I Accidentally Shot a Werewolf

So yeah—apparently I’m crazy.

Loco. Unstable. Coo-Coo

Pick your favorite label. People usually do.

According to my lovely and completely non-judgmental parents, I was just born with a “vivid imagination.” The kind that was supposed to open doors for me someday.

At least… that’s what my mom liked to tell herself.

She was wrong.

Because the moment the world realized I wasn’t like other kids—

Those doors didn’t open.

They slammed shut.

Hard.

Here’s the thing: people love different. Quirky. Creative. Unique.

But not this kind of different.

Not the kind that ends up in the DSM-5.

If I had talent—something useful—maybe it would’ve balanced things out. That’s what my parents were hoping for.

Instead, they got me.

Teacher conferences turned into damage control meetings. My mom would laugh it off like it was all one big misunderstanding.

“She’s going to write a book someday!”

Her imagination is just incredible!”

“But she’s so cute!”

Yeah. That last one was my favorite.

Because there’s a big difference between being imaginative…

and seeing things that aren’t there.

It was adorable when I was a kid.

Now?

Now I’m the girl parents warn their kids about.

Eventually, my “cute imagination” got a real name.

Schizophrenia.

And let me tell you—there’s nothing charming about it.

Before you ask—yes. They tried everything.

Doctors. Therapists. Specialists. Fancy clinics in places I can’t even pronounce.

Money wasn’t the issue.

My parents are the kind of people who fix things. Successful. Polished. Perfect.

And nothing ruins a perfect image faster than a mentally unstable, alcohol-loving, zero-talent daughter.

So no—you won’t see me in any of their campaigns.

That’s what models are for.

Don’t feel bad for me, though.

I have plenty of friends.

They just happen to be ghosts.

It’s always a party here in Rachel’s fucked up world.

Except… I partied a little too hard.

Drove my car straight into a ditch.

Woke up in a hospital.

And made the mistake of telling them my last name.

That’s when everything went downhill.

Because now I’m being shipped off to a tiny town in northern Wisconsin to live with my overly religious aunt—

the kind who pretends her daughter is still a saint, but probably screwed every single guy in town.

I should’ve died in that crash.

Honestly… part of me wishes I did.

At least then I wouldn’t be stuck here, halfway to nowhere, craving a drink.

I need one before we get there…

You don’t need another drink.

The voice is soft. Calm. Familiar.

And definitely not real.

I exhale slowly.

“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “I must’ve forgotten my meds again.”