Font Formatting:
>You are Sam
>And from the single window of your room, you watch the leaves of fall drop into the breeze, one at a time, like little parachutes of autumn, sending golden-brown flakes down onto your windowsill
>Your hips, butt, back and arms sting, red-hot and peppered with welts
>In the bathroom, you tug your hoodie down over the painful bruises in the speckled bathroom mirror, while Dad snores loudly on the couch, the TV at an ear-aching volume, especially for rabbits
>You’re used to this routine by now — dad gives you a few licks with his hands, belt, or something else, crashes out on the couch from drinking, rises with a storm in his head, and pretends you don’t exist for eight hours
>Through your chestnut brown fur, you can see the strips of the belt laid into your fur and the skin beneath, the angry marks swelling up like bruised fruit. You poke a tender bruise on the gentle feminine bow of your hips
>You recoil in pain at the touch
>Yeah, you really did it this time
>You really hurt dad’s trust in you
>His croaking voice from last night was in your dreams
>Anon was there, and so was Jacob
>Jacob — who hated humans — fought with his baseball bat, side-by-side with Anon, against your dad and all the bullies at school
>Somehow Vanessa Doermuth was there too
>Anon’s clothes were getting slashed to bits by Vanessa’s razor-sharp claws while dad and Jacob squared off over the bat
>And you, at the center of it all
>Trembling, begging for it all to stop
>Useless
>Dreams have a habit of getting details right — or wrong. Though they may have dueled in your mind last night, what you remember about Jacob is this: he was his father’s son
>Unfortunately, Dad and Jacob seemed to understand each other in a way that you never could. They spoke the language of spirits and bitter anger, always stuffing down their self-imposed injustice or sense of indignation with more anger, more drink, more bile into their caustic guts
>And when the anger became too much, they surrendered to the amber crutch (later in life)
>Mostly though, they just hated each other in a way only a son can hate his own father
>In the dream you had, you remember dad opened his mouth and spit a train at you, sending it down tracks of invisible light in your direction
>You could hear both him and Jacob calling you “Unwanted”, and then Jacob yelling over the shriek of the horn, “COWARD!”
>Like he wanted you to die
>So instead you turned to Anon, still fighting the doe, and tried to get his attention, tried to move his form so valiantly defending you
>But no sound came out of your throat
>All you could hear was the shriek of the train’s horn, the rumble of thousands of tons of steel barreling down an invisible track, dead-seat of paving you across the ties
>And so you jumped out of the way of the train
>Too soon — again
>Anon wasn’t fast enough
>You could only watch, a scream jammed in your throat, as Anon disappears in a cloud of smoke
>And the train rolls on
>You woke up in a cold sweat that morning, dreams still heavy on your mind, like lead balloons hanging overhead, threatening to crash down on you
>It was around five in the morning when you started drawing
>You drew when the world dark, and cold. You drew until the sun came up and dad roused you from your work without opening the door to your bedroom
>”You’re sick today. No school,” he commands
“W-What abou-about my at-at-attendance?” you squeak
>You hear dad’s hand resting on the knob
>”I said you’re fucking sick, boy. I already called you out, so don’t worry about going nowhere and talkin’ to no-one.”
“Y-Yes sir!”
>He probably didn’t call you out — he never does
>This whole charade is probably to give the bruises and welts from last night heal and scab over
>So nobody can really see what goes on at home
>So nobody can ask questions
>Drawing helps speed things, so you do that for a long time. A longgg time
>Back in the mirror you strip off your hoodie down to your undershirt. You throw back an old, old pill — an estrus blocker
>Blocks those tingly, distressing urges you get every few months
>And then another — a scent mask, which simply helps mask your natural scent to other anthros
>You have to admit, on the outside, with just a shirt and a ratty pair of jeans around your hips, you look very much like a boy
>Mostly flat chest
>Hips, thighs, and rear covered by your pants do enough to mask what would otherwise be the gentle slope of your feminine curves
>Hair is JUST the right length to ensure nobody questions whether you’re male or female
>A deep sigh escapes you as you catch the faintest look of girlish charm in your high cheek bones
>You hope you can keep this up. You have to — for Anon’s sake, for dad
>For Jacob
>Whatever you had to do to keep you from ruining Dad’s life any further. Whatever you need to do to become the son that dad was robbed of
>You grab your brother’s old, olive-green hoodie from the dirty tile floor and carry it to your room with all the tenderness of a mother
>It no longer smells of him, but the memory of his comfort is stitched into the drab-olive threads
>You’d do anything to repay Dad for Jacob
>You are Anonymous, and you’re idling your car on Sam’s street
>“So this is your plan?” Alex says
>You had a brilliant plan; Alex is just being a piece of shit
>Your car hums and sips on gasoline, shuddering in failing sunset as you idle in Sam’s neighborhood
>“Is Sam even eighteen? Is this legal?”
