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It was as thick as tar when it flowed from its encasement in his wrist. Michael was happy that there was no one home but him. He screamed, watching the black stain his lightly tanned skin. It burned his whole being and once again he was shaking. Shaking and trying to bleed out the devil inside of him.

The black was flowing still and staining the snowy white towel he had gotten out. Another scream escaped his lips and he dug the butcher knife into his flesh again in a different spot on his wrist. He clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, bracing himself for the new pain.

He felt like he was to be labeled for his actions but they were only good for humanity.

At once, the blood flow stopped and he started to wipe the black life of the demon that lived inside of him of of his skin and the newly healed wounds. The demon had repaired the wounds, preserved its life. If Michael couldn't kill it, who could? Nobody knew about him.

In a hideous change, he felt his nails grow into chipped, tan claws. He screeched, hating the experience that had plagued him like a disease since he was a boy.

The skin on his shoulder blades burst open, and he felt the familiar sensation of bones growing from his back, covered in muscles and then the blackened, scaly skin growing over it. He was screaming at the top of his lungs and didn't care to notice as his eye teeh sharpened or as his hair shortened to his ears. It was straight to the extreme and full.

Michael looked in the mirror, cringing at the terrible sight. He hated what had become of him over the years. It got worse each time. The red pupils that were always glaring. The black, 15-foot-wingspan, bat wings sprouted out from his shoulder blades. The skin around it was molded onto the bases of them. He folded them into his back, tucking them away for now and pulling on the dark gray jacket.

His body was burning and he ran a hand through his newly manicured hair, careful not to scrape his claws on his scalp. That handsome demon.

This transformation was an ugly business and only normally happened when he tried to kill the demon that was now part of his life. His shadow when he walked in the afternoon. His fear and stress. His screams breaking the still nights and his cuts breaking his skin to escape the fate.

But it never ended. It always came back and he was always like this. Cursed. But that was the least of his worries. He had to get away for the night. So his parents couldn't see him like this. It went away at night and he was fine in the morning.

He put the knife on his bed and took out a rucksack, packing the knife away in it. He put in a blanket, a sweater, and went and raided the refridgerator for water bottles. Quickly, he set off, running out of his front door and walked down the pavement and to the park. He saw the forest and set off sprinting into it.

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