Rage
November 8 — Rage
It started on a Sunday.
My vision blurred on my way out of the church. First, the stained-glass windows smeared across my sight lines, all blues and greens and reds, light refracted and dimmed through their iridescent shapes, outlined in black.
Then, I felt it. The heat. In my palms, sweating. In my cheeks, reddening. In my breath, steaming.
My nostrils flared, snorted, air thrust threw them in a huff. But this time, my breathing didn’t calm me. It only spurred me forward.
I ran a hand threw my hair and felt the strands loosening, falling out, getting caught in my many rings. My skull was thick to the touch, hard peaks emerging as I got closer to the door.
The priest stood there, cross in his shaking hands. He mumbled prayers through the tears.
My chest grew heavy, too much to hold up, and I felt myself bending, arms reaching to the floor.
Hands and feet replaced with hooves, my body took on a new shape, muscles stretching through my Sunday best. Four limbs propelling me forward, head bowed, horns ready.
The priest didn’t get out of my way fast enough.
Сайхан Бичээрэй!
H