Blood of Gato

William's eyes flew open as a sharp, very real pain shot through his back. Before he could comprehend what was happening, a silhouette loomed over him—familiar, yet now frightening, like a ghost from his childhood.

"No, I don't want to die!" he sobbed, instinctively squeezing his eyes shut, but then opened them again, realizing he was not lying on the cold asphalt but in his own, albeit not very cozy, room. A flickering lightbulb with a chipped lampshade hung from the ceiling, and above him stood his mother, clutching a wet rag in her fist.

"William, you little piglet!" she began from the doorway, and without waiting for a response, she slapped him on the back with the rag. "What have you done in my house? And those dirty footprints on the carpet—what's that?! You've nearly wrecked all my furniture!"

As his mother yelled at him, the young man looked around. His room indeed looked dirtier than usual. The whole mess seemed like an unreal set piece from some absurd play.

"I understand that you make a mess in your room, but trashing the whole house is a bit much, son!" his mother continued, fixing her hair and sighing heavily.

William tried to sit up, but his body felt unresponsive, like after a tough workout. He glanced around, trying to catch some hint of reality. Just yesterday, it seemed, he had been dying in an alley, feeling life slip away through his fingers, and now he was... home? In his bed?

"Maybe I died, and this is some kind of afterlife?" he mumbled, absently checking his forehead to see if he had a fever. "Though judging by the rag, this is more like hell than purgatory…"

"Hell, you say?" his mother raised an eyebrow and grabbed him by the ear, pulling him toward her. "Now you'll really find out what hell is! I barely dragged you to your room yesterday, and you're still being defiant!"

"Ow, Mom, that hurts!" he groaned, trying to wriggle free. "I didn't do anything like that! I swear! It wasn't me, it was… it was…"—but he couldn't find any excuses.

"Not only did you come home drunk yesterday, but you also turned the place into a pigsty!" his mother continued, though her voice had softened a bit. "Of course, young people drink sometimes, but not to the point of causing a ruckus as soon as they walk in!"

"Mom, I swear, I didn't drink!" William surrendered, rubbing his ear. "I... I don't remember anything. At all. It's like someone switched me off yesterday. I don't even remember how I got home."

"You came home late yesterday, all covered in mud, and you smelled of alcohol and something else," his mother recalled with disgust, covering her nose. "I had to throw your clothes away. They were all torn and stained. You also claimed you saw your late grandmother. Did you happen to take drugs yesterday?" She reached out to check his pupils, but he dodged her grasp.

He sighed, feeling a wave of anxiety rise in his chest. Memories of yesterday dissolved in the morning fog. Slowly, he stood up and, swaying, approached the mirror. His eyes immediately fixed on his own back.

"Nothing…" he whispered, touching his skin. "Not even a scar… Was it a dream?"

His mother sat on the edge of the bed, softening a bit as she placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Son, what happened to you? Maybe you could tell me? I'll understand, you know."

He wanted to tell her everything: about the alley, the screams, the knife, the black cat… But the words got stuck somewhere in his throat, as if someone was squeezing him from the inside. He just looked at his mother, his eyes asking a silent question, filled with fear, hurt, and exhaustion.

"Sorry… I… probably just drank too much," he finally said, lowering his gaze. "I guess my girlfriend broke up with me yesterday. And that's why I tried to drown out the pain. I'm sorry, Mom." He felt ashamed to even look his mother in the eye.

She sighed, hugged him around the shoulders, and quietly said, "I'm so sorry, but that girl must have been blind to think she could find someone better than you." She stroked his hair and added, "You're strong, you'll get through this. If you need anything, I'm always here. Just remember: no girl is worth your health. And definitely not worth turning our home into a hellhole!"

He smiled weakly, feeling at least a shred of warmth.

"Thank you, Mom."

"Good. Now go take a shower, then come to the kitchen. I'll make you some chicken broth."

His mother gave him a motherly pat on the cheek, stood up, and straightened as she left the room. At the door, she turned back: "And, William, if you ever come home like that again, I swear I'll personally flush your stomach with bleach!"

Left alone, he looked at himself in the mirror once more, ran his hand through his hair, and quietly muttered, "Was it really all just a dream…?"

