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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