The only flesh he consumed was when his scabs rubbed off on his pillow and he unwittingly ingested them in his fidgety sleep.
If he awoke stained with blood, it was from where he had vigorously clawed at his nettling skin during the night.
He wasn't restricted to howling by the lunar calendar, for his lesions throbbed night and day.
The sole shape shifting was the slow collapse of his face as the ulcerations burrowed into the cartilage.
The medicinal silver bullet of the pill was failing to slay his condition.
Taken from the flash fiction collection "28 Far Cries" available from Amazon