Fear the Nobodies: Part Twenty-Four

>Hearing Mike’s voice on the other end of the call activates your anger like a sleeper agent hearing his trigger word

>A sudden ache blossoms in your nose from where Mike tried pushing it into your face

>Your knuckles hurt, still singing with pain from belting Mike in the jaw

>“Anon?” Mike says, voice small and unsure, like a kid lost in a store, looking for his mom, “are you still there? You picked up the phone, so…”

>There’s a pause – a moment of stasis, of life put on hold – punctuated only by Mike’s ragged breathing through the receiver

>You don’t say anything for a few moments

>A few hours earlier, this guy kicked the shit out of you

>NOW he calls you?

>Your mind hurtles at a thousand-miles-per-hour, indexing through dialogue choices and outcomes, as if you were in a protagonist in a visual novel

>So, what do you say?

>Say something that you KNOW will hurt him

“Hello, Michael.”

>All at once, you hear the bright anger of a Mike Sapone who was not a vampire, and had not beaten you senseless today

>“LISTEN, FUCKER…” he seethes, syllables sharp enough to crest above what your flip phone’s receiver can output

>He sounds like an angry little robot

>Only, it’s not the ‘old Mike’ on the phone with you

>Either he grew some self-restraint between his legs, or someone gagged him

>Angry puffs of blast across cellular radio, until they reach a low simmer

>“H-Hey man… how are you doing?” Mike replies at last, the gap in his question meant with interpersonal emphasis

>On cue, your nose throbs with blood

>You stuff more wadded tissue into your face

“Well, the doctor said I only have a few days left to live. I probably won’t make it past Friday night,” you say, tone flatter than Mike’s sister

>“Wait, WHAT!?” Mike sputters in response, “You- you went to a doctor!? Did you fucking tell them it was ME!?”

>God damnit

>Yep

>Same old Mike

“No, I didn’t go to a fucking doctor, retard,” you sigh, “I hurt all over, and the goth kids are targeting me and Sam. What’s new with you? What do you want?”

>“Oh thank God,” he says, as if you issued him a presidential pardon, “because we’ve been in the same boat, so getting doctors and police involved over a little squabble would complicate things, right?”

>There’s a long gap where you don’t say anything

>You only listen to him breath, anticipating a response that never comes

>Instead, Mike picks up on the subtext

>“Listen, I called to tell you something, and I want you to know this time I really mean it.”

“What do you mean ‘this time’?”

>“Just… shut up for a second,” he barks, and then, as if remembering why he had called, he says, “wait, no, don’t shut up. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

>There’s a long groan on the other end of the line, and then the sound of Mike taking a large, fortifying breath of air

>“I called to tell you that I’m sorry for kicking your ass so good.”

>You shake your head slowly, lingering on the part of his apology where he brags about his own violence

>That’s only scratching the surface of what a CUNT Mike has been to you of late

“Annndddd…?” You trail off, dropping a hint to Mike like proposing to a blind woman

>He does not take the hint

>“And what?” He replies, genuinely confused

>You scowl, and though it feels good, it bothers you that Mike can’t see your face right now

“What do you mean ‘and what?’, dude? You’ve been an absolute, self-centered dickhead for like a WEEK! How do you NOT see that?”

>“I- I know. I was getting to that, fagtron. This isn’t easy for me-”

“I don’t care if it’s ‘not easy’ for you, ‘fagtron.’ My nose STILL hurts,” you say with an audible sneer

>And Mike audibly winces

>“I got you good, huh?” he whimpers

>Got you good? Bro, he FUCKED you up

“Yeah, you could say that. So, where’s the rest of my apology, bitch?”

>Mike then summons another deep breath

>He’s never been good with words

>Or articulate

>Or literate, now that you think about it

>“This afternoon, I thought my life was over. I didn’t give a fuck about anyone or anything. I was angry, and stupid, and I hurt people I cared about because of that. But you know what Alex and Jenna helped me realize? I need you guys. I need you (no homo), Jenna, Alex, and… is Sam with you?”

>You shake your head

“He’s in class right now. I’m standing guard outside of mister Bolm’s room.%quot;

>“Well, tell your boyfriend that I need him, too. I need you guys to be my friends.”

“HE’S NOT MY BOYFRIEND! God damnit! And I am NOT gay,” you ram your teeth together

>Now isn’t the time!

>Mike’s voice drops to a submissive whisper

>“We’re still friends though… r-right?”

