an anatomical study of lycanthropy

It's surgical. Medical. An invisible scalpel cuts through his spine, drawing red against the pale skin and he sheds his flesh as if he was stepping out of a bathing robe. His insides are bloody red and veiny blue, and at least that proves that even if he is not a man, he is certainly alive. That alone is enough, most days. Bones crack, take odd shapes and awkward angles. Eyes roll back, the white of the sclera replacing the pleasant hazel. Is this living or is it just surviving?

Keep him in formaldehyde and turn back now. He'd rather be stripped bare than remain rotting.

The poison seeps in, inevitably, a thousand times viler than arsenic (and lacking the sweet almond taste). It suffocates your vessels, replaces every last drop of blood with sulfuric acid until you're burning, burning. You may never stop burning at all.

There is no pain greater than being ripped apart and stitched back together in seconds. Soon he'll be dressed in claws and teeth and fur that aren't his (he just borrows them for a night, every month). Soon, he'll forget his own name and howl at the moon and feed on raw meat and bathe in foreign smelling blood; a bastardized animal ritual taken from the Romans' own frenzied Bacchanalia.

Rinse and repeat.