The night froze as bats sung overhead. Finally, he was home.

He sat sombre atop the roof of his cabin, the biting wind didn’t affect him. As he slowly rose, his flowing black-grey hair whipped around his deep and soulful eyes. His torn shirt had long lost its buttons so hung open, his jeans also showed their age with tears and stains.

He thought back to who he was before the change, the thin, blond haired blue-eyed boy he used to be. He was thin. He was scrawny. He was pathetic. But most of all…he was alone. He had long since stopped noticing his increased strength, dexterity and almost photographic memory, but there was still one thing he could never get used to…

His instincts told him it was time to move. It was all about the instinct now. The voice deep inside. The knife’s edge decision made without a moments hesitation. He yawned slightly and flexed his arms in an almost feline stretch.

He leisurely strolled to the edge of the roof and scanned the surrounding woodlands. He glanced downward and grimaced. Heights bother him. He took a few backward steps and then launched himself impressively into a young fern. It wasn’t really that young, but age is relative.

The fern bent a little as he was at the thinnest part, but soon swayed in the breeze again. Another thing he had noticed since the change, he seemed almost weightless. He felt the calming breeze as he once again scanned from his new vantage point. He pushed softly to test the strength of the frail looking branch that held him *snap*

His eyes slammed shut as the earth flew towards him. A second later he lurched to a stop and his eyes crept open. He saw a sheer drop and his hair and shirt dangling towards the ground, he held himself by a single arm. Once again, instinct has saved him. His other arm and legs pointed rigidly upwards, keeping the balance.


‘I hate heights…’