I stood before the door to my new apartment, staring. I had no idea how I got there. The last thing I remembered, I’d been in the alley. Somehow, I’d got myself back home.
I remembered, though, every second of what happened in that alleyway. I looked down at my arms and hands, expecting to see them look different—but they were normal. The rage had swept through me, transforming me, then had just as quickly left.
But the after-effects remained: I felt hollowed out, for one. Numb. And I felt something else. Images kept flashing through my mind, images of those bullies’ exposed necks. Of their heartbeat pulsing. And I felt a hunger. A craving.
I really didn’t want to return home. I didn’t want to deal with my mom, especially today, didn’t want to deal with a new place, with unpacking. If i
