Fear the Nobodies: Part Sixteen

>You are…

>…shit, you can’t remember your own God-given name

>It feels like someone took a few good swings at your head with a pipe

>The taste of iron is rich on your tongue; a shot of adrenaline and blood to the palate to wake you up

>Gravity presses down like the heel of a boot on your neck, and as you blink into the clean, blue skies overhead, you begin to wonder

>That sound – an ungodly wail, like the banshees you’d read about in ghost stories before you went to bed

>A baleful cry, the sad shriek of a empirical forces that have come to hate their attachment to the railroad ties they now glide across

>You recognize that sound

>There’s a train coming

>Beaten like ripe fruit, your head rolls off to the side, the bruises on your temple painful against the railroad tracks

>You stare down that mile of track like a man faced with a loaded gun

>Willow, ash, and cherry trees climb high into the western sky, a swaying carpet of prairie grass dancing at their trunks

>But on the side of the ties?

>Weeds and dead brush; vile chokecherry and thistle – and stone. Lots of odd stacked rocks, as if placed by small hands waiting for a train to blister by

>This is no place for anyone to be

>Your eyes settle on something glinting in the sunlight

>Slender and steel, with a handle strapped in hockey tape

>Some dumb kid left a baseball bat by the tracks

>To your concussed mind, swimming in a cocktail of hormones and adrenaline, you can’t help but feel you recognize the bat, or, at least you know who it might belong to

>There’s an impatient voice in your ear

>“HOLD!”

>He’s angry, and he sounds…

>…well, he sounds a little like Sam’s dad

>But not enough to be him. You smell cigarettes on his body, crouched over you

>Not that gut-churning whiskey rot

>“HOLD!”

>These old railroad ties wrap around the county proper, a kind of intrinsic wall

>Nobody really comes out to the old rail car yards any more, except dumb kid-

>The ground beneath you trembles; pebbles bounce in place; loose dirt and leaves shake themselves loose

>“Almost…” the voice says, a dream-like whisper as you stare headlong down the ties

>A singular nail of light glows, even in the day

>And it’s growing larger by the second

>And then-

>The train’s horn cuts loose with a deafening blast

>That strange voice hovering over you rises to frantic shout

>“HOLDDDDD!”

>You were never supposed to see behind the curtains of Sam’s life

>It’s like learning how the magician pulls a rabbit out of his hat

>That bat that’s rattling onto the shattered concrete?

>That’s Sam’s…

>“ALMOST, ALMOST!”

>…right? It belongs to him

>He grabbed it from his room

>And, right on cue, there’s another voice in your ear as you blink dimly into the maw of death, fast-approaching

>“A-A-A-Anon!”

>Despite the concussion and blood loss…

>“A-Anon! Y-Y-You h-have to m-m-move!”

>…a smile warms your face as your eyes flutter shut

>You know that voice

>That’s Sam’s girlish falsetto

>And then-

>“What the FUCK are you guys doing!?”

>Oh that voice you recognize

>Memories of time spent working with her and your science groups come rushing back

>Jenna Orthorn really knew how to keep progress moving with your group

>Sad that your fondest memories now come back to you, and they’re all in high school

>You really did peak in high school, bro

>Ah

>No matter

>Blue skies overhead, a train rumbling towards you…

>…tis’ nice to die with such pleasantries around

>Wait

>Blue skies? The sky was slate gray when-

>“Anon!? Mike!?”