“Sam’s eighteen, I know that,” you say, breathing even and strong, anxiety curiously absent from you chest. “And if he’s eighteen, he doesn’t have to stay there. He just needs a push out the door.”
>“Jesus, I’d have moved out from here if I was him,” Alex rests his head against the cool glass window, his hair tucked beneath his beanie
“Well it’s not that easy to just up and leave these sorts of places, you know? In situations like Sam’s… there’s a lot of forces at play.”
>“Yeah, not with the forces of capitalism pressing down on all sides,” Alex says, thinking he’s agreeing with you
“Don’t make this about capitalism right now, dude. I need to focus. And I need you on your A-game. Can you do that?”
>Alex sits up in the passenger seat, flashing a confident grin
>“Are you seriously asking me, of all people, if I can break out the charm and lead a person on while we kidnap their son?”
>Actually, yes, you are
>But you’re in the shit now, no turning back. Not with Mike suddenly ghosting you
>Just you, Alex, a gay, anxious rabbit, a violent alcoholic rabbit, and a serious criminal offense hanging over your very-not-a-minor-anymore head
“I should never doubt you. You’ve somehow managed to stay employed at the Shop N’ Save all these years.”
>“Gainfully so. I even got my coworkers to call me Comrade Alexi. Plus, I keep hiding they key to the propane exchange cages so they can’t fire me. You want propane refills or exchanges? You gotta keep me employed.”
>You can’t help but smile a little but, even as you approach Sam’s rundown old lot and kill the engine a few doors down
>Both you and Alex step outside into the brisk autumn air
>The lingering smell of industrial sites, trash and train smoke hits your nose like… well, a train
>And the cold snap of a burgeoning winter in your lungs
>You and Alex make a sour face
>“What the hell is that?” he clutches his face and pinches his nose
“Industrial runoff,” you say, tucking your hands into the pockets of your jeans and making for Sam’s house. “Or there’s an oil fire.”
>“When I’m in charge, every one of these polluters will hang from the last ropes they sold to us,” Alex takes another experimental snort of air and cringes
>You are Sam
>You creep out of your room to see if Dad is still asleep on the couch
>The soft rise and fall of his chest, and the volume of the TV, tells you he’s out cold in another stupor
>Lost in the sauce
>Almost too happy for Dad’s unconsciousness, you zip back to your room, careful when you almost shut the door to not make so much as a sound
>The bag of old comics sits untouched where you stashed them last night before Dad came in
>If he found them…
>Your body shudders at the thought of Dad finding out you’d been hiding your brother’s old comics and baseball bat under your bed for years
>There’d be hell to pay
>God he’d probably break out the car’s cigarette lighter again
>But as you quietly push the door shut, careful to leave just a tiny crack open so you can hear your Dad’s movements, you feel a sense of giddiness you haven’t felt for a long time
>Freedom
>Safety
>Your body is achy from the whooping, sure, but as you settle down on your bed, crack open a Hurricane Jones book, you can almost shut your eyes and be in Agora, the birthplace of the most fearsome superhero on earth
>Almost
>Your eyes watch as the last rays of autumn filter lower and lower on your carpet, giving way to the procession of dusk
>Your stomach rumbles
>You’d rather wait out the hunger than wake Dad up with noise in the kitchen
>It’s safer when he’s asleep anyway
>“So all I gotta do is fool this poor, downtrodden soul for just a few minutes?” Alex says, unsure
“Right. Don’t upset him, don’t try to go inside — just waste his time. I’ll get Sam out of there and into the car, and you’ll leave, walk down the street, and we’ll pick you up. Just like that.”
>Alex flexes his long, spindly arms forward, joints popping like little twigs in the process
>“Nothing I can’t handle, Anon. I’m a natural-born leader of people.”
