Scar

 When I finally drifted back to consciousness, the doctors described it as waking from a coma. Personally, I prefer to think of it as a brief excursion into the space between worlds—dipping a toe into the reality we cling to, or perhaps stepping into the "other" realm. I’ve come to believe this is humanity’s final, uncharted frontier. To misquote *Star Trek*: I had "boldly gone where no one has been before."

The physical reclamation was brutal. As I stirred, I could feel the surgical sites pulling and tearing, a rhythmic, stinging protest from my own body. My world had shrunk to a sterile bed in the Northern District Hospital.

The doctor, a man of clinical detachment, stood by my side during rounds. "A scar is simply fibrous tissue replacing normal skin after injury," he explained, his voice flat. "It is the biological result of wound repair. Scaring is a natural, essential part of the healing process."

I stared at the map etched into my flesh. For a long time, I couldn't bear to look at them; they were a grotesque tapestry, a cross between pregnancy stretch marks and deep, jagged cat-claw lacerations. I was convinced I would never feel "normal" again, but slowly, the fog lifted. I began to inhabit my own skin again, reclaiming the pieces of the person I used to be.

After a month, the doctors declared me stable enough for discharge. I relished the second month—a quiet, blissful blur of Netflix and convalescence. But then, the fever started.

One night, my temperature spiked, soaring off the charts. I was perspiring so profusely I felt like I was drowning in my own sweat, and an agonizing, deep-tissue itch consumed me. I retreated to my bedroom, hoping sleep would offer a reprieve, but I collapsed the moment my head hit the pillow.

I woke up hours later, shivering. I was completely naked—not even a pair of socks left on my body. Confused and frantic, I scoured the room, but my clothes had vanished. I chalked it up to a delirious episode caused by exhaustion, but it became a pattern. Then, the "mementos" began to appear. I’d wake up surrounded by a bizarre collection of items: discarded doll heads, rubber balls, and a mangled, squeaky mouse toy.

Driven by a mix of dread and curiosity, I searched the internet for archives from the day I was first admitted to the hospital. I found it: September 30, 2020. A date marked by a rare, obscure lunar event known as the "Cat’s Moon."

The deeper I dug, the more I uncovered. Ancient Greek lore spoke of the *Stac*—a lost tribe said to possess the ability of animal transmutation. They could shift into panther-like predators, using their heightened senses and lethal claws to shred enemies to pieces. I told myself it was just another urban legend, a campfire story for conspiracy theorists. But deep down, I knew that every myth contains a kernel of truth—provided you dig long enough to find it. Or perhaps, I was simply losing my mind.

Then, the final shift happened.

I woke up cold, as usual, and entirely naked. But this time, there was no toy, no doll head. A body sat beside me on the mattress—torn to ribbons, covered in unmistakable, gaping bite marks. Strangely, there was no blood on the sheets, but when I ran my tongue over my teeth, I tasted the metallic, iron-rich tang of crimson. And there, caught between my own incisors, was the severed tip of a human finger.

The horror triggered a violent, jagged flashback, surfacing from the dark water of my amnesia: I had been out for a run, losing track of time as the velvet curtains of a pitch-black night descended. The only light was a sickening, unnatural green glow from the moon. I heard the rustle of leaves, then the thundering of heavy, padded footsteps. A massive, obsidian shape launched itself from the shadows, a black cat the size of a mountain, its eyes burning into my soul. The shock alone had been enough to knock me cold.

The pieces snapped together with a sickening clarity. It wasn't an attack. It was an infection.

I looked down at my hands, now trembling, and realized the truth: I hadn't just survived the night. I had become the nightmare. I was a werecat.