I put the phone down. And I start to cry.
It's the first time I've spoken to Alex in more than two weeks. He's been away with his mother. Italy, they said. It was only for a week. But they had things to deal with, passports to sort out, and flights to book.  No time for a cursory call to the man who brought him up for ten years.
My life is still bound to Alex in ways I can't even begin to describe. There aren't words in the English language to articulate the bond between father and son. Love. So short a word, and so...insufficient. I love him. Those three words sound so meaningless, so clichéd. They're true, God, they're true. But they're not enough. They don't describe the joy I felt when he was born. The excitement with which I watched him grow up. And the pain I felt when he was taken away from me.
If I'm honest with myself, my marriage to Diane was already falling apart when Alex was born. We had him to try and strengthen it again. That was back when he was just a thing, just a nameless lump. It was a stupid idea, and deep down I think we both knew it. Children don't strengthen marriages without testing them first.  I remember we screamed at each other almost as loudly as Alex would scream at us. Neither of us could ever find the time for the baby. That's not to say we didn't love him. (Again, that word.) But we both worked long hours. We had to. If we didn't turn up, we'd get fired. And neither of us could afford to. Another reason why having Alex was a stupid idea. We could barely afford to support ourselves, much less him.
I look up at the wall, to the picture that was taken of the three of us shortly after he was born. We appear a happy, if tired, family. It took us both hours to get Alex into a vaguely presentable state. But the end result was worth it. It's just a pity Diane and I didn't love each other by then. We didn't hate each other. There were no disagreements. But by the time we started trying for Alex, I felt like she was my roommate, rather than my wife. I'd still spend hours in her company. I'd still talk to her about anything. But I just didn't love her in the same way, and she felt the same. When I fell in love with her, it was the happiest time in my life up till then. And when Alex was born, I didn't think there could be anyone else on the planet who was as proud as I was. I had two great times in my life. I'm just sorry the timing was off.
Alex sensed it, as he grew up. All children have abilities to detect that kind of thing, abilities that adults rarely give them credit for. He knew that something was wrong, that Mummy and Daddy didn't act in the same way that the other parents did. They didn't kiss or hug each other. They didn't sleep in a double bed like he'd seen round his friend's houses. They didn't watch TV together. They just exchanged glances, chatted briefly on the landing. Sat in separate rooms, eating in silence, perhaps with a book. He knew.
We weren't unhappy. We'd still share tales of his first steps, still get excited together about his work at school. Break into hysterics at his first words. I'd still happily go back and relive those times that I shared with the two of them. But it wasn't a marriage. Both of us knew that.
There's a painting, framed on my desk. I put it next to the window, so that on a sunny day, the light will shine directly onto it. The bright colours always draw my eyes straight to it, whenever I walk in here. Alex drew it when he was four. They're stick figures. One blue, one red, one green. Labelled Mummy, Daddy, and me. I remember being so thrilled at his handwriting. He hadn't managed to join it up by that time, but it was legible, which is more than you can say for most kids his age. I asked him a question.
Why are we all different colours, Alex?
He looked at me in that way that only children can, as if I was a bit simple. And then he replied.
It's only a drawing, Daddy. Not real life. Why shouldn't we be different colours?
Of all the things he's ever said, that one especially has stuck in my mind. It's a simple enough sentence, one that would make enough sense of any other child. It's logical, it's obvious. But I'm sure there's a gem of philosophy somewhere in there. I'm sure he was trying to tell me something. But I didn't know what. I still don't.
It took us six years. Six years of Alex's life to finally admit we were better off apart. It's true what they say. Don't stick together for the sake of the child. He would have been too young to know what was going on. He wouldn't have been upset. He's an intelligent child, and he's confident. He would have grown up simply knowing that his family were different, and he wouldn't have cared. He would have been happy. Diane and I stuck together for simple reasons. We'd hoped that Alex would bring us closer together. He didn't. We stayed the same, but now with added responsibilities, and divided emotional loyalties. We stuck together because we were scared, because we weren't sure if we could go it alone.
We had to, eventually. We sat Alex down at the kitchen table, and we explained that Daddy was going to live somewhere else. Did he know what a divorce was?
Yes, he explained. Fred's mummy and daddy got one. Fred was upset for a while.
He wasn't upset. He took the news exactly as I had expected him to. Calmly.
It's not your fault. I remember telling him. A look of confusion crossed his face.
Why is it my fault? he asked.
It was at that point I realised I was going to fuck it up. I was going to cause him emotional damage, simply because I'd been watching too much fucking TV. Taking lines out of the soaps.
Diane took over. I don't remember what she said. I just watched him, his eyes flitting quietly between the two of us. When she had explained all, she asked him if he had any questions. He nodded.
Can I have a bacon sandwich?