******

Already in the bathroom, William tried to shake off the sticky feeling of anxiety that had enveloped his mind since he woke up. He turned the water on full blast—so hot that his skin immediately turned red. The streams of water cascaded down his shoulders, washing away the remnants of dirt and stench. He began to lather his body, stubbornly humming something indistinct, hoping the music would help drive away the bad thoughts.

But suddenly, right in the middle of a verse, he doubled over. A sharp pain pierced his stomach, as if someone had squeezed his insides with an icy hand.

"Damn that Mexican food…" he gritted through clenched teeth, grabbing the wall. His knees buckled, and he had to lean his shoulder against the cold tiles to avoid falling. His vision swam.

And then he vomited. A thick, oily, completely black mass erupted from his mouth. It splattered onto the tiles, running in thick streams down his chin and chest, leaving a disgusting metallic taste behind. The water in the tub instantly turned dark, and dark streaks floated across its surface.

"What the…" William couldn't finish his thought before another wave of nausea hit him, and a new surge of blackness burst forth with a convulsive gasp. He was gasping for air.

His hands trembled, sweat dripped down his back alongside the water. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to collect himself, but then memories flashed in his mind—bright, painful, sharp, like lightning strikes.

...he was running across rooftops, the wind hitting his face. His legs were agile, his body alive—not human. He sensed the smell of fear, drawn to blood. There was a woman, a man—their screams, their helplessness. He leaped, claws tearing flesh, teeth sinking into a neck. The taste of blood—a sweet, maddening greed…

"No! No!" he screamed, pressing his hands against his ears as if he could expel those scenes from his head. "That's not me! I couldn't… I couldn't…"

The water washed away the black slime, but there was too much of it. When the flow finally subsided, something snagged on the drain at the bottom of the tub—thick, pink pieces. Flesh. Real, with fibers and veins. And beside it—something shiny.

Swallowing hard, William leaned down and, trembling, picked up the find with his finger. It was a ring. A wedding band, made of gold, along with engraved letters. But it was fitted onto a bloody, bitten finger.

"Oh God…" he recoiled, but his hand instinctively tightened around the find. His heart raced, and his stomach twisted with disgust and horror. "It can't be… This can't be happening!"

He abruptly threw the ring back into the water, as if it could bite him. Then, not thinking about what he was doing, he slipped out of the tub, nearly collapsing onto the floor—his legs wouldn't hold him.

Exhausted, he rushed to the mirror. His breath was ragged, and his fingers trembled as he wiped the steam off the surface. In the reflection, he saw his face—pale, with dilated pupils, with dark smudges still lingering in the corners of his lips.

He cautiously ran his fingers over his face, trying to confirm that it was still him.

"It's just a dream… Just a nightmare," he whispered, pinching his cheek. "Come on, wake up! Wake up already!"

The pain was real. He looked at himself again, examining his teeth. Everything seemed to be in place… But what if… He leaned closer to the mirror, peering into his eyes.

And then, like a flash, his pupils narrowed, becoming vertical like a predator's. A foreign face flickered in the reflection—not human, but beast-like, with amber eyes. This creature in the mirror was staring right at him, and the corners of its mouth twisted into a predatory smile.

"Who… who are you?" William gasped, recoiling, pressing his palms to his chest. "Is that… me!?"

At that moment, a knock came from the door, along with his mother's voice: "William? Are you okay? You've been in the shower for ten minutes; I heard your scream! What's going on?"

He quickly turned, trying to hide the tremor in his voice: "I'm fine, Mom! Just… it's too hot!"

"Make sure you don't fall asleep, or you'll boil!" she replied with relief, and her footsteps faded away.

He turned back to the mirror. The creature was gone; it was just him—pale, frightened, with horror in his eyes. But somewhere deep in the reflection, in the very shadow, a pair of amber eyes still gleamed.

******

When William finally collected himself and changed into a clean T-shirt and old jeans, he descended to the first floor, greeted by silence—tense and apprehensive, like before a storm. He paused for a moment on the stairs, taking in the wrecked hallway: shards of plates scattered everywhere, cushions thrown off the sofa, and a dark stain on the carpet—either wine or juice. The cupboard door hung by one hinge, unable to withstand yesterday's chaos. William ran a hand through his disheveled hair, feeling an almost physical pain from shame.

"Well, now I see why Mom was like a fury this morning," he thought. "Damn it, I even ruined Mom's favorite porcelain cups! There's no escaping this now."