>You blink, and all at once the sky disappears, now replaced by a steel gray curtain of October’s hate

>And then, eclipsing what little sunlight that breaks through the clouds, is Sam, UNCOMFORTABLY close, tears smearing the amber of his eyes into a watery yellow

>His face screws up with pain, and he looks like he wasted no time in getting to the ‘snotty tears’ portion of grieving your death

>Too bad you ain’t dead yet, bitch

>Jenna Orthorn’s van, like a beached whale, clogs the bike lane, her hazards winking into the cool morning

>The passenger door slams shut; nervous paws skip off the asphalt

>“What the hell are you guys doing on the side of the road!?” Jenna hisses

>She sounds more angry than she is worried right now

>“I swear, if you idiots are playing chicken with cars again I’m going to-”

>Her chastising words die on her lips when she sees you flat out on your back, hemorrhaging blood out of your nose and lips

>In a snap, Jenna pushes Sam practically off you

>The bunny ends up on his knees, useless and fighting tears

>“Anon- what… what the hell happened!? You look like you got mauled by a lion!“

>You gurgle a little bit of blood in reply

>Jenna frowns

>“Actually, don’t answer that. I’ve got a first aid kit in my car. Just lay back down… And try not to move a lot, okay?”

>Jenna’s attention turns to Mike, her ears folding back against her skull

>Mike, who is no longer trying to charge you like an angry bull (no offense to bulls, obviously) stares hate and whiskey into the ground, his features hardened into a scowl

>“Mike?” Jenna says, caution working its way into her voice,

>She’s no idiot

>She can probably smell your blood on his knuckles

>“What happened here?”

>Mike’s head hangs lower, and his fists whiten with tension

>“Did you…?” Her words trail off, as if expecting Mike to fill in the blank

>YES

>YES HE DID, YOU ORANGE BITCH

>Your lips, quiver with the truth, , remain sealed, because you are far, far too concussed for this

>At last Mike lifts his head

>His eyes smolder like they’ve been stung with brands

>If you stare hard enough, you see flickers of lighting

>And tears

>Wait…

>…tears?

>“Take care of him,” Mike nods coldly at your body, “because he can’t take care of himself. Or anyone else for that matter.”

>Oh you assfuck!

>He narrows his gaze at Jenna – opens his mouth to say something

>And then

>He just turns his head again

>“You- you did this to Anon?” Jenna’s tone is incredulous

>But she sounds…

>…scared

>With his back turned, with his whole body shaking with adrenaline, fear, and regret, he says, “Today. Three o’clock. I don’t care what class you’re supposed to be in. Come meet me around the back of the school by the loading docks. We need to talk about something.”

“If you can last that long,” you spit, flecks of blood like shrapnel speckling the asphalt

>Jenna pales, and her eyes widen in shock

>With a declarative step backwards, Jenna stands besides you and Sam

>“But- your- your friends!” She reasons, her voice falling to a sad whisper, “So why?”

“Because-” you pause to cough some another cloud of blood

>Your ribs feel like they’re collapsing into your lungs, like the architectural buttresses that rivet the ceilings in some of the churches you spent time in as a kid

>Do you really tell Jenna the truth?

>She’s a really nice girl, after all

>She doesn’t need to be apart of this whole thing

>Still, whether or not she realizes it, fate will swat her across the face

>You have until Friday

>Mike says nothing — he only stares down the hill, at the smog of a town still waking up

>“It looks so close from here,” he mumbles, his shoes starting forward, his body still resistant

>“Mike!” Jenna shouts, reaching to grab him by the back of his shirt

>Her claws snatch onto dead air

>Mike is already tearing down the road like a comet

>“You’re running the wrong way into traffic!” Jenna howls

“I couldn’t turn him back into a human,” you grunt

>Reality pours itself into your eyes and ears

>Cars are starting to show up, too, either cruising around you or blasting your troop with their horns

>A last scattering of petals takes to the wind, and with just a few days until Halloween, you swear, it’s start to snow

>The petals collect on Sam, and, still hemorrhaging snot, he tries to brush them away

>He plucks one off of his hoodie and holds it gently in both of his palms, its form so delicate to the bunny that even you think the petal will shatter

>“Alex, help me lug Anon off the road, will ya?” Jenna says

>Two hands hands hook in the space beneath your shoulder – one soft yet bearing claws, and the other very coarse

>Suddenly you’re moving against all the broken bottles and road grit that’s collected over the years