>Leader of this fist into your face if you don’t get out there, Alex
>“Five minutes?” he quips, shaking his body out, stretching his acting muscles
“Five minutes. This will be quick. Quicker than that. I promise.”
>You summon a few deep breaths for courage as you stand at the gate of Sam’s house
>Well, gate is more like an exaggeration. It’s really just a twisted chain-link fence encircling the dilapidated yard
>There’s a shattered concrete path leading up to the sagging, one-story home, its white paint long since gone; its windows spider-webbed with cracks
>It’s a sad place to be, no matter who you are
>Hard to believe that just a few nights ago you were scared shitless about being here. Now all you can think about is your next move
>Did the pact with Vanessa work? Are you really about to do this?
>You feel for the handful of screws, nuts and bolts in your pockets as Alex saunters up to the door
>Can Alex do this?
>Guess you can’t be a coward when you’re an idiot
>You duck your body and quickly post up against the wall of the house while Alex raps at the front door
>Rather loudly too
>You know you don’t have long to pull this off, so you dash to your right, finding the side yard a safe refuge to catch your breath
>You may have grown a pair, but you’re still out of shape
>You turn your neck upwards
>There’s a window set above you
>You hope this is Sam’s
>You wheel back into the dirt and withdraw a screw from your pocket
>Bouncing it up and down, you hold your breath, listening for the front door and for Alex’s schpeel to begin
>You don’t feel the familiar knot of anxiety like you should
>Your breathing is even and slow, contained to what you need to do next
>But you release a knot of air when you hear Alex say:
>“Good evening, sir. Can I talk to you for a moment about our lord and savior, Karl Marx?’
>Whipping back your arm, you pelt the window with the screw
>It thunks loudly off the side of the house, your aim that of a one-eyed blind man
>All confidence and no skill
>You try another one
>It bounces off the bottom right corner of the broken glass window with a loud PECK
>God, this better be Sam’s window. You’re going to give this at least one minute
>You hope Alex can keep Sam’s dad busy
>You try another one, which lands dead-center
>Be Sam
>The sound of heavy knocking at your front door sets your heart off against your ribcage
>You drop your comic book and grab Jacob’s bat, cautiously peeking out the door
>It could be Mom coming back, or one of dad’s brothers, here to ‘take care’ of Dad
>You squeeze the bat’s handle, trying to remember Jacob’s instructions about breaking a rabbit’s legs, or stunning them by hitting them in the chest
>Dad stirs, and he doesn’t look happy that someone’s woken him up
>The knocking grows more urgent as dad shuffles to the door, clutching his head and ears
>He’s already hungover, great
>Which means he woke up with the devil in him
>You force down your anxious squeaks as you watch him throw open the door, afternoon light filtering in
>“Good evening, sir. Can I talk to you for a moment about our lord and savior, Karl Marx?”
>Missionaries?
>Out here?
>The voice sounds familiar, but you can’t place why
>The sound of something heavy chunking against your window nearly sets you off like a landmine
>You fight back another squeak as your dad turns to look towards your cracked-open door
>The missionary (or whatever he is) increases his speaking volume to an unpleasant level, especially for rabbits
>“I CAN SEE BY YOUR ABODE, SIR, MANY PEOPLE HAVE WRONGED YOU!”
>Your dad twists his ears in pain
>“Shut the FUCK up for a second! Jesus Christ, you pink, skinny fuck! Get off my doorstep before I-
>“AH BUT SIR!” the missionary continues, his voice approaching a scream. “DON’T YOU MEAN /OUR/ DOORSTEP?”
