If being a werewolf is really a curse, you've got to treat it

Host: The forest was soaked in moonlight, each leaf trembling with a silvery pulse. The wind whispered through the pines, carrying the scent of wet earth and distant smoke. Somewhere, far off, a wolf howled — not in hunger, but in remembrance. Beneath the sprawling branches, beside a dying campfire, sat Jack and Jeeny. The flames licked at the air, casting their faces in alternating shades of light and shadow — as if two halves of the same soul argued within one body.

Jack leaned forward, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers, his eyes sharp, reflective. Jeeny sat cross-legged across from him, her hair spilling over her shoulders, her gaze steady and solemn. Above them, the moon hung immense — not distant, but watching.

Jack: “Glen Duncan said — ‘If being a werewolf is really a curse, you’ve got to treat it honorably.’”
He exhaled a long trail of smoke, watching it coil into the cold night. “I think that’s true of everything monstrous in us. The curse only destroys you if you deny its music.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying the monster deserves honor?”

Jack: “No. I’m saying the monster deserves understanding. We spend our lives trying to hide what we are — our rage, our lust, our hunger — like wolves wearing human masks. But Duncan’s right: if the curse is real, then dignity comes from living it honestly.”

Host: The fire snapped, sending a small burst of sparks spiraling into the air. They rose like tiny souls, vanishing into the silver light of the moon. Jeeny’s eyes followed them, and when she spoke, her voice carried both tenderness and fear.

Jeeny: “But there’s a reason we call it a curse, Jack. That ‘craving,’ that ‘hunger for the kill’ Duncan mentions — it’s not noble. It’s violence, dressed up as sensuality. You can romanticize it all you want, but it still destroys.”

Jack: “Destroying isn’t the same as dishonoring. The wolf kills because it must. It doesn’t lie about its nature. Humans? We destroy and then invent poetry to absolve ourselves. Maybe the curse is honesty — and that’s why it terrifies us.”

Jeeny: “No, the curse is indulgence without conscience. You think being true to your darkness makes it holy? That’s just another kind of vanity. The wolf kills to eat — but when a man kills, it’s because he enjoys it.”

Host: The moonlight deepened, cutting sharp lines across their faces. Jeeny’s hands trembled slightly, catching the glow of the fire. Jack’s jaw tightened, but his voice softened — like an old wound reopening.

Jack: “But that’s what Duncan means by ‘sensual dimension.’ The craving isn’t just for blood — it’s for being alive. For intensity. Every human, somewhere inside, wants to feel the pulse of something pure and terrible — something that strips away pretense.”

Jeeny: “Intensity without empathy is just predation. The werewolf myth is tragic because it forgets mercy. You call it honor; I call it hunger disguised as philosophy.”

Jack: “You think I don’t understand mercy? The curse isn’t about choosing to kill. It’s about wanting to and hating yourself for it. That’s the point — the duality. The beauty and the horror in the same heartbeat. That’s why it’s sensual. Because it’s truth without disguise.”

Host: The firelight flickered against the trees, the shadows of branches stretching like clawed hands across the forest floor. A faint growl of thunder echoed far away — a warning, or perhaps applause. Jeeny drew her coat tighter around her, her voice lowering to a whisper.

Jeeny: “You talk about the craving as if it’s sacred. But where does that lead, Jack? You justify the hunger long enough, and one day you’ll call it virtue. That’s how men become monsters without ever growing fur.”

Jack: “And what do you call those who starve themselves to death trying to be pure? Saints? Or just cowards afraid to feel?”

Jeeny: “You think restraint is cowardice?”

Jack: “No — but I think denial is. We keep pretending we’re civilized creatures when everything in our blood still remembers the hunt. Maybe the honorable thing isn’t to suppress it, but to live with it — to find beauty in the beast.”

Host: A gust of wind scattered the ashes, sending them spinning like black snow. The forest seemed to shift, as though something unseen had stirred — the weight of an ancient memory awakening in the earth.

Jeeny looked at Jack, her eyes reflecting both pity and fascination.

Jeeny: “Beauty in the beast... You really believe that? That violence can be beautiful?”

Jack: “When it’s honest, yes. Every transformation — every moment we shed our skin — has violence in it. The caterpillar doesn’t become a butterfly peacefully. The soul doesn’t evolve without tearing itself apart first. That’s what the werewolf represents — the poetry of metamorphosis through pain.”

Jeeny: “Then where’s the line between transformation and surrender? Between accepting your darkness and letting it consume you?”

Host: The fire was dying now, its last embers pulsing like the fading rhythm of a heart. The moon loomed heavier, and somewhere close by, another howl split the night — raw, human, aching. Both of them fell silent.

Jack’s voice broke through the quiet, low and almost tender.

Jack: “You remember the myth of Lycaon? The king who served Zeus human flesh to test him. He wasn’t cursed for hunger — he was cursed for deceit. That’s the difference. The werewolf isn’t punished for being savage. He’s punished for lying about it.”

Jeeny: “So the curse isn’t in the act — it’s in the shame.”

Jack: “Exactly. Duncan’s right. If you’re cursed, you have to live the curse honorably. You have to feel it fully — the craving, the guilt, the pleasure. To deny any part of it is to betray the whole.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glistened — the kind of moisture that isn’t quite tears, but carries the same weight. Her voice softened into something that trembled with sadness.

Jeeny: “Maybe the reason we fear monsters isn’t because of what they do, but because of how much they enjoy it. Because we see a reflection of ourselves — the part that hungers for more than survival.”

Jack: “And that’s exactly why the werewolf endures. He’s the mirror of our appetite for meaning — and for destruction.”

Host: The night air grew colder. The last of the fire went out, leaving them in the vast silver of the moon. Their faces were pale against the darkness, their eyes gleaming faintly, as if the wild had already claimed part of them.

Jeeny: “Then tell me, Jack — if we’re all cursed with this hunger, what does honor look like to you?”

Jack: “It looks like remembering what you love even when you’re lost in the hunt. It’s not about avoiding the kill — it’s about killing without forgetting who you were before the change.”

Jeeny: “So to be human is to remember?”

Jack: “To be human is to remember, even when it hurts.”

Host: For a moment, neither spoke. The forest seemed to lean closer, the wind holding its breath. Somewhere far off, the moon shimmered on a thin lake, and in its reflection — two silhouettes sat beside each other, human and not, bound by a shared truth.

The night whispered its ancient rhythm: the cycle of craving and conscience, of violence and reverence.

And as the wolves howled again — a chorus of pain and pleasure — Jack and Jeeny stared into the empty dark, knowing that every heart, no matter how tamed, carries its own moonlit beast… waiting, trembling, and deeply, beautifully alive.