Face

And so his routine became a monotonous cycle. Wake up, self-inject, work, eat alone, go home, sleep. Inject, work, sleep, repeat. Inject, work, sleep, repeat.

But his face never stopped with whatever it was working at. One morning he woke up to see that the facial hair--fur--or whatever it was, had completely grown over his entire forehead overnight. He had to wear a ski mask to work, avoiding conversations with anyone that stared.

A few days after that, his fur had taken on shape to two triangular folds on the top two corners of his head. His ears were buried in the thick layer of grey fur poking out from the sides of his head, and when he lifted a hand a day later to feel where his ears were--he realised they were gone.

・・・

Constance came home from work that day only to find her husband hunched over in the corner of their bathroom, back faced against the mirror. He was dressed in his undervest and pants, head cradled between his two arms.

"What's wrong, honey?" She asked. When he didn't reply, she stroked him softly, and when that didn't work, tried unfolding his arms to give him a hug.

He groaned, and she felt a low rumbling sound vibrate throughout his entire body. It was almost as if he were a hollow large-sized eggshell; its yolk and other contents drained through a tiny hole in the center of his chest.

"Asher, look at me." She took his hands in hers, but paused when she realised that they were twice the size of her palms, covered with a layer of grey fur. Instead of fingers, long, sharp claws hung out limply. Narrowing her brow, she stretched out both of her dainty hands in hopes of lifting up his face. "Hey. Hey."

"Hey!!"

The echo of her high-pitched cry hung in the atmosphere. It was almost as if time itself had stopped.

And then her body recoiled into itself as she stared at the face of whom she thought she recognized--the face she knew for so long that all its flaws and perfections had been etched clearly into her memory.

But this face was not recognizable. It was covered in grey matted fur, with bits of bumps and creases she couldn't recognize. The ears--instead of sitting plainly at the sides of the head--were way too high. The dark nose sat on a snout, and the snout poked out of the face at an awkward angle. Buried deeply into the face were two pitch-black marbles pooling over with fear. Constance could hear her heart pounding in her ears; she felt her unsteady breathing ring incoherently throughout her tiny lungs. Because staring back at her--was a frightened half human, half wolf creature.

"Please," she was a fragile porcelain bunny.

"... don't eat me."

Please.