>“What the hell happened out here? What’s going on with everyone fighting lately?” Jenna says, grunting in strain

>When you come to rest on the sidewalk, you allow your head to settle on the concrete

>And you close your eyes, surrendering to oblivion

“I’ll let Mike tell you everything,” you say in response to Jenna

>Who gives a FUCK if you involve her any more

>In fact, it’s like she’s choosing to get involved – mostly on behalf of Mike

>Which you have NO FUCKING IDEA why anyone would care about THAT asshole

>Everything is fucked anyway, and it’s only Tuesday

>You’ve got your end of the bargain to keep with the goths, too

>But frankly, you could care less about how this all ends right now

>Hell you might even join those edgy freaks and really get one over on Mike

>He, who only cares about graduating and leaving you all behind, can go fuck himself

>Jenna moves you all to the parking lot so you’re no longer bleeding out on the side of the road like a possum who played in traffic

>Alex and Jenna speak in hushed tones on the other side of her van

>Alex’s looming figure bends over the rather small vixen, having to nearly crouch to get within earshot of her concerned hiss

>You hunch over and let the blood from your nose river out onto the asphalt, like someone turned on a red faucet in your skull

>Jenna seems distraught, Alex looks somehow worse than you — not a look you’re used to on a guy whose only battle with oppression is a man six tax-brackets below him

>At least Sam, Alex and Jenna haven’t betrayed you

>Jenna leads Alex over, carrying an old first-aid kit

>”Anon?” Jenna begins, peppering you with bandages, “Alex and I think you should go and find Mike.”

“Are you being fucking serious with me right now? Fuck that guy. He can turn into an edgelord vampire all he wants”

>“C’mon man. This is bigger than us-” Alex starts

“Fuck to the NO. Besides, he’ll be back to talk to you later, won’t he? What’s the point in me cutting school to go and track down the guy who just took off at least thirty IQ points with his fists alone?”

>“I still don’t know what you guys are talking about,” Jenna moans, unreeling a roll of medical tape you do NOT need

“It REALLY doesn’t matter,” you say as you struggle to stand up, “I’ll explain later. Or maybe Mike will. Who gives a shit about me, right?”

>“We do not leave a fallen comrade behind!” Alex shouts

>Ignoring him, you aim a shaking finger at Sam

“You’re following me all day, understood?”

>“What? Why?” Jenna asks again, clearly dismayed, “He’s got classes to go to!”

“Everything will be made clear to you soon,” you say, cold determination in your voice

>“Nobody is telling me anything…” Jenna moans

>You pat your chest, making sure the red book is still in your inner-pocket

>You can feel it there like a heavy, flat stone, despite how small and thin it is

>You hate this fucking book

>You hate yourself for getting involved

>Alex salutes you as you walk past

>You roll your eyes

>The tap of Sam’s paws against the asphalt is quick behind you

>And then there was only Jenna, alone, standing by her car, visibly upset

>The day plods along with all the speed of a xan’d turtle

>You count the hours, the minutes, and seconds, until your lunch period

>T-minus one hour until you have to do the unforgivable:

>talk to Gloria Duchene

>Lead her into the gym

>And then…

>…well, you don’t know what’s going to happen to her

>But you can’t help but feel this sting of… rot… in your stomach

>That must be the guilt for tossing Gloria into the furnace to keep you all warm

>Even the thought of handing her over to the goths makes you cringe and presses that sickly feeling deeper into your guts

>You can’t believe you ACTUALLY care about a person who honestly gives you the creeps like Gloria

>Well something similar did happen to happen to you and Sam, right?

>Now you think he’s really gre-

>He’s cool

>Yeah, cool…

>Christ, why do you get all the weirdos?

>You have Sam attend his classes, but tell him to meet you at the first floor men’s bathrooms every 30 minutes

>It’s a system that lets you check in his well-being while you’re still ‘present’ in class,

>Though that’s a gross misuse of the term

>All you’re doing is throwing glances towards the clock or towards the door in English class

>Sam should know where you are in case there’s trouble

>What if his dad shows up out of fucking nowhere and caves your skull in front of everyone?

