Sekhmet came through, loud and clear and insistent, the day after I ripped parts out of my own mane.
I felt my claws unsheath. I could sense the lengthening and sharpening of my own fangs. I heard the embryonic growl speeding through the usual maturation within the womb and birthing itself in a mighty roar of fury.
I was, briefly but effectively, the essence of lioness.
Forty-eight hours later, give or take – and what powerful vast cat cares one single carcass for time’s precision? – I had done what was needed: Had, as it were, stalked the herd of prey, singling out and beating down upon the weakest and frailest, and had then pounced, with all my strength, and torn the convulsing body apart with bare teeth and savage hunger.
I extend these signs of my inner Sekhmet only when nothing else will suffice – and then always with reluctance. The killer instinct works best with borrowed fur – and conscious intent.
Appetite sated, I lay down in the arid landscape, beneath scant and withered bushes and a swelling moon, and waited, now replete, for the chain reaction.
It came. Speedily.
I think not…
Sometimes, we have to show that we have teeth and are not afraid to bite. Sometimes, aggression – whether covert or overt – is the only way. Sometimes, we have to channel our inner helpers and animal guardians for the greater good.
I gave my own fury and capacity for destruction animal life.