He clenched his fist sharply, imagining how his mother would look at him—not so much with anger as with bitter disappointment. A major cleanup was now entirely on him. And he didn't even remember how it all happened…

Sighing, William went to the kitchen to grab a trash bag to collect the shards. As soon as the living room floor started to resemble some semblance of order, he heard his parents' muffled voices from the kitchen.

"Bob, he can't behave like this!" his mother said desperately, stirring the broth vigorously. "What if he had been hit by a car yesterday? Losing his head over some… some girl is a disgrace!"

"Oh come on, Mutt, don't exaggerate," his father replied calmly, fiddling with a toolbox under the massive oak table. "At his age, we were all a bit reckless. I remember once…"

"Bob, this isn't about you," his mother interrupted sharply, striking the edge of the pot with a wooden spoon. "Our son caused such a ruckus yesterday that I'm at a loss for words! Did you see what the hallway turned into?"

"I see, I see," Bob sighed, not wanting to provoke another wave of irritation. "Alright, I agree, he went too far. Mutt, please pass me that red screwdriver; I'm trying to fix this table leg."

With clear irritation, Mom wiped her hands on her apron and handed him the tool. For a second, she hesitated, as if deciding: "Maybe we should have a serious talk with him? Or even… get him a psychologist?"

Bob looked up sharply, bumping his head against the tabletop, and grimaced: "Ouch, be careful with suggestions like that. You know how kids react to those talks… Better not now, okay? Let's think it through together, without emotions."

"As you say…" she sighed quietly and returned to the stove, keeping a close eye on the broth to prevent it from boiling over.

At that moment, William hesitantly stepped into the kitchen.

"Uh… good morning," he croaked, avoiding his mother's gaze.

His father immediately peeked out from under the table, a sly grin spreading across his face: "Oh, here's our hero the handyman! Decided to give your old man, who's already swamped with work, some more to do?"

Mom shot him a stern look, but then, softening slightly, said without much enthusiasm: "Help your father with the furniture, and then you can have breakfast. And… William, we'll talk after breakfast."

William nodded, feeling an unpleasant knot tightening in his chest. He approached his father, who gestured for him to come closer: "Well, son, hold this… and please try not to break anything else today, alright?" Bob winked quietly as he handed him the screwdriver.

Leaning over the table, William noticed that the massive oak structure was suspiciously wobbling from side to side—the leg barely held on. He cautiously nudged the table to check its stability and immediately felt it start to lean toward his father.

"Dad, be careful, it's unstable!" he warned, but Bob just snorted and waved his hand dismissively: "Oh come on, son, I put this table together before you learned to walk."

William wanted to protest, but at that moment, the table creaked pitifully and suddenly tilted, as if to contradict Bob's words. The heavy tabletop lurched downward, looming directly over his father. Bob, finally realizing the danger, scrambled to get out from under the table, but it was too late—the massive structure was already leaning, ready to crush him.

"Damn it!" he shouted, helplessly trying to crawl away.

Hearing the scream, Mom slammed a spoon down onto the stove and, without a second thought, rushed into the dining room: "Bob! What happened?!"

But disaster was averted—literally at the last moment before the table would have fallen on Bob, William did something he never would have believed he could. Almost instinctively, he lunged forward, caught the tabletop with both hands, and stopped its fall in one motion, holding the entire weight up. His fingers gripped the smooth wood, his arm muscles tensed, but the table obeyed him, as if it had become weightless.

"What the…?" he gasped, staring in shock at his hands.

Bob finally crawled out from under the table and looked around as if he had witnessed a miracle. For a second, he just stood there, eyes wide open, and then, coming to his senses, he laughed and slapped his son on the shoulder: "You just saved my life, kid! Now that's what I call strength! Have you been working out at night while we sleep? Or has the Hulk possessed you?"

Startled by the unexpected slap on the shoulder, William released the table, and it crashed down onto the floor, narrowly missing Bob's foot.

"Be careful!" Mom exclaimed, rushing over to embrace her husband. "Bob, are you alright? You said everything was under control!"

"It's fine, Mutt," Bob waved her off, though beads of cold sweat had formed on his forehead. "Just look at our son! Now that's a man! At his age, I could barely open a jar of pickles, and he's like a damn Arnold!"

"With jokes like that, you're going to get yourself in trouble," Mom said sternly, checking Bob from head to toe. "And besides, our son warned you, and you, as usual…!"