>YOU’D BE A LEGEND-

>No

>He did look really pissed off after you… you know…

>Ran him over with your car?

>God damnit, get a hold of yourself

>You’re safe here in large numbers

>Well, what if he pulls Sam out of school?

>Then what are you going to do?

>Worse yet, he knows your name

>Fuckity fuck fuck

>What class is Thumper in? An art class, right? Advanced drawing?

>You just want it to be lunch already

>And, you also want everyone to stop staring at your bloodied and bruised face>

>To be fair, you look like an absolute mess, what with your torn shirt, your clothes still carrying pebbles from the road, and a near-mummification via Jenna’s handy ‘medical expertise’

>Your body aches as you force yourself up out of your industrial plastic desk

>Mrs. Felix – a fennec fox trying to teach your class ‘The Myth of Sisyphus’ tips her gaze your way with startling speed

>“Going to the bathroom again, Anonymous? That’s your fourth trip this hour,” she hisses with displeasure

>You nod very slowly, because moving your head too fast is painful

>“Do us all a favor, mister Anonymous; drink less coffee next time. Now go,” she says dismissively, before jumping back in to the existentialists at break-neck pace

>Though it’s an advanced placement course, how anyone keeps up in her class is a fucking literary mystery to you

>Guess that’s fennec foxes though, right? All speed, no brakes

>You want to say, ‘speak for yourself,’ but instead you shrug off the misplaced ‘advice’

―-

>In the halls you have to do everything you possibly can not to break into a sprint

>Urgency collides with the laws of physics as pain rivets up your legs and into your hips

>You settle on a zombie-like shamble

>The halls are far too empty for the middle of class

>This time of the year, most seniors catch a type of pathogen; some feverish need to stretch their legs, even if they’re not tired

>When the sunlight breaks through the clouds, laying bars of gold across the hallway…

>…just staring too long is enough to make a man weep

>So you stop, summoned to an unnatural stillness by the sight autumn leaves clinging to their branches on the oaks that pockmark the school grounds

>Like fireworks goddamnit, brilliant scattershots of gold, and orange, and russet-brown, doused- no, DROWNED in sunlight

>Sam can wait a little bit

>He’s…

>You’re not crying

>…he’s probably fine

>“Hey, gimpy. Turn around for a sec – my friend wants to show you something.”

>That sneering voice skipping off the metal ring in his lip

>The nasal blockage, his tone a whiny, sarcastic, glass-pushing-up-piece-of-

>You turn around to face James Northman, better known as a PRETENTIOUS ASSHOLE

>James is your least favorite reading partner in AP History

>The two of you were paired together and, like lithium and water, you lasted a week before you almost spiked James in the eye with a pair of scissors

>It’s not even because he’s a nitwit – he’s a tiger; literally and mentally – James is still one of the only people to have ever embarrassed you in a reading discussion about the Renaissance

>Your knuckles tighten in anger, summoning from your deep well of hatred you’ve dug for this asshole

“You’re still wrong, James. You don’t know SHIT about northern Italy. Fucking DICK!”

>James is best described as Tony the Tiger with bleached bangs, enough guyliner to make a painted whore blush, and a cloak of insecurity about how bright and happy-colored his natural stripes are

>James stares back at you, his eyes wide, yet taking in nothing at all

>There’s a void within his mind so encompassing that when you stare long enough, you see how they glow like chipped embers

>Uh-oh

>Vanessa got to the emo kids

>Though they’re no ally of the goths, they’re certainly no friends of yours

>And on that note, the group of four – a tiger (James), a black bear you think is named Emma, and two hyenas

>The assemblage looks like they’re either about to rip you apart, or put on a bad cover of Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge

>James starts towards, slow and dim

>“Hold still, Anon… you can be wrong about 16th century Italian painters… but you can stilll…”

>He reaches a paw towards your face

“Do NOT fucking touch me you little thrall bitch!” You bat the tigers arm to the side, which is, by the way, twice the size of your own arm

>Just your wrist alone colliding off the corded Muscle of James’ arm sent pain rattling through you

>The other idiots – namely the hyenas – approach, closing your means of escape

“You guys are really gonna beat the fuck out of a crippled guy like me?” You say, making yourself small against the lockers

>“We don’t have to… you can join us… soon it all ends…”

>Suddenly there’s claws tangled up in your shirt collar

>James pins you at least three feet off the ground against the lockers

>You’re eye-level with the guy who made you look SO stupid in AP History

>His wide, enslaved, stupid eyes

>His free paw opens up as he prepares to suffocate you

“You want me to join Vanessa? Are you guys idiots?! I’m already doing you all a favor…”

>“Do us one more… do not… fight it-”

>You swing your head forward as hard as you fucking can, packing at least four years of deficit and anger into your headbutt

>The blast of pain that flashes memories of childhood in front of your closed eyes is nothing compared to what James is going through

>An anatomy lesson:

>Humans have a lot of bone in the front of their skull

>For tigers, or other felids, the spot between the eyes – or, where you just blasted a six-foot-four hormonal, soul-ensnared tiger – is very thin

>You can see the point

>James drops you like a hot bag of rocks

>And you crumple onto the linoleum floors like one, too

>All you can after that is curl up into yourself like a dead bug

>It’s not even a defensive posture – after what Mike did to you, and then getting dropped like?

>Something HAS to be broken

>And hey, the bear and the yeens will certainly kill you now, and turn you into one of them

>James isn’t making any more noise, so he might be unconscious

>Or dead

>At least you tried

>“Nonnnnny!”

>Oh no

>You have to go to hell

>“I KNEW it was you down there! I can smell you anywhere.”

>You keep your eyes shut as you mumble, “Hi, Gloria.”

>“Alright, alright, let’s see some hall passes!” Gloria’s tone flips like a switch, “There’s no-way four of you freakazoids all have passes.”

>You watch as Gloria pats down James’ unconscious body, completely glossing over the fact that he hasn’t twitched or moved in at least a minute

>“Fuck you, pig,” one of the black-haired hyenas snorts, “you can’t just search us because we look different.”

>“First, I’m a GOAT, SIR,” Gloria gives the perp a hard shove into the lockers, bouncing him with force against the metal rivets, “and second: that’s where you’re wrong. This is America, and you’re gosh-dang lucky I’m not authorized to use deadly force any more.”

>The other hyena takes that as an invitation to sit down

>“None of you have a hall pass, so I’m writing you all up. I KNOW who you Satan-worshipers are, too. However, I have something for you all that’s BETTER than a hall pass.”

>Gloria digs into her canvas tote bag and retrieves five small, leather-bound books

>“This is a SOUL PASS!”

>Gloria hands you one with a huge grin, which you weakly accept

“The New Testament: Featuring Jesus Christ?” You narrate, “what do you mean ‘featuring’? That makes him sound like he’s a rapper or something.”

>Gloria just smiles and nods as her free hand clasps around your shirt collar

>You begin to move across the floor, like an unwilling mannequin

>“You four sickos, stay where you are until I get back!” Gloria barks

>And then she’s all sugar sweet a few hundred feet away to a stairwell, nowhere near the bathrooms

>An over-zealous crucifix hanging proudly against her heavily conservative denim dress

>Fur white as pure snow

>Curly horns

>A Long conal snout, big, judgmental eyes accented by a pair of thick-rim glasses

>Yep

>Gloria Duchene

>“Are you going to the bathroom?” she asks, leaning in uncomfortably close

>Bitch what the fuck does it look like you’re doing aside from getting further concussed?

>You swear you can still smell the communion wine on her breath — or is that perfume?

