For the Slightly More Serious

I could just picture my parents' faces when they realized it was Hallow's Eve on the day of my birth. My mother would be sobbing under the glimmering light of the full moon, her tears illuminated by the stars, and my father would refuse to look at me, certain it was a notion of the devil. I, so innocent, wouldn't know what was going on, and I'd scream and cry as babies do. From that moment on, I had been cursed with lycanthropy.
Mum did her best to take care of me like a good mother should, loving me as much as it was possible, caring for me and looking after me. She nurtured me and tended to my every need, no matter my strange, uh, trait. My father, on the other hand, wanted absolutely nothing to do with me. He carried a cross with him at all times, and refused to look me in the eyes. He couldn't stand when my mother tried to get him to associate with me, and he shooed me off whenever I came near him.

"He's a monster," said my father in a hushed voice one evening.
"He's our son," said my mother angrily. I toddled across the rug innocently nearby.
"We must get rid of him. As soon as he gets older, he'll kill us all!"
"He would never - "
"Oh yes he would. The curse will come over him. We can't stop it forever!"
"It's worked so far..." she grumbled.
"And even if we could keep him away from the moonlight, they'd kill us and him if they found out we were holding..."
"A werewolf?!" she finished. My ears perked up at the word.
"He'll become a bloodthirsty menace, and there will be no stopping him. We need to get rid of him while we have the chance."
"We can't kill our own son!"
"We have no choice! If that beast isn't gone by tomorrow night, I'm doing it myself!"

Dear old dad was never one to keep his word, however, and, lucky for me, by morning he had probably forgotten all about the conversation.


"I am going to say this, and I will say it once more," I heard my father mumble to my mother. I pressed my ear against the floorboards of the attic, attempting to make out the slurs of words coming from his lips. "Either we're killing him, or he's killing us."
"You're being completely irrational!"
"With these kind of creatures, it's do or die. Eat or be eaten."
"But it's been fine for all these years - "
"Things change. We're running out of time. It's been twelve years, and I'm not risking it his next birthday."
"But - "
"That's the end of it. You will take him far away and dispose of him tomorrow at dawn. We can't afford the risk any longer."
I heard heavy footsteps, surely my father's, ending the conversation.
The ladder to the attic where I slept shook and rattled. Someone was coming up. I leaped to the corner and curled up, closing my eyes and pretending to sleep. I could hear light, delicate steps; mom was up here.
"Oh..." she whispered sadly.