*

I still phone him. At least once every two days. I used to visit, until Diane started to see other men. She said we'd all be better off if he visited me. That worked fine for me. I managed to find another house almost immediately. Money became less of a problem, now that I was only living for myself. I began to build up decent savings. I could afford to have him over for days at a time.
There was the legal stuff, of course. Separation of affairs. Reminders of my old life. I dealt with them quickly and quietly, with the occasional referral to my solicitor. There was no drama in the breakup between Diane and myself. No arguments, no slammed doors. We just extricated ourselves from each other's lives, and carried on.
I got a new job. More money. I started eating better. Went for a run occasionally. I even started dating for a few horrible misguided weeks. I took up writing. While I was holding that pen, I became someone else. I escaped from my life.
But I did not see my son.
I spoke to him, of course, every day. But when it comes down to it, I'm talking to machine. And when I put the phone down, I'm alone again. I can't touch him, I can't hold him. I can't see him.
I lean back in my chair, in a small, suffocating room filled with invoices and statements and documents. A few scraps of paper sit in front of me – the remains of my fiction created the previous evening.
There's silence.
I look at his picture again. At my smiley, oversized blue head, and my long clawed arms. It's an odd thing, about children's drawings. At some stage in their lives, almost every child will draw a picture of themselves, surrounded by their families. And the results are paradoxical. They're the ugliest, most treasured things in the world. The figures I'm looking at are deformed, hideous. They glare at me with mismatched eyes and twisted grins. Their limbs are bent in angles that wouldn't be possible for real arms to imitate.
But people never see these horrible things. They only see the child drawing them, and they see the concentration on his little face. They can feel the excitement that he felt when he unveiled it to the two most important people in his life. And they know what it represents. A feeling of belonging, of security.
I feel happiness and sadness in equal measure. Happiness remembering that time, sadness that it's over. That it will never be like it was.

*

I talked to him for a good hour today. It was his birthday. He's eleven now. I didn't mean it to, but talk turned to the divorce. It had just been on my mind, with him being away. I asked him whether he remembered what it had been like when Mum and I had been together. And of course he said no.
Thinking this, fresh tears well up in my eyes. Six of the most important years in my whole life, and he barely remembers them. I want to pick him up and shake him. I want to hold him. I want those years to mean something to him.
I want him here with me.
But none of those things can happen.
I lash out suddenly, sending a pile of paper fluttering into the air. I pick up a stapler, hurling it at the door. It hits it with a bang.
I pick up my pen, and turn my attention to the paper on my desk.
And that's when it happens.
My skin changes colour. I watch with horror as the flesh darkens, turning a full-bodied black within seconds. My chest tightens, and my breathing becomes ragged. I look at the window, at the reflection of myself. I watch as my eyes turn black, and then widen until they are the size of golf balls. I open my mouth. Jagged teeth line my gums, and my tongue has become thinner, longer. My nose disappears as my face elongates. My eyes are pushed to either side of my head, like a bird's.
Or a reptile's.
I fall off my chair, my yells turning hoarse and guttural. It's taking over. My fingers rake at the desk, my sharp digits elongating into claws. A tail bursts from my back, tearing my shirt. I feel every bone creak as it stretches to breaking point, and then thickens. I yell again, but what emerges from my mouth is a roaring shriek. My shirt falls from my scaly chest, and that's when I lose control. The Creature is back.
And it wants Alex.