>Despite the pain radiating all over your bruised and bloody body, you have an answer for him almost instantly

>That’s hardly even a question

“Of course, dude. You may be a fucking asshole, but we’re still friends.”

>“Thanks, you big homo,” Mike says, almost laughing

>You missed this

>A smile tugs at the corners of your lips

“We’re still going to kick the goth kids in the teeth, yeah?”

>“Shit yeah we are.”

>You break out in an even wider smile

“And we’re gonna get you to college, right?”

>“Right!”

>“And you’re gonna fuck some prime freshman poon?”

>“Fuck yes we are! And you’re gonna tap that bunny’s sweet, sweet ass.”

>Your smile collapses like a star at the end of its life

>You have only thought about sex with Sam a FEW times

“Mike, when I see you next time, I’m going to punch you in the face. I want you to know that,” you say

>Mike laughs on the other end of the line

>“I won’t flinch.”

https://youtu.be/WzovEHVavrE?list=RDWzovEHVavrE

>Mike ends the phone call by telling you he’s waiting at the old white oak door church with Jenna and Alex

>You agree to meet him there after school

>After the call, with the last of your nerves draining out through your feet, you slacken against the wall, and sigh a very, very satisfied sigh

>You take some time to gather yourself

>No matter how vulnerable you are out here in the hall, all alone, the weight off your shoulders outweighs that vulnerability

>GOD you’re glad to have patched shit up with Mike…

>…and you have so much to tell him and Jenna and Alex

>So much has changed in just a few minutes

>You push down those lingering feelings of guilt when you think of Gloria…

>…only her god knows what they’re doing to her up there

>So you push it down into a little ball in your stomach

>You promise to yourself

>You promise Gloria

>In some way shape or form

>You will rescue her and Sam

>Alright, show time

>Just a quick trip to make sure Sam is okay, you tell yourself

>A quick little jaunt

>Just the tip

>You ease open the door to mister Bolm’s class

>No reaction from inside

>You feather the door shut and spread your weight against its oak construction, smirking with how easy it was to-

>Like Children of the Corn, the class’s attention snaps to you the minute the door clicks shut

>Mister Bolm stretches his arms to reach the top of the whiteboard

>‘Biological Diversity Week!’ Is written in huge bubble letters at the top of the white slate

>He pauses and looks your way, like an old sentinel

>“Mister Anonymous?” He looks like a shocked gopher

>You give the class a shy, half-hearted wave

“Hiya mister Bolm… and class. I had a free period (which is a lie), so I thought I’d audit this class for a day,” you say, blushing from the sudden and direct attention

>The teacher, still bewildered, says “That’s… fine, I suppose. You’ve good character. So long as you don’t distract any students.”

>You nod and scutter to an empty desk, one next to Sam

>He’s in the back, near the window, looking out at the gray sky and the fluttering of leaves

>Behind a shock of brown hair, he shoots a shy smile before returning to ‘listening to the lecture’

>You ease into the desk next to him

>Sam’s ears twitch and his legs flutter

>He hums a soft melody, maybe even forgetting that he’s humming

>As if everything for him had gone quiet

>The pencil in his right paw flutters and feathers like a hummingbird – one whose cage is the margins of his science worksheet, whose bars are question marks and exclamations

>Watching Sam scribble with such idle deftness is downright hypnotic

>You watch as old-growth forests materialize from the great white oblivion

>Grasses cluster around trunks of textured maple, aspen, and pine

>His wrist motions are unnatural, his stillness of body is monk-like, and surreal

>Sam draws from white oblivion verdant scenes of the leaves of fall, blossoming around simple questions of love and and life like ruthless vines

>You choke up on a beautiful thought, and fight back tears

>You’ll keep that to yourself

>Until the end

>Sam doesn’t notice it, but you do

>You’re more prey than he is at this point

>Every eye in the classroom – sharp and judgmental – falls on you and the rabbit

>Bah!

>To hell with them, you think

>All that matters is that you can help Sam out of a jam now

>Mister Bolm carries on with the momentum of a dying a horse

>“As I said earlier, humans do not posses heat cycles like most mammals – hence why human females do not need to use estrus blockers. I want to remind MANY of you, this is not an excuse to forego birth control or contraceptives,” he says, not so much a joke but a dire warning from the future

>“And our noses aren’t as sensitive as a herbivore’s, so we don’t need scent masks either,” he continues, “but that’s not to say we humans have little in the way of natural talents. Someone, take a guess at a natural ability of human kind?”

