Work Text:
monty always loved christmas, the lights, the family, how close everyone was and how nice the air always smelt.
The sun had shone through his window before he realised he had fallen asleep, he had missed santa. He'd be sure to stay up next year to catch him.
The day flew by, opening presents, talking with family he had missed through the year, his uncle from German, his aunt who lived in Nigeria and worked with teaching without borders always had silly stories to tell him about her adventures in the forest.
He loved how their presance felt around him, how they came to hug him, dancing with him and his siblings to christmas music on the radio. He loved how they smelt, the strange comfort in the strong perfume his cousin wore, the musty smell of his uncles coat.
Soon the turkey was done, it was barely 3pm and they were sat down, surrounded by mounds of delicious smelling food, of the chatter of the radio in the kitchen still playing. They were almost finished the turkey when it happened.
Monty had this strange feeling in his Muscles, as if he had lifted 50 weights at once, then in his stomach, it was like when he had drunk his mums coffee and felt weird all day. The sensation felt like it was in his bones now, like it was speaking through him, stretching him out. He saw his hands turn into a wolves hands, felt hair that wasn't normally there prick on the back of his neck.
Suddenly the table seemed to move away, down, like he was growing taller. He felt his teeth elongate into jagged spikes, a pair of claws where his christmas slippers were, his sweater in tatters around him.
He was no longer in control.
That was the beasts job.
His mother, who was sitting to his left cowered in fear, he wanted to yell out to her, for help, for her to save him.
No words came out, only a snarl.
He glanced around the table to see faces of horror, scared of him, of what he'd become.
Suddenly they smelt.
and they smelt amazing.
He stared at his mother, he hoped what her mother saw in his face was fear, not hunger.
He hoped their last sight wasn't his angry face.
So he ran at them, like a cat to a mouse, but he knew the mouse wouldn't escape him, he begged them to, begged them to get away from him, he tried to yell it, again, and again, but all that came out were growls and snarls.
The look of his mothers face would never leave his mind.
How his father was always brave, he'd jumped in front of his mum. He was Montys first victim.
His fathers brave face in those last moments would never leave his mind.
The scream he heard from his mother, the cries from his siblings, he'd sometimes wished them dead, only when he was angry or upset, never like this, never at HIS hand, or, claw.
His aunt tasted that same perfume too.
His brother had cried and begged, he had wanted to be stopped, begged the world, tried his hardest to gain control and stop. To no avail.
Soon all he left was blood. Monty knew what he'd done, knew they weren't to breathe again.
So he ran. Far into the woods, leaving a trail of animal carcases in his wake.
And so he slept, under the trees, and for the first time in his life, did he feel lonely, really lonely