Six Sentence Stories #27

A crescent moon hung in the air, as I ran from the hunters. The hunters were convinced I had slaughtered one of their comrades, when I changed at the last full moon. With rapid breathes and equally rapid steps, I tried to bring the memories of that night back. That night was  a blur, of red and black.  I knew the change could be violent, and bring inner animal to the surface. Was it possible I killed that man in a fit of bloodlust?

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