>Mister Bolm turns in excitement to face the class, and he might as well have turned to find a brick wall of interest staring back at him

>A sea of placid, bored, potentially hexed faces stares back at him

>The only ones who look vaguely alive are you and Sam, and Sam is too busy doodling

>Someone sneezes with both barrels and has to leave the room with a bloody nose

>Crickets chirp and saw

>What little color and cheer your teacher had left drains from his face

>He coughs, tugs at his collar, and carries on as admirably as one can after being completely embarrassed by high schoolers

>“A-Anyway, you might think the answer to that question is humanity’s endurance and durability. We’re endurance hunters by nature, and we’ve the right balance of muscle to bone density to support a mobile, crafty hunter. I don’t fault you for thinking that. But our best trait as human beings is…”

>His eyes wander to the far right corner of the classroom

>By the window, he spies a little bunny boy in a green hoodie

>Moppish brown hair, long ears

>Doodling…

>…with you by his side

>His… friend?

>You’re the first person to sit next to Sam all year

>Mister Bolm’s lips warm with a smile

“…cooperation,” he says with a satisfied hum, “researchers across all species have long-noted mankind’s ability to organize and cooperate among all groups of people, even when circumstances seek to prevent it. That’s not to say other groups can’t be diplomatic – it takes two to tango, of course.”

>His expression goes soft as he trains his focus on you and Sam

>He looks like an old man watching a projection of his young life on the wall behind the two of you, he himself reeling back in years until he’s eighteen, full of life and choice

>He’s sitting right where you are, Anonymous

>Something in mister Bolm’s eyes twinkles

>Maybe it’s the rain?

>“In my years as an educator, and as a man once married to the love of my life – it doesn’t take a lot to get people to work together.”

>He speaks to nobody and everybody at the same time

>His hands find the pockets of his slacks, and he leans against the whiteboard

>“A common goal. A cause. Something that matters.”

>He smiles at you and Sam

>And he looks like he’s about to cry, but not pained tears

>“A wish. A belief in something.”

>Sam’s hands go still

>The pencil is loose in his paw

>For maybe the first time all year, Sam points his attention towards the teacher.

>Mister Bolm smiles warmly back at you and the rabbit, like you two are all the proof he needs

>“A great love of someone. That’s all it takes.”

>Definitely the rain

>Sam’s pencil clatters to the floor and cracks louder than gunshot in the silence

>The noise breaks his meditation on the lesson mister Bolm is trying to impart

>Sam hurtles upwards at the sound, and ends up falling out of his seat

>“Moving along then, relationships! Fun stuff, right?” Mister Bolm says, clearing his throat

>The attention shifts from you helping Sam into his desk and back onto the teacher, perhaps on purpose

>“Now, let’s make this quick and dirty: most species mate for life. No species eats their young. Interspecies relationships…”

>You can’t help but notice how focused Sam looks

>He’s never been more engaged in his life apparently, as he practically leans across his desk, eyes bulging, enraptured

>“…are uncommon, but possible! They will RARELY yield offspring. Hybrids are not possible – the babies are either one species or another. We don’t know how this is possible, but science is working on uncovering the truth behind this miracle. Yeah science!”

>Mister Bolm pumps his fist skyward

>More crickets

>You’ve only ever given a passing thought to interspecies romance, honestly

>Like in the hall, when you saw that stacked sow?

>It’s not something you’re OPPOSED to, necessarily

>After all, you’ve fought off mysterious gay urges for Sam this entire week

>Shouldn’t that count for something?

>You tail Sam around school and sneak into his classes

>If you’re caught? You wait outside

>You don’t care how creepy it looks or how awkward the judgmental looks from the other students make you feel

>You have to keep him safe. Now more so than ever

>Vanessa and her merry bunch of morons want Sam to complete the ritual after he fucked it up the first time with his blood

>You need him – and the Book of Rite – to stop it

>(Also, you’d like to keep him safe, but that’s besides the point)

>Your head swivels as you scan the halls

>Hell, you even do quick sweeps of each classroom before Sam enters

>The only thing you notice is the incredible hostility between each of the school’s various cliques and social groups

>Tension so thick you’re pretty sure it’s pre-diabetic

>Throughout the day, teachers and security staff rush around the halls like firefighters, extinguishing brawls and hauling mammals off to the principal’s office

>You’ve seen humans and anthros alike pulled into the admin office covered in blood and bruises

>There’s always been a sort of tension between the various groups here, but never like this

>It’s never resulted in hospitalizations

>The tension before was a kind of soft animosity, traded only in harsh looks and rumors – seldom in fists and