>Another THUNK rocks your ear drums
>Something hits your window with force
>Be Anon
>You’re going to try one more time, and then go around back to the other side of the house
>You give a solid throw
>The window pops open
>Sam appears in the empty portal, his shaggy hair parted at the center, exposing the bruised-fruit color underneath his sleepless eyes
>The loose screw rockets dead-center towards the window
>Where Sam is just beginning to say something…
>…until the screw blasts Sam on the nose, knocking him from the window and back into the house
>Jesus fucking Christ
>You sprint towards the house and throw yourself up towards the window, grabbing onto the ledge and hoisting yourself up
>You can do approximately one pull-up in gym
>You should have asked for super strength AND confidence
>Grunting as quietly as you can, you hoist yourself up, over the ledge and through the window with incredible strain…
>…where you tumble through, falling flat onto your face into a disgusting shag carpet covered in stains and rabbit fur
>You pull yourself up on shaking arms
>Sam stands against his bed, a baseball bat pressed against his chest with one hand, the other using his long sleeve shirt to stem the blood pouring from his twitching nose
>This is the first time you’ve seen him in a pair of badly fitting jeans and a vastly oversized gray long-sleeve t-shirt
>His signature gross hoodie is resting at your feet
>Sam’s whole body shakes something awful, and you can see the shock register in his eyes
>He looks like he’s about to cry, out of either pain or confusion
>“A-A-Anon?” he squeaks
>He lowers the bat a little
>You start to say something, but can’t find the right words
>You need something cool, something to make him calm down
“What’s good, money?”
>Sam steps back, toppling onto his messy bed as you rise you to your full height
>Your eyes snap around the room
>It’s…
>Wow
>You know that scene in A Beautiful Mind where the guy’s wife finds that shed that’s covered in paranoid writings and drawings?
>That’s what Sam’s room reminds you of
>Its covered wall-to-wall with drawings of superheroes and supervillains
>“Why are y-y-you h-here?” Sam says in an urgent whisper, eyes flicking to her bedroom door
>His free hand twists his ears
“Get your stuff, and be quick. We’re getting you out of here.”
>Sam pushes his shock of brown hair from his eyes
>“W-What?”
“Come on, you don’t have a lot of time!” you quickly grab whatever clothes you can off his floor,
>You can’t help but notice how big all of them are
>They’re probably hand-me-downs
>And it’s clear they haven’t been washed since being ‘handed down’
>“W-W-W-Wait, I c-can’t go,” Sam says, on his feet, grabbing things from your hands. “I h-have to s-stay h-h-here.”
“Why? Your friends are trying to save you right now. Both Alex and I are here to rescue you, so grab your shit, and come with me-“
>“N-No!” he squeaks, rushing around, grabbing at the stuff you’re trying to keep from him. Eventually, you leverage your height against him and hoist his clothes above your head
>He jumps at you, his legs granting him impressive height
>But it’s not enough
>“Dad says I-I’m n-not allowed to have friends. D-D-Dad says I don’t have any-“
>You set your jaw hard
“Then what does that make me?”
>Sam stops jumping at you
>He looks stung, but more confused than hurt, as his eyes shine up into yours
“Can’t you see what your dad is doing to you? He’s warped your brain so badly that you’re your own prisoner and don’t even know it”
>Sam shakes his head, sending his bangs whipping around in a tight arc
>His ears would go too were he not clutching them in an anxious fit
>“H-H-H-He’s not! H-He’s making s-s-sure I don’t h-hurt anyone else! He’s l-l-looking out f-for me…”
>You drop the clothes onto the floor
>Sam’s eyes slam shut, and his shaking is even worse than before
>You can hear his dad shouting from the hall. Something slams, followed by more shouting
>Alex
>Just hold out a little longer
>Be Alex
>You don’t know how much longer you can hold this guy’s rapt attention
>He looks a lot scarier than you thought he would
>Built out chest and arms, old work shirt stained with oil and grease, hard lines creased on his rabbit face
>He eyes you with annoyance and hatred
“ALL IM SAYING IS THAT WERE THE PRESIDENT OUSTED AND THE GOVERNMENT REPLACED BY A SUPREME LEADER, WE’D-“
>“A supreme leader? LISTEN SHIT HEAD! I fought for this country specifically so you pink faggots can say this stupid shit. Do you understand that? I didn’t fight for no supreme leader, that’s for fuckin’ sure.”
