Abuser

The nurse did not look up as the prisoner was brought in to have his blood pressure taken; he was unassuming enough at first glance (a dough-faced man with an 80s haircut wearing glasses), but two guards flanked him. “Looks can be so very deceiving,” the nurse thought to herself, for he had beaten his wife to death in public and in full view of the security cameras just weeks ago. They sat him down and cuffed his dominant hand to a metal bracket on the table (laughing and talking casually). “I’ve pled not guilty,” he said to her in Russian (taking in the light scent of her); his tone was warm and congenial - almost charming. “No need to be afraid of me,” he added in Kazhak, and there was a leering edge to the words (something overly familiar). “I am not, in the least, afraid of you,” the nurse replied (in academic Turkish - looking up and taking in his scent also). “Far from it.” And her eyes flashed yellow and red for a moment as she smiled; he screamed and tried to draw back, which refocused the guards. She asked them if he’d been allowed to use alcohol or drugs in his cell (against direct decree), and they panicked. “Never mind,” the nurse quieted them, “just get him out of here and take him to solitary until a new test can be ordered.” The prisoner was spewing gibberish loudly, so the guards punched him as they dragged him away. “The worm begins to turn,” she said, watching them go. “See you soon.” The werewolf liked the feeling of being an agent of karma, but needed to stay grounded and humble. “I don’t typically like to waste,” she mused, “but I’m not going to honor what I kill tonight by eating it.”