Birthday Boy

The boy wanders away from the city. There is no moon tonight, the forest is nearly perfectly dark. The boy can't see very well, he trips a few times on roots and stones. Even after his eyes adjust, he continues to stumble. There is a cut on his hand and another one on his knee. There is a drying dribble of blood down his shin. It hurts a bit, but none of that matters to the boy, because tonight is special.

The trees are thick here. He's not sure which way he is going, he might have gotten turned around. He doesn't really care, he's not going anywhere specific, he's just trying to get away from his old home. He left a messy room and an old computer that doesn't work very well anymore. He left an old, beat up Gameboy and a newer, beat up Gameboy and maybe a bajillion games. He left a whole bunch of clothes and a skateboard he's terrible at and a guitar he never learned to play. He left a bookbag, he left some comic books, he left some sodas in the fridge. He left two sleeping parents who are going to miss him alot. But that's just something that can't be helped. Tonight has to happen one way or another.

He finds a bald, rocky spot in the forest. It just might be perfect. There is a huge boulder jutting up around the rocks. None of the trees could grow here, though they reach above, trying to blot out the sky. They resent the rocks and try to hide the clearing like a comb-over. The trees seem very self-conscious.

The boy climbs up on the boulder, sits atop, and waits. Nothing seems to happen right away. He's a little early, probably.

His old life wasn't so bad, really. School was kind of fun, really. Most kids weren't very nice, but that seemed natural. He had a few really close friends. They'd have all sorts of fun building swords and axes out of foam and plastic. They'd pretend the garage was a castle or a cave. The boy always liked being the monster. That seemed natural too.

His folks were always busy, but they tried to make time. Every couple of months, they'd all vacation together. Usually it was nothing too special, maybe a weekend on grandad's farm, or a day of deep-sea fishing on a rented boat. It was something, and it was good. They'll blame themselves, but it's not their fault. This has nothing to do with them. There was no real way of explaining any of that to them, so the boy just left.

It's so dark here, but somehow the few stars poking through the trees light enough of the clearing. The boy can see his hands again. They never really felt like they belonged on his body. He never really liked them. But that's okay now, he won't be needing them anymore.

He could feel something starting, a shifting in his stomach, one of his ribs twisting and cracking. It doesn't really hurt that much, the boy feels relieved. He was tempted to take along some aspirin, but he didn't really know how that would affect things. There is a kind of wet crunching noise coming from inside him. He grimaces as he touches his belly, the skin is very tender. It turns a furious blue-black like a huge bruise, or the swollen, rotting, balloon-belly of a floating corpse.

The boy struggles out of his shirt and undoes his belt. He probably already should have been naked for this part. A part of him was still shy, it seems. He is still embarrassed by this body. Tiny, pink, inadequate, weak. A worthy target for mockery. A cage.

His stomach doesn't hurt anymore. He can't feel his legs. The boy can feel his eyes darken and the world seems to fall away. He spasms backward, splayed across the huge boulder. Blood puddles up in his mouth and his chest ceases to move.

The body lies motionless across the rock like a grim sacrifice. The wind rustles the branches of the forest. Perhaps it was the trees themselves shuddering. Perhaps the trees can see the boy and shake at the horror.

Then, something moves. A boney limb pushes up against the dead, bruised flesh of the body's stomach, stretching it like rubber. A claw, sharp like a razor, splits the skin, which falls away quickly. The body almost pops, spilling open, releasing a splash of blood and ichor. A stink rises from the grisly wound. Something crawls out of the body.

It moves slowly at first, unsure. Long, webbed limbs lined with tiny scales claw around senselessly. A small head, pointed with a reptillian beak, flops around and lifts up. Eyes blink as the neck fights to raise the head completely upright. It struggles for a moment or two, then gags and coughs. Lungs take air for the first time. The creature gasps and gasps. Slowly, as the ichor on its flesh dries, it seems to fill in and swell to a healthier shape. New muscles flex and tense. The creature pulls itself from its old coccoon and stumbles on awkward claws to explore the clearing with new eyes.

The creature looks at the old corpse with disgust. It opens it long arms and extends a boney plate. A wide wingspan of perhaps ten feet. A few test flaps and it is ready. A step, a leap, a push, and the newborn creature flies up and out of the clearing.

The wind is cold up here, but the creature doesn't mind. Flying seems so natural, so perfect. It feels like it's been doing this forever. It runs its thin sliver of a tongue across a row of tiny, serrated teeth. It is very hungry, it must find food.

In the distance, just beyond the forest, gleams the city. Yellow lights trace odd little box-patterns around dark buildings looming like monoliths. Somewhere among the lights and the buildings is a messy room, an old computer, some Gameboys, a can of soda, and two sleeping people who will never be able to understand any of this.

The creature spares one glance. Its slitted, cold eyes cast across the streets and toward those two people. A single moment and the look is unmistakable. A tiny, fading sliver of humanity in the creature's eyes. Regret. And then it is gone.

The creature turns away and flaps, gliding through the night, hunting for meat. It will eat and eat tonight in celebration. Tonight is a special night. Tonight it is born.