In the eraly hours

In The Early Hours by

In the early hours of the morning, whilst the world around her slept, she could shrug off her facade of normalcy and slip out into the dark.

Prowling.  Primal.  Pure.

Sometimes, she would head for the forest, run wild with a predator’s gait, barefoot and blithesome.  Free at last.

Other times, she would go dancing, lured by the heady scent of lust and longing that clung to the writhing mass of bodies, rainbow strobe lights hiding the feral glow of her eyes.

On a full moon she would climb to the highest hilltop and howl.

She had been this way for as long as she could remember.  The beast that lurked within was easily repressed whilst engaged in the mindless monotony of the day-to-day.  But in those slumberous hours between midnight and the coming of dawn, it would creep out, unbidden, unfurling its limbs and sharpening its claws.  It was who she was, her raw form, and there was no containing it, no matter how hard she might try.

It was on this night, in the first minutes of the New Year, that she made the astonishing discovery that she was not the only one.  There was another with a wolf’s heart and a scorpion soul, hiding behind a mask, not five doors from where she lived.  She had seen him before, of course, slipping out into the dawn in a pressed suit, hair slicked back, a briefcase in hand: unremarkable; another slave to the nine-to-five.  She’d raise a hand to wave and he would do the same, and they would continue with their lives, barely remembering the exchange, and certainly not recognising in each other this common trait that they shared.  But perhaps, deep down, in the depths of his subconscious, he had sensed her.  Because tonight, he was waiting, a shadow at the end of her path as she slipped past her front door and cast off the shackles of her humanity.  As soon as she saw him – fangs gleaming; eyes dark and dangerous – she knew.  

If they had been something other than what they were, perhaps there might have been a date.  Stammered conversation, red roses, flowing wine and a kiss goodnight.  But that was not the love language that they craved.  The mere presence of another like them was all of the intoxication they needed as they scorched through the city, seeking out the lush nature that called to them.  Grass beneath their feet, hearts hammering, pulses pounding, they moved in sync, unrestrained beneath the blanket of stars, lost in a dance that felt equal parts savage and safe, intense yet innocent.  Dirt-stained skin and flashing ferine smiles.

When the sun crept over the horizon, overwhelming the dark and sending the animals skittering home, she found within her a peace, a sense of belonging, that had been missing before.  She held onto it, squeezed it tightly between her palms and crawled into her bed, sated at long last.  The wild spirit within her rested.





Hannah is a 30 year-old professional administrator and amateur writer from Hampshire, UK.  She lives with her husband, has a degree in Modern History, and enjoys trying and failing at a multitude of crafting activities.  She is a textbook introvert and generally prefers the company of animals to that of humans.



Photo – “Starry Starry Night” by melfoody 


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