>He turns around, his hand heavy on the doorknob, staring at something down the hall
>You stick your foot in the door right as he slams it
>You stifle a yell
“S-SIR, PLEASE WAIT, I JUST WANT TWO MORE MINUTES!” You say, taking care to say ‘two minutes’ as loudly as you can
>You hope Anon can hear you
>Sam’s dad spins around, fire in his eyes, his jaw set in a hard line
>“Get the hell out of here before I kick your stupid human ass down the street!” he yells, forcing the door harder against your shoe
>Oh god this hurts
>You push against the door
>You were NOT going to let this man continue to think incorrectly and continue to oppress himself
>The door bursts open
>Sam’s dad snarls and wraps his hands around your shirt collar
>“ARE YOU DEAF!?” he yells, lifting you off the ground
>You grip the rusted brass knob for dear life
>“I SWEAR, I’LL KILL YOU!” he screams, his throat raspy from years of smoking
>You think this might be assault, but something inside for you says that he’s got proper grounds to be shoving you
“PLEASE, I UNDERSTAND YOUR PLIGHT, SIR! I TOO WAS ONCE A GENTLE WORKER, ALIENATED FROM MY HUMANITY BY LABOR-“
>The rabbit lets the door open, his focus no longer on you
>He’s squinting at something else inside of his house
>Oh no
>Be Anon again
>And now you think you made a mistake
>You hear Alex yell something about two minutes
>Which it might take you to escape
>This whole thing was a bad idea
>You mean, really, trying to break into someone’s house and willingly kidnap Sam?
>What part of you thought this would work?
>A harsh voice echoes from the hallway
>“I SWEAR I’LL KILL YOU!”
>You look down at Sam and back to the window
>Sam can only stare at the floor, blood seeping from his nose
>You sigh
>Well you trie-
>“I’ll go with you,” he says
>Wat
“You’ll go with me?” You repeat, not believing the words coming from Sam’s mouth
>“Y-Yes,” he says, his voice choked with confusion and uncertainty. “Y-Yo-You’re my friend a-a-and I trust y-you. A-A-And dad is r-r-r-r-really mad l-lately. I-If he catches you g-g-g-guys here he’ll t-t-take it out on m-m-me.”
“GREAT!” you squeal, catching yourself before your voice reaches a noticeable pitch. “Grab your stuff and let’s go. And be quick!” you say, already shoving clothes out the window
>Sam scrambles around, grabbing as many things as he can in the space between heartbeats
>This mostly involves him running around the room and snatching drawings off the wall and shoving them into his backpack
“Sam, no. Clothes and toiletries only,” you say, noticing him trying to force a large paper bag into the backpack
>He’s wearing a frantic look on his face as he tries valiantly to cram the parcel into his badly packed bag
“Come on, come on, let’s go!”
>You grab the baseball bat near the bed and hold it up
>Sam panics when he sees you holding the bat
>“W-Wait, g-give me t-t-t-that!”
>For the first time in your new friendship, Sam has the confidence to grab something from you forcefully
>The bag splits open, its age finally giving up against the zipper of the backpack
>Glossy-faced comic books spill all over the floor, their covers blooming in a circle around the bag like a shiny flower
>Sam’s eyes shoot open, but he doesn’t drop the bat when he goes to collect the comics, making it an inefficient labor
>It’s like Sam is completely ignoring everything in the room except that bat and those comics
“Let’s just go!” you clap your palms around your head in frustration. “We’re running out of ti-“
>The sound of heavy footsteps pauses all motion in the room
>VERY heavy and angry footsteps
>Making their way to the door
>Sam looks up towards the noise, his eyes shot open with panic, his mouth frozen in a scream
“SAM, GO!” you chuck his old hoodie out the window and step forward, trying to put yourself between the door and him
>The door crashes open, hitting the wall with a loud smack, creating a sizable dent in the wood paneling, where several other dents of similar force are imprinted on the wall like little craters
>Sam’s dad stands in the doorway, his fists curled into tight balls, his eyes blood-red with whiskey heat
>“Sam you little bitch, what’s going on in he-“
>He scans the room, his eyes flicking to you
>And then down to Sam, who still has his hands frozen halfway in his bag
>His dad leans forward and glowers:
>“You son of a bitch.”
>You can see the muscles in his legs tensing up
>Seeing as how he’s a rabbit, you REALLY need to make this fast
>Or he will
>“You break into my home, you try to rob me?” he slurs with anger, his voice piercing and sharp
>His eyes flick down to Sam, who has pulled his backpack up against his chest, hugging it like it’s a life preserver
>And he’s in sharky waters now
>“And you…” he seethes, a near feral growl rolling out of his chest
>“This was your idea, wasn’t it? To let your faggot friends back over here and rob us blind…?”
>He starts forward
>“After all the things I’ve had to do for us — After all you’ve done to this family…”
>His trembling hands stretch out towards Sam
Oliver Hart
Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.
Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall