Contrary to popular belief, my kind can change whenever they want, and contrary to what my dad believes, it is not a curse, but quite the opposite. There is no denying it, the change hurts like hell. However great our desire to change may be, the pain ensures that we use our special gift in moderation. Clearly, nature wanted us to keep a lower profile than any of us would have considered prudent. You see, in our transformed state, our minds are virtually free of emotion and expectation, not constrained by conscience. Add to that a substantially increased adrenaline level and you have a predatory species that wouldn’t go unnoticed for long if not properly muzzled. During a change, our teeth slide out of their sockets far enough for a satisfactory bite depth while at the same time making the experience excruciatingly painful.
The change is nowhere near as dramatic as mainstream literature and movies portray it. My jaws will not quadruple in size, nor will my limbs grow claws and black fur, nor will my bite turn my victims into degenerate copycats. Except for the extended teeth and blood-drenched eyes, the transformation is not noticeable. If he wears sunglasses and keeps his mouth shut, my alter ego will blend into any crowd.
My parents first met when mom visited dad’s office for an annual checkup. She picked up on the love vibes while he was still checking out her breasts, and by the time he asked her to open her mouth, she was already planning several moves ahead. Dad never admitted it, but I’m pretty sure he examined the X-rays of the raven-haired beauty in his dental chair with unprofessional excitement. His fascination with the deep roots of her teeth, he claims, urged him to ask her out for coffee. Cappuccinos later that evening were followed by dinner at Steak-Not-Cake, followed by a brief courtship that ended with my conception, followed by a near flawless marriage.
I was four when dad discovered that the bite marks in some of my toys were much deeper than my teeth accounted for. His innate curiosity and genuine concern for my dental health compelled him to take a few weeks off to observe me. On the day he watched me change, mom wasn’t around to explain the phenomenon. He stood dumbfounded as I cried out in pain while my teeth grew and my eyes turned to crimson. Held hostage by my paralyzing stare, he watched me erupt in a chewing frenzy that lasted for ten minutes. Although my childhood frenzies had targeted living tissue on several occasions, dad was at no time in any danger: none of my kind, no matter their age, have ever bitten the hands of their loved ones. After I changed back, dad fled my room and phoned mom.
One look at his face made her regret not telling him about her genetic disposition for fear of losing him. Aware that this was a pivotal moment in their marriage, she kissed him and slowly changed before his eyes, all the while holding his hands in a grip from which he could not escape. In a factual, somewhat distorted tone, she explained what he had witnessed and begged him for forgiveness. As she let go of his hands, he let go of his residual fear and gently stroked her fangs and front teeth. Before she changed back, they made love with a passion most men dare not even dream of.
In view of my age and special gift, my parents homeschooled me until I could control my changes. Mom taught me how to read and write, how to hunt, and how to dispose of a victim’s remains. Dad developed and sharpened my logical and analytical skills while indirectly instilling in me a set of moral values my alter ego never cared for.
Shortly after I figured out how to change at will, my chewing frenzies stopped altogether. Dad was easily persuaded of my new-found ability with a couple of demonstrations. Mom, on the other hand, refused to acknowledge that I could control the change. Desperate for more peer interaction, I pressed dad to convince her that I was ready for high school. He accepted the challenge reluctantly, because he understood all too well that he couldn’t pull any punches when he argued my case with her. After a heated exchange of words, mom cheerfully informed me that home school was closed indefinitely. We both knew that her cheerfulness was an act, which I didn’t point out for fear of souring her mood even further. Instead, I hugged and thanked her.
The first time I passed through the metal detector that guarded the main entrance to Winston High, I fully realized that I had entered a world with no seats for moms and dads. Unsettled by a bustling blend of stereotypes moving about brightly lit hallways, I barely managed to find the way to my classroom. Before long, however, I relaxed and allowed Winston High to become a home without parents; a place where I could express myself in ways unknown to me in the past.