>What’s the difference to her anyway?

“I was going to make an attempt,” you reply with a deep, deep groan

>Gloria, who is about as socially conscious as Sam, doesn’t even register your annoyance with her

>“Well, do you have a hall pass?” she huffs at you suddenly, like a gasping school girl asking out her crush, “I really…” she leans in close, her MOIST breath on your cheeks, “…wonder… if you… have… one…?”

>Oh God is she going in for a KISS!?

“A hall pass? Shit- I-” you take a second to flinch away from her, “I think I got one. I need to look-

>She wrinkles her nose at you, big stupid anime eyelashes fluttering like they each weighed twenty pounds

>In a snap, she’s got your hands wrangled like a retarded toddler

>You die a little inside when you feel how sweaty she is, even with her fur absorbing the bulk of the moisture like a towel

>Ew

>“Don’t worry, Anonymous, I’ll escort you to the bathroom myself,” she huffs, blushing crimson worse than Sam, “If the principal sees me with you, he’ll let you go without a spanking… this time…”

>Somehow that explains so much — the spanking part, you mean

>Maybe… maybe you are gay

>She drags you back towards the second floor bathrooms

>You wriggle free of his already slipper grip, much to the goat’s dismay

>“Oopsies, your hand slipped!” She says with an exaggerated giggle

>She the full-on Michael Jordan basketball grips you, like a pair of extremely sweaty handcuffs

>You dig your heels in a struggle to halt yourself

“Please, Gloria. Stop. I’m trying to go downstairs – I don’t need you help. I know how to do that,” you beg of her, hoping that her god will take pity on your accommodating soul

>“Nonsense,” she balks, “You need me (and I need you).”

>She whispers that last part, but you can still hear her well enough

>If there is a God, he is not with this horny (haha) goat right now

>Goats are stubborn, but damnit, you’re a human

>Have a little pride in yourself and your species!

>What is mankind – the crafty ape – good for?

>Well, being crafty

>Time to bust out the… craft…?

>An idea registers in your mind

>And it’s far from crafty. It’s more accurate to call it shameful

>Even… disgusting…

>Thankfully, you are not above those topics

>You’re like a coyote who would chew his leg off to get out of a trap

“Gloria! Hey, sweetie… listen to me. You listening? I was thinking about you today, you know?

>All time and motion come to a screaming halt

>The goat draws in a tight lungful

>She turns to you, her face scarlet, cheeks bulging with air and she-

>“That’sweirdIknewthatyouwerebecauseIwasprayingaboutyoutodayand-”

>She’s practically trips over her own tongue so you cut her off

>Go in for the kill

>And while you’re at it, hold the child of your shame under the river until it stops thrashing

“Yeahhhhh, uhhhh… I was thinking about you!” You shoot her some finger guns in a bad attempt to look and act cool. Do people still do finger guns at each other like The Fonz?

“In fact, I was wondering if you’d like to eat lunch w-”

>“YES,” She tugs you in close by your shirt collar, “GLORY BE. YES.”

>You see how moist (ew) she is by how her white fur darkens around her face

>Sweat beads off her forehead, sliding through her short fur only to be lost in its tufts, never to complete its journey to the floor

>“WE CAN EAT LUNCH TOGETHER, DARLING.”

>Glad to see she’s taken the bait so eagerly

>Or are you?

>You ARE about to sacrifice her to the goth kids, after all

>That familiar feeling of guilt settles at the bottom of your stomach like you’ve been force-fed rocks

>You do your best to smile in the moment

>Such an actor now

>Should have taken theater or drama, fuck face

“G-Great. Let’s eat in the gym though, okay?”

>“The gymnasium?” She raises an eyebrow

“Yeah. Less people. It’s uhhhh-” you begin to sweat

>Fuck, why is this happening to you now?

