Werewolf in London

I met The Werewolf in London – he wore taupe slacks.

I will assume that you are like me, friend. That you are of the belief that you would know The Werewolf when he crossed your path. We are fools, the lot of us, who forget the moon and its light. 

I met The Werewolf not far from the Tate. I stood upon a ladder as he entered the room. I looked down to him as he looked up to me. As I laughed and he smiled, it did not cross my mind to examine his canines. 

The Werewolf is charming. He flashes white teeth as he simpers to the empathetic lot. How my heart did soften to his musings. In my horror did I love him for a moment or two, as he made me laugh. Laugh as I peeled back the wallpaper.

When The Werewolf vanished, I did mourn his loss. London was free from his stalking for weeks – but oh, did he hunt me. And when he returned in the crisp air of May did my teeth ache from finally being released from clench.

Despite popular opinion, he does not skulk about Mayfair – nor can he be seen in Yorkshire or Kent. How I do wish he could have been found there. We may have passed the rest of our lives as strangers. No, no. I met him in Millbank, as dull as can be. But The Werewolf, even he can liven up such a place. 

I will admit to being seduced – even with the mullet. I can attest that his hair was not perfect. But perhaps I have that death drive that would condemn me to Freudian analysis. Or, even worse, was that I simply yearned to be consumed by him who so obviously wanted me.

The Werewolf wears white t-shirts and a variety of hats, to the point of being comical. I never would have assumed they were to hide what big ears he had.

How I was lost to him – The Werewolf and his teeth. And did it come down to a point of want; selfish and so needful was it that I travelled past comfort and familiarity to have it. And in having him, I still remained lost, never knowing I had had The Werewolf in his den.

I knew The Werewolf when he howled under the light of the June full moon. As his teeth sank into my neck and the rest of him tore my body apart; did I think I might die a death so small as I lay there, staring up on the speckled hotel ceiling. 

When he left me there, he smiled down upon me and I saw his canines reflect the pale light of the June moon. And I thanked him for his claws.

I knew The Werewolf at Waterloo and that is where I should have left him. His bite did change me, but I shift every night, not just to the cycle of the moon. I shift for the darkness and the promise of that small death.

I met and knew The Werewolf in London. He stalks the Thames – of that I am certain. I bid him goodbye there with animosity and mourning for how he cursed me. Even more so for how he was leaving me. He simply flashed his fangs with that simper.

Heed my warning, friend. Do not take comforts in the arms of The Werewolf. No pleasure lasts longer than the scars from his teeth. He will rip you to pieces in Waterloo too if you give him the chance. You better not let him in. And I will tell you now, so you may best prepare, that when last I saw The Werewolf, he was in London – he wore horn-rimmed glasses.

From the author:

This work was written to process a first heartbreak, in the context to the song “Werewolves of London” by Warren Zevon.

Short Story, by Kristen Elizabeth Donoghue-Stanford.

Kristen Elizabeth Donoghue-Stanford (she/her) is a sculptor from Caledon, Ontario, Canada. Donoghue-Stanford’s work analyzes the experiences of femininity and womanhood as inherently gothic while existing under the subjugation of patriarchal trauma. Writing is a core part of her practice, often the sketch that brings the sculptures into existence. Donoghue-Stanford often writes and is published with sister and author N.A. Kimber in collaboration.