Bitten

Philip doesn't stir when I slip from the bed. There's a pile of clothing tucked underneath my dresser so I won't have to risk the squeaks and groans of opening drawers and closets. I pick up my keys, clasping my fist around them so they don't jangle, ease open the door and creep into the hallway. My legs now itch as well as hurt and I curl my toes to see if the itching stops. It doesn't. It's too late to drive to a safe place now-the itching has crystallized into a sharp burn. I stride out onto the streets, looking for a quiet place to Change.