Flash Fiction Friday
F3 – Cycle 92 – Blame It On The Moon
It took me a few months to figure out exactly what was wrong with my new girlfriend. I felt somewhat stupid for that. I mean, it shouldn’t take that long to figure out that a girl named Luna is a lunatic. Or lunachick. Or whatever. It didn’t surprise me that she was crazy; that part was nothing new. I’d had crazy girlfriends before. Jenny told me she had cancer which wasn’t true. I’m not sure why she’d tell me that; I guess she was just a pity whore. Shannon had stalked me for two months and threatened to kill my parents before I had to put a restraining order on her. Michelle told me she gave me chlamydia, and I should get tested. She was the worst.
So it didn’t surprise me that Luna was just as crazy as the rest. I guess something about me just attracts that sort of girl. But she was really crazy. Klonapin crazy. When looking through someone’s medicine cabinet it is helpful if you know what kind of symptoms their prescriptions are suppressing. I should have scrammed when I saw the anti-psych meds, but I was lonely. I hadn’t been with any one for a while. And what can I say, the sex was great.
The real crazy didn’t start to come out for a few weeks. We had a typical courtship: bars, movies, drinks. Each party sent the other a flood of sappy text messages. But after about a month she started to get weird. She would stalk me in her apartment – no she would hunt me. When she got up to use the restroom during a movie, I would pause the film and wait for a polite amount of time. When she didn’t return after ten minutes I would go to check on her only to have her come running out of the kitchen behind me to scare the crap out of me. It was a good prank. At least the first two or three times she pulled it. After ten times I began to get a little concerned.
And her nails. We’d be lying in bed post-coitus and she would just run her nails over my chest. At first she would do it gently but it always turned more and more fierce as she went on. She would scratch and scratch until not only was I covered in red marks but blood.
But these things only sprung up every twenty-eight days. I assumed it was just PMS or something. She didn’t get extremely bitchy during her period or anything, but I have to admit I would have preferred some unexplained crying to what I got. It took a while before I realized that the bouts of insanity weren’t lining up with her monthly visitor. Then I figured out what was really causing it.
See, I’ve always been a bit of an astronomy nut. I enjoy going to planetariums (even when I’m not stoned), own a nice telescope and make trips to the country to go stargazing. I can identify most of the constellations in the sky and never miss a good conjunction of the planets. It was during a night out of the city with a few of my nerd buddies that I realized what was going on.
“My girlfriend is a werewolf!”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Luna, you’ve me her. She has the short dark hair and the big brown eyes.”
“Oh yeah, her. She’s not a werewolf.”
“No, seriously. She’s crazy, but only during a full moon. See, right now we’re only at about the first quarter. The moon is waxing to full. Give it another 7-10 days and the bitch’ll be acting nuttier than a shithouse rat.”
“You’re starting to sound pretty crazy yourself.”
“I’m telling you. It’s been about three weeks since the last bout of the loonies with her, and it happens about once a month. Like clockwork.”
“All girls are crazy, man. I still don’t think there’s any way she could be a werewolf.”
“Oh yeah, smart guy. Why’s that.”
“Haven’t you ever seen a horror flick? All werewolves are guys. They eat the sexy little chicks who are usually vacationing college girls or sometimes vampires.”
I was embarrassed by my outburst. If I would have had time to think about my theory I would have been able to point out the flaws in it. But I knew something was quite amiss. And I kept track for the next couple of months. Sure enough, she would begin her stalking and clawing a few days before the full moon and end it a few days after, regardless of when her period came. Then things would be normal until the next cycle.
But she couldn’t be a werewolf. Werewolves were large, hairy beasts that went out and killed unsuspecting tourists and could only be slain by silver bullets. My girlfriend just pestered me, scratched me, played with her yarn ball and constantly grinded her ass into my crotch like a cat in heat.
I never even thought about my sneezing. I’m not allergic to dogs. Never have been. But if there’s a cat in the house I sneeze my head off. I also do that when I spend the night with Luna during the full moon.
She wasn’t a werewolf. She was a werecat.
It explained everything. Dogs are loyal and constantly by their masters side. Cats wander off to the other room and pounce when something comes by. Dogs are happy just to be scratched behind the ears, but cats love to lie on things and dig their claws in. And when a bitch is in heat she’s prone to wandering and has to be kept on a chain. A cat will rub against you and meow loudly as if she were yelling “Fuck me” at the top of her feline voice.
And when cats had sex it was wild, mean and ferocious.
Just like sex with Luna. I did say that it was really good didn’t I?
I thought it was just me that made her wail, scream and claw my back bloody. Every guy wants to think he brings out the beast in a girl. In my case though, it was the moon that did it.
And I could have lived with it. It would bring me bragging rights if I could say my girlfriend was a werecat. I’d definitely be the coolest guy in my circle of friends. I could deal with the hunting, the clawing and the sneezing. I’d just buy a laser pointer, a few nightshirts and some allergy medicine. But there’s another thing that cats will do. Though they are aloof and live to please only themselves, cats will sometimes bring their owners gifts to show affection and seek approval. Very few cat owners haven’t walked into their kitchen or onto the front porch without seeing a mouse or bird with its head gnawed off.
And the cat is always right there. Smiling up through the whiskers with a look like a man who just bought his wife an expensive piece of jewelry. “Do you like it?” they seem to be thinking.
So now I’m standing on my back porch looking down at my ex-girlfriend Michelle. The one who lied to me so a doctor would shove a giant Q-tip up my urethra to tell me that I didn’t have chlamydia. Her head is gone of course, but I can still tell it’s her.
And my girlfriend’s old Pontiac is pulling up out front. She’ll be coming in soon saying, “Surprise! Guess what I got you!”
Maybe it’s time to end this relationship. Even if the sex is phenomenal.