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The sun hung low, just above the horizon and painted the sky with streaks of brilliant orange and crimson. Far off in the distance the first hoots and trills of night birds could be heard. The world hung on the scales as the balance shifted from morning and the light to that of evening and darkness. The rustle of nocturnal animals in the brambles was the ringing of the dinner bell for those who hunted them.
The thinly veiled blutbad side of Monroe ached to throw his head back and howl. Adding his own lonely to call to the chorus of the night. It was a deep primal need one that touched the part of him that would never survive in a civilized world.
Despite his efforts to tame the beast there were times when talking, writing letters of complaint and all the other coping skills he had learned in treatment did nothing to take the edge off his anger and frustration. It was then, when the rage beat a staccato in his chest, that the lure of the hunting hours pulled at him. Drawing him nearer and nearer to the brink like a rare earth magnet working on nail that has fallen out of reach down a crack.
It's the memories that hold him back. The keep him straining on the leash he has created for himself like a hound that has scented a fox. Having lived for years now, clean and control, the thought of waking up from a blood soaked rampage is no longer something he can stomach. When the remorse becomes so strong it outweighs the thrill of the rush it's time to stop.
Still, it is on nights like this, after a day that would make even the meekest wesen snarl and show his teeth, Monroe has to remind himself that while the urge never goes away he has the power to conquer it.