Description
Even now as I walk these streets alone I can sense the fear of many people. But it's not fear of me. Many I can see are paranoid. They've heard of what I do. What I've done. It's not a fear of me exactly. I can see some of them frantically look around. I can feel their hearts beat as I move. I sense it. Even when I am something of the dark, I move in broad daylight. But if I didn't have the pendant of light around my neck and hidden under my shirt, I'd burn and become ash as if any other of my kind would. It's just another day. Nothing is out of the ordinary. Or so it would seem. As I walk, I'm suddenly grabbed by the hood of my black sweatshirt and yanked backwards off of my feet. The force of is a dead giveaway of who's grabbed me. The name rolls into mind and I immediately seeth with rage. James Alan Hetfield. The werewolf. Mangy fucking mutt.
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