Hybrids are disgusting.

Isn’t it beautiful? How nature keeps us all in our place? Where genetic boundaries lie, there are gaps in the fence, letting little rays of false hope blind us—only to be covered by the walls of society.

There was once a beautiful young lamb, innocent and pure. Stupid. Naive. And all those other “feminine qualities” men like to take advantage of.

And then, there was a wolf. There are always wolves in life. I know there always will be in mine, and whatever form they take, their base goal never changes: to get in your pants and devour you.

So, one day, that wolf lured that sheep to her doom. And out from their matrimony of monsters came the worst thing two people can create. A hybrid. The moment I was born, I knew I was doomed.

But I thank my lucky stars that those disgusting features are blended so seamlessly you’d think I was just an innocent lamb. Because of this twisted blessing from the gods of unholy combinations, I can hide more easily. So my entire life, I’ve lived this masquerade—a lie full of grandeur. I know if I ever told the truth, or if anyone found it out, it’d be the end of me.

And everything I’ve worked for, everything I am, would mean nothing. The person I was, who I was friends with, how I treated them… it would all vanish. All those happy smiles would disappear as quickly as they appeared the day we met. The moment they saw the truth, all my money, beauty, and—more importantly—what they could get out of me would be forgotten.

Those freeloaders…

Slam—I hit the desk next to me. The pain from smashing my hand into the metal alarm clock’s jagged edges jolts me awake as I sit up in bed, eyes wide. I can feel my heart racing, annoyance simmering from that bad dream. I huff, letting out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, and try to control my breathing before my fangs come out.

Wagging my tail, I step out of bed and mentally scold myself. Not a dog, remember? Blinking away the sleep, I walk to the bathroom and lean into the cracked mirror. Another fracture joins the others I’ve collected over the years, and now, I can barely see my reflection. All that’s left are thousands of distorted eyes looking back at me through splintered glass. “Good morning, sunshine,” I mutter, reaching for the hidden compartment in the cabinet above the sink.

Inside is my stash of “borrowed” meds. Prescription meds I’ve been “graciously lent” by some of the special-ed kids I fat-shamed into giving me their steroids and antipsychotics. I read the smeared notes I scribbled on the bottle in marker, trying to remember: is it a 1? Take only 1? Or maybe that’s a 4? Ah, whatever. I’ll take 5, just in case.

I down the state-prescribed narcotics, so generously supplied by the ever-noble Big Pharma. Slowly, I feel my worries fade. More importantly, the tension leaves my body in a wave of chemically induced calm. My tail settles, and I feel my teeth retract, softening into a slightly sharp, herbivore-like smile. This medicine feels like it strips away who I am in real time. Too bad there’s not much to strip. It’s not really the meds, though; it’s my own body concealing its dangerous parts. Like an ambush predator, maybe. There was never a “real me” to begin with—the real me is locked away in the deepest pit of my mind, where it constantly whispers to eat people. But I don’t listen.

It’s bad enough being a hybrid, but being a hybrid carnivore who looks like an herbivore? That’s my special luck. This country already hates carnivores, and in this city, they’re banned. It’s one of those states where a carnivore can’t even step foot without a muzzle, a shock collar, and an ID tag. Being a carnivore here would be a living hell of surveillance and suspicion. But a cute, harmless little sheep like me? No, they’re too busy watching for big bad monsters to worry about.

The “me” you see here is just a mask for society. A good little girl who’s kind, pure, and only a little bit boyish—not enough to piss off the fragile egos of the men my age who want to decide how I hold my own body. It’s lucky for them, too, that playing to their biases is the quickest way to win their approval. And, thus, their protection.

Humming to myself, I dress in my usual style—boyish up top, feminine on the bottom. It was pretty funny when I realized that people didn’t really care if I wore the school blouse. No, they only cared if I wore the school dress and knee socks so they could stare at my ass and up my skirt, like they wanted to. So this? This is the bare minimum for society’s approval. Stare all you want, pervs. Keep looking, let the soft curls of this sheep body distract you from the parts of me I’d rather you not notice.

I tap my shoes, picking up a can of mixed meds and shaking it around, hoping for the orange ones I like. Drat, all gone. All that’s left are those gross pink ones that give me a headache and the awful green ones that make me feel anorexic. I just got over my bulimia, too.

Picking my teeth, I can still taste the faint poison ivy I munched on last week—the stuff makes me cough all day and gives me stomach issues like swallowing glass. It’s classy, right? A woman with a dry cough, all mature and worldly. Maybe that’s why I feel like I can’t breathe sometimes.

Still lost in my thoughts, I head out into the hall from my dorm and click for the elevator. It goes up as I step down, my shoes tapping with impatience. I must have gotten up early. It’s only 4 a.m., which is an hour before my usual 5 a.m. average. Oh well. Another two hours of lost sleep.

Maybe the coffee machine’s finally working again so I can down ten cups of cheap, heart-attack-inducing sludge. Yeah, that sounds like a plan.

The elevator doors slide open, and I step out with a spring in my step. I’m in a good mood today—well, a better mood than most. I wonder if this buzz will last all day. Probably not. I’ll have to get more before lunch, but I’ll deal with that when I get there.

Right now, though, I see the coffee machine. And just my luck, someone’s already there, messing with the switches and spilling sugar all over the drain catch. Just perfect.

“Excuse me,” I say with a forced sweetness. “I don’t think we’ve met. My name’s Sabeleth.” (Internal thoughts: Please, give me a reason not to kill you.) I put out my hand for her to shake, trying my best to keep my claws retracted.