’d just smoked. He surpassed Shamus in strength, and Ian with intelligence. Laughing insanely, he righted himself, and jumped from the second story window in his room, running from the castle to the woods surrounding it.
He was deep into the woods, somewhere on some back country road, maybe, or somewhere other than Ethica entirely when he stopped running. He wasn’t breathless, his legs didn’t hurt from running as long and as far as he had, and Marshall could feel the blood thrumming through his veins. The wolf tilted his head back, howling at the night sky. It was cut short, someone had followed him. “Probably that idiot of a third in command, Joey,” he thought to himself, turning around to confront him. No-one was there, but he heard voices. Whispers through the trees, mocking him, telling him things. His heart raced. Where was everyone? They usually found him by now, calmed him down, stuck him in that insane, infernal ******** pit of a labyrinth, and kept him there till the drugs ran their course through his body.
“The Diary,” Marshall flinched, a cramp in his calf, making the muscle clench and tighten. That’s where they were, they were all searching for a journal, a diary from someone, about some history or some s**t like that. During meetings, Marshall had always tuned everyone out, daydreaming about his next fix, or the girl he’d just ********. He remembered that much though. Someone named Jaden.
His feet were moving before he realized what he was doing. He was having thoughts that weren’t his own. “Diary. Jaden. She has it. We need it. Treaty. Murder.” His eyes widened, his heart raced, his palms felt sweaty, cold, yet all of him was on fire. The edges of his vision got blurry, black, till he only saw what was in front of him, a foot; two at the most. He seemed to know the way to her house without even knowing he knew it. Part of him watched his body move, insanely fascinated by how he functioned on the drug. He was horrified at the turn his thoughts had taken. Murder. He was going to break the treaty. Get the diary, prove to Shamus that he had more… something, than that p***k of an alpha did.
He stopped a mile from her house, watching the two figures approach the house. Claude, and River. Two stupid pups that didn’t know their place in the pack. Ian, no, Shamus sent them. They were onto him. Already. Marshall’s hand convulsed, a nervous twitch. His breathing wasn’t steady. Things had gotten too out of hand. He couldn’t stop himself. A minute passed. Another. Three. What the hell were they doing in there? Warning her that Marshall was going to kill her? It didn’t matter. After he got the diary, things were going to end. First for him, then for everyone else. Breaking the treaty would lead to an all out war between the wolves and the vampires. It couldn’t wait, it was bound to happen.
The werewolf took one final breath, smiling, feeling the God rush through his veins, mix with the mutated blood already flowing there. Some part of him watched with horror as he ran into the house, crashing through a window on the left side of the house, bottom floor. The broken glass cut his skin, but the wounds healed almost instantly, blood showing up on his tan long sleeved shirt in little patches. A Rorschach test on his body. Only Claude was there, and she hadn’t noticed him yet, or maybe she had. It didn’t matter. This was his only chance. He took out the knife he didn’t remember having on his person, and pushed her out of the way, brutally punching Jaden (he assumed) in the chest with the knife in hand. The crack of her ribs felt like vibrations against his hand, a ringing snap in his ears. Marshall pulled his hand back, flexing, feeling the bones of his fingers reconnect themselves as muscle and tissue moved around them. He howled, the sound a deep baritone to the woman’s blood curdling scream. The last sound she would ever make.
Claude was yelling at him, but Marshall paid no attention. He stared down at his hand, starting to hyperventilate. “What the hell did I just do?” His voice cracked, tears running down his cheeks. Broke the treaty. Killed someone. PCP out of control this time. Should’ve stayed home. The sound of footsteps on the staircase broke his mental tirade, and he ran back out of the house, back through the window he broke getting in there. More cuts. More blood on his shirt. More healing. Death. That would solve this. No-one back in the pack would forgive him for what he’d done. Lost control. Killed a human. “s**t.” He ran, ran until his legs gave out, and ran until he couldn’t breathe. The werewolves’ castle came into view, and he only barely identified it through his blurry vision. If he got back up, dusted off his clothes, paused a moment, got his bearings and went in there, confessed, things might get better. Exile as the best case.
Marshall found himself moving as he thought. His body didn’t listen to him at times like this. Maybe he’d really lost it this time. The drugs really had gotten the best of him. No-one, no wolf, no vampire, no-one could help him now. Death. Suicide. End this. Don’t hurt anyone else. He was hyperventilating again, crying. He’d ******** up. One way to make this better. Watching himself move, he isolated himself from his body, retreated into the back of his mind so he wouldn’t feel the pain. Felt the arms of his mother wrap around him, a warm embrace. Marshall raised his left hand, placed the palm at his jaw, and pushed up, the pain of his neck straining against the pressure a minor annoyance, he barely felt it. His mother was smiling, and his dad came into view. The first crack. He kept going. The mutation was going to heal him if he didn’t do this quickly. He raised his other hand to his throat, constricting his air supply. Chocking himself. He heard voices. They weren’t real. PCP side effects. Things went black, fuzzy around the edges. Cold and warm at the same time. Two more cracks. He couldn’t breathe. His head rolled back, dislocated from his spine, hand still clenched around his throat.
Marshall ceased to exist after that. Watching from a distance as the life slowly left his body, wondering with some sick fancy who would cry when they found his body.
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