It's a cold winter night, I can see my breath making swirls as I release a long, heavy breath. I'm running—no, flying—through the different forest trees; my brothers and sisters beside me, playfully nipping at my flanks.
Relying on the same old tricks and formations we were taught as pups, we hunt our prey as one unit. Chasing it through the trees without missing a beat. With these predator ears of mine, I can hear the beast stumble and flail as it tries to outrun the pack. But we’re too fast, to lethal to be outmatched by a fearful doe.
Just as I’m ready to leap at her throat, I see the edges of my vision begin to take on a fuzzy blackness. Where once there was a doe, in the perfect position of the kill, there’s now a hole of darkness, of nothingness. And that’s where it ends.
The warm chestnut fur that once covered my body is replaced with tanned skin that feels constricting, and tight. The long muzzle full of sharp canine teeth, meant for tearing and shredding a fresh kill, have disappeared; exchanged for the teeth of an omnivore. The nose meant for tracking and smelling fear, gone. Unwillingly traded in for a nose much weaker, one that’s meant for simple sniffing of the air. And those magnificent predator ears, pricked up at the sound of the hunt, swapped for the unnatural feel of dulled, human lobes. Finally, I open my eyes. Before, they were sharp, clear, and always focused on what was in front of me. Now, I feel the stickiness of contact lenses that remind me my human eyes are nothing like my other eyes; my beloved eyes that can see what most cannot. I blink: once, twice, then open them to face the day in the shape that has never really been…me.