In the depths of a Dublin night, a man sits alone in a comfortable Southside flat. In front of him on his Irish oak coffee table, beside his expensive magazines and his spotless marble ashtray, sits a gun and a single silver bullet.
He is going insane. There are things in his head, things that won't go away. He is running, running low through the trees. He sees wolves running with him, like great dogs bounding along at their master's side. But he is not the master, and they are not dogs. He sees them and knows it's real, it's him. It's what's inside him, aching to get out.
His life has fallen apart. He has quit his job at the office. The nightmares had kept him awake, he couldn't work, he couldn't explain why. When someone asked him what was wrong he had shouted at her and raised his fist to strike. Then he had quit.
The dreams had haunted him for months, since the first time it happened, since the first time he woke, his clothes badly torn and stained, with only dim memories of the night before, of streets, of a homeless beggar, of violence, and of blood.
He knows the answer is in the gun and the bullet. He's read the stories, he knows the mumbo-jumbo. He knows he's changing, and he knows into what. He is becoming a wolf. He can feel the beast inside, the fangs and the hair, the body and the soul. But he refuses to let go. He forces the wolf down, for as long as he can.
He walks to the bathroom and stares into the bathroom mirror. He sees wild eyes looking back at him, filled with fear, with weakening determination. The fire of the animal behind them burns brighter than the fire of the man before them. His forehead is dripping with sweat and his hair is wet with grease.
He knows about werewolves, but he never believed in them. He thinks he is going mad, because he cannot find a rational explanation for what he is feeling. No dog has bitten him, no crazed half-man half-beast has pounced on him from a dark alleyway, nothing that's supposed to happen has happened. But the visions won't go away, and there was the blood.
He hasn't slept in weeks. He smells of stale sweat. He wants to run through the streets, to the mountains, through the trees. He cannot explain these feelings. He wants to scream and release his fear, his anger and his despair. But he knows he must stay here, inside. The doors are bolted, the curtains are drawn. He must not leave this flat tonight, or ever again.
He walks to the kitchen and takes an apple from the fruit bowl, but he cannot bite into it. He can't repress the craving for food, but he can't eat properly. He wants to bite and tear.but he has always hated meat. He takes some vitamin pills and washes them down with mineral water. But the water doesn't make him feel refreshed. He feels sick. He wants to vomit. He wants to die.
He returns to the sitting room. He sits and stares at the gun. It is sitting on a small coffee table in front of his chair. It is not loaded. The bullet is standing beside it. It stands proud, and bright, and powerful.
Why? What is so special about silver? It's just a metal. The bullet is just a bullet made from silver, not blessed, not impregnated with any chemical, not even radioactive or contaminated in any way, just pure silver. He had it made from some athletic trophies, they had no value, no significance. It shouldn't even be shiny, but it seems to glow. It's simply a metal. Why is it the only thing that can save him?
He can hear his heart pounding. He can feel his blood rushing around his body. His head feels like it will explode. He presses his fingers to his temples and gently rubs in small circles. He wants to drive the pain away, push it away, make it retreat, make it stop.
He goes to the window and pulls the curtains. He sees the night sky, the stars, the full moon. There is a spasm of pain in the pit of his stomach. He bends over, reaching out his hand to grab the window latch. He tries to pull it, a vague effort to open the window left over from a thought his mind dispatched a second before. He grabs one curtain, and pulls it across, then he backs away. He sits at the table again and stares at the gun and at the silver bullet.
Why the full moon? Why the silver bullet? Why the wolf? Why was he changing into something he was not supposed to be? Had he failed so badly as a human being that his body wanted to change him into something else? Or had he always been the wolf, and only played the man? Now the wolf was strong, when the moon was full. What is it about the moon that brings out the hidden, the primal? Questions remain unanswered. The pain returns. He has to fight to remain what he hopes he is.
He drops his head onto his lap and tightens all his muscles. He wraps his arms around himself and tries to push the wolf back inside. He has to stop it. It can't happen, not again. He is a man, born a man to die a man. The wolf must not escape. It has happened before, he knows it has. It can't happen again, it must end tonight, forever.
He reaches for the gun. His palms are sweating. His fingers are trembling. He drops the gun. He picks it up, shivering. It is a small gun, old, not particularly clean. It wasn't hard to get. There are places to go. It just takes money. The bullet will fit it, he ordered it specifically. But he stares at the empty chambers and at the silver bullet, and he cannot pick it up.
He reaches out with his mind. He commands the bullet to fly up from the table and into the chamber. He wills it to move. Move damn you move! But it doesn't. He knows he has to reach for it, he has to take it in his hand and load the weapon. If he wants to die he must do it himself. If he is a man, he must prove it, and kill himself.
What about God? Is there a God? Is there an all-powerful entity watching over him? If he dies now will God accept him? They don't take you in heaven if you kill yourself, that's what the priests had told him. What about the Devil? If God throws him out, will he go to hell? Can hell be as bad as this? Can there be more pain and suffering in hell than there is here on earth right now? Is it God and his purity, and his crosses, and the silver bullet on one side, the Devil and his evil, suffering, and blood on the other? Or is suffering the way to God and the bullet the way to hell?
Maybe he is already dead. Is that it? Is he in hell.? Would it were that easy. Would he had not the choice, would it were not his decision, would it were someone else would pull the trigger.
The bullet still stands on the Irish oak coffee table. He can't touch it. He can't even reach for it. His arm won't move. Sweat crawls onto his nose and he wipes it away. But his hand will not reach towards the bullet, so close, so small, so easy to handle. Just reach out, pick it up, put it in the chamber, close the chamber, and.
He jerks the gun to his head and pulls the trigger. Click, click, click, click, click, click; only sound; click, click, click, click. His eyes are closed, there are tears. His teeth are scraping against one another. He can feel the wolf. He is sitting on his chair in his tidy flat, shaking like a spin dryer, and he is crying. The moon is full and the night is dark, even darker because he is here in hell.
The wolf cannot talk, but he hears its voice. There is no why, there is only survival. There is only you and I, and freedom. It is full of desire, of frustration. It must be free. The man cannot hold on. The wolf is awake, the man must sleep. There is no escape in death, only in life. He drops the gun on the floor and sinks to his knees. He stares at the silver bullet and he curses his rotten, cowardly soul.
It feels the weakness. Its blood roars in his ears. It feels itself emerging. He feels his body changing. His muscles change shape, elongate, his limbs stretching, adjusting, his face contorting, growing, his jaw extending, his teeth locking into a canine snarl. The wolf is coming.
The man is fighting, struggling to hold on, clawing to retain the shreds of rational thought. He will not let go, but his grip is slipping. The wolf is out, and will not withdraw. In its head there is conflict. In its body there is pain and confusion. Inside the man is screaming. Outside the wolf is howling. There is no freedom, there is neither man, nor wolf, but werewolf. It screams its pain and anguish, its soul in torment, its body in agony. It knows not what it is, nor who it was. It knows only pain, and violence, and hunger. And the city sleeps.