>You ALMOST say the word ‘romantic’, but the guilt dissuades you

“It’s just a more uhhh… relaxed… environment,” you lie

>You lying liar

>You lying faggot coward

>Wait

>No, that last part was also a lie

>You’re not a cowa-

>“Well… if you say so,” she says,eyelashes again fluttering “A lunch date at the gym! Got it!”

>You breathe a sigh of relief when Gloria skips off, doing a quick twirl mid air, sending her skirt spinning around her dainty legs

>Wait…

>…date?

>Now free, you trundle down the stairs to the first floor

“God damn, Gloria’s really, really, really forceful today. More so than usual. Is she starting her heat or something?” You mutter

>Don’t female anthros take pills and wear scent masks for that sort of thing?

>Maybe she forgot hers this week this week?

>Or doesn’t believe in that stuff

>Or it’s got something to do with last Friday, the moon, the goths, and all the weird shit happening around school

>Speaking of weird shit, when you peek through the windowed door to the art room, you see about fifteen empty seats.

>In fact, it’s just Sam, the teacher, and an odd assortment of theater kids and stoners (sitting on polar opposite sides of the room)

>Sam looks even more isolated in the middle of the two factions, as if he were dividing them by his mere existence

>Judging by the horrible looks the two groups sneer towards each other, you get the feeling that Sam isn’t the source of the animosity or division

>Something supernatural is

>You breathe a heavy sigh of relief

>Thank fuck he’s saf-

>A sharp pencil sails across the room towards the stoners

>Then a few erasers

>And some rulers

>And then exacto knives

>The stoners retaliate by leaping from their seats — mostly a group of humans save for an odd skunk — and throw themselves towards the opposite side of the room with all the suddenness of a sloth

>A scrap breaks out like a summer storm

>The two groups rain blows upon one another (not stopping to wonder if there was a better way)

>The teacher in the classroom, a rather thin doberman, bares her fangs and jumps into the fray, desperately fighting to separate the teens before they murder one another

>Sam seizes up at the sight of the melee

>Now’s your chance

>You throw open the door

“Sammy boy!”

>Sam turns his head, sees you standing in the door like some kind of hero (despite the fact that you really fucking aren’t), and bolts towards you, pausing only to grab his drawings off his desk

>He’s unable to stop himself in time, as he sprints with mortal terror into your arms-

>-sorta

>The thin little rabbit collides into you with the force of a thrown pillow, though it does send you stumbling back

>God damnit, this is like the second or third time this has happened

>You wrap your arms around the bunny to steady yourself and him, as the two of you rock back and forth against the force of Sam’s impact

>Eh, the gay doesn’t bother you as much anymore

>But falling might

>Sam looks up at you with his bright eyes; shimmering pools of molten gold winking with fright

>You can see the panic and fear behind them, but you also recognize the comfort and relief that now colors his expression

>“T-Thanks A-Anon…” he squeaks

>Instinctively, you reach a hand down and stroke back his ears, run your fingers through his matted and greasy fur

>God it feels good to comfort and protect him

>Before you realize what you’ve done, Sam lets out a contented sigh into your chest

>“W-What are you doing?” He whispers, nuzzling into your touch, “I-I like it.”

>You instantly drop your hands to your sides

>Fuck, what WERE you doing?

>You scratch nervously at the back of your neck while a blush scours your cheeks

“I-I don’t… Just ignore that. The important thing is: you’re getting out of there.”

>the rabbit nods, letting his bangs cover his face once again

>You’re tempted to just punch him in the face in order to prove your heterosexuality, but you could never do that to him

>And his big, puppy dog eyes, glowing like chips of amber, completely disarm you

>“Y-You w-w-wanna see my d-drawings?” He asks, moving the subject autistically to what he’s been working on

>No concern for the obvious violence now taking place in the room behind him

>You can hear the want in his voice

>Frankly, you’re glad that he’s gotten the courage to speak to you directly and not in whispers

>You can’t help but smile a little

“Of course I do. But not here. Let’s get somewhere safe.”

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