While his parents argued, William looked at his hands, flexing and unflexing his fingers. It didn't make sense: just yesterday, he could barely carry two bags of groceries, and now he had lifted a table that his father couldn't even budge alone. It felt as if something was stirring beneath his skin, and shivers ran down his spine. Panic rose in his throat, and his heart began to race.

"I just… lifted about eighty kilograms… and didn't even break a sweat? Am I really changing?!"

He shook his hands sharply, as if hoping to shake off the strange sensation. Fear ignited in his chest, familiar from the night before. Just as he thought he didn't want to return to the memories of what happened in the bathroom, that madness reminded him of itself again—something seemed to stir inside him, demanding to break free.

"I… I need to take out the trash!" he blurted out hastily and, without waiting for a response, dashed outside, tightly gripping the trash bag.

"What's wrong with him?" Mom wondered, watching her son's retreating figure.

"Probably nerves," Bob shrugged, still shaken by what had happened.

Meanwhile, William nearly sprinted across the yard and out the gate. The fresh air slapped against his face but brought no relief—his thoughts were tangled, his palms trembled, and his heart raced so fast it felt like it might leap out of his chest. He gasped for breath, looking around, but all he wanted was to get as far away from home as possible, to avoid going insane and scaring his loved ones even more.

"What the hell was that? Why am I… changing?"

In the background, an old television in the kitchen was running. The host, with a tired face and tense voice, reported: "...Last night, a brutal murder occurred in our town involving the Pearson family. Details are not yet disclosed, but the police state that the crime bears an extremely unusual character. We urge anyone with information to contact law enforcement…"

Bob, rubbing his bruised shoulder, glanced at the screen, snorted, and muttered: "Look at that, the world has gone completely insane…" Then he returned to the screwdriver, while Mutt, ignoring the news, continued to grumble about the mess and her husband's carelessness as if nothing extraordinary had happened.

******

Unknowingly, William found himself in the city park—in this abandoned corner of greenery where an old oak tree stood, familiar to him since childhood. He leaned against the trunk and only then noticed that he wasn't even out of breath, though it felt like he had been running at full speed. His heart beat steadily, and his breathing was calm.

He inhaled the scent of damp earth and wet leaves, feeling the sun's rays glide across his face, breaking through the thick canopy. Somewhere nearby, birds chirped, and a squirrel dashed along the path, a flash of orange. Everything around him was too alive, too vibrant—and because of that, the fear of losing control intensified.

Thoughts about his metamorphosis raced through his mind. "I need to find out what's going on! Maybe it's just a wild adrenaline rush? Or… I don't know, some sick mutation from the microwave! Or I'm going crazy," he muttered, and unable to contain himself, he struck the trunk in anger. The bark cracked, and a few leaves floated gracefully to his feet.

His gaze dropped to his own hands. What he had done in the kitchen felt unreal, almost like a scene from a movie. He stared at his palms, examining them with new interest. They looked the same as always. "I have to suppress this, or more people might get hurt!" flashed through his mind. Overwhelmed by stress, he sat down on the damp grass, cradled his head in his hands, and squeezed his eyes shut. Thoughts swirled like startled crows. Horrific images flashed before him—blood, screams, sharp teeth, white bones. His own hands stained with someone else's life. "I… I did something terrible! Please… forgive me," he gasped, choking, "I… I killed them. I ate them… God, I gnawed on their bones like an animal… like a sick bastard!" His voice cracked into sobs.

He was terrified of himself, and what scared him most was the thought that if he lost control, what would happen when his loved ones were nearby? Clenching his fingers into the ground, he hoped to sink through it. Tears streamed down his cheeks, mingling with the dew.

His fingers suddenly trembled, and then a sharp pain pierced through them. William cried out in horror as he watched his nails begin to elongate. They stretched, becoming thin and sharp, like blades. Drops of blood appeared beneath the nail beds as these strange claws continued to grow, glinting in the sunlight.

"Oh God… what demon is inside me?!" William exhaled, jumping up and recoiling. His hands felt alien to him, as if they belonged to some monster.

Fear coursed through him to his bones, yet somewhere deep inside, beneath the layer of fear, a strange feeling ignited—excitement? These changes paradoxically repulsed and fascinated him. A wild question played in his mind: what else was his body capable now?