My parents had taught me well: I graduated from Winston High with honors and was offered a basketball scholarship by Certel University. When I tried to convince mom that Certel was too great an opportunity to pass up, even though it meant I had to move out, she went nuts. This time, dad volunteered to help me out. After a long and emotional two-on-one, mom consented; her tears effectively blurred the full extent of her anguish. Oblivious of her actual state of mind, two months later, I moved my stuff to an apartment close to Certel campus in her old station wagon.
While I was still adjusting to university life, mom became more and more interested in dad’s daily routine. Her approach to filling the void my absence had created appealed to him at first, but he became worried when she began popping by his office several times a week. During one of our phone calls I joked that mom needed a hobby she could share with her alter ego, like taxidermy. He didn’t laugh, which worried me, if only for the duration of the call. School demanded much of my attention. Most of my spare time was spent on basketball, socializing and my alter ego, whom I occasionally let loose on a stray cat or lonely hooker. I didn’t have the time to appreciate the gravity of dad’s situation.
Things came to a head when dad assisted the police with identifying the mutilated body of a young woman. One look at the bite marks on her remains convinced him that she was mauled by a human with especially long canines - fangs if you will. Prompted by his premature observation, he compared the bite marks with mom’s dental impressions and found them to be a forensic match. He wasted no time destroying mom’s dental records and continued with the identification of the victim, wondering why mom had been so sloppy with disposing the body. When he discovered that the victim was his assistant, who was supposed to be vacationing in Mexico at that moment, he realized that mom wanted the body to be found. Feeling miserable, he destroyed his assistant’s dental records and went home, hoping to find a justification for the girl’s death. Mom confessed to the murder the moment he laid eyes on her.
It’s extremely rare that an alter ego gets emotionally involved, but when it does, the alter ego will eventually intervene and discard emotional garbage in a frenzy of frustration.
That’s what happened while mom kept much of her devastating grief over my departure to herself. She became increasingly jealous of dad’s assistant during her flying visits to the office, which provided her alter ego with a motive and a target for an intervention. To this day dad blames himself for misinterpreting the swiftness and eagerness with which mom volunteered to drop his assistant off at the airport to catch a flight to Mexico. What happened on their drive to the airport needs no explanation other than being an extremely brutal, final experience for dad’s assistant.
In the days following mom’s confession, dad reflected on ways to prevent a repeat of such a thoughtless murder. Besides hiring a male replacement, he discussed several rather intrusive medical options with mom. After brief consideration, she decided to have her teeth replaced with dentures, to discourage her alter ego from taking unsolicited control.
Dad phoned me a few hours after he removed mom’s teeth. In a tone that alternated between regretful and businesslike he told me about the surgery and its necessity. I heard his words with growing disbelief, dropped the phone before he finished, and headed homewards in the old station wagon, only to realize that I couldn’t face either one of my parents that night. I parked the car alongside the lonely road and cried my heart out. By the time I ran out of tears, an elderly couple in an ancient gas-guzzler pulled over to see if I needed help. I thanked divinity for the diversion and changed while I got out of the car. Touched by my sentiment at that moment, my alter ego took pity on the woman and killed her quickly. Her husband, however, suffered considerably longer than any of my other victims. I disposed of their bodies and drove back to my apartment, feeling much better.
No sooner than a month after mom received her dentures, I found the courage to go home. Mom right away noticed my disgust with her false teeth, which provoked her to welcome me with a broader than usual smile. During supper we talked about basketball, mom’s new hobby and the latest dental developments. I was about to finish my dessert when she placed a pair of burgundy dentures with long, black, sharp teeth on the table.
It took a moment before it dawned on me whose dentures I was admiring. “Now there’s a bunch of fine looking teeth. Does it still hurt when you change?”
She laughed and exchanged the white teeth in her mouth for the black ones. “Not anymore. Let’s have some real fun tonight, dear. I’m fed up with chasing after owls and raccoons.”
“No kidding. You’ve got enough stuff in the basement for an indigenous species exhibit at the Smithsonian,” I said and got out of my chair.
Dad shook his head in disapproval, poured himself a glass of wine and grabbed a book: ‘Dentures Gone Wild, Part 2: How compassion for a toothless lioness changed the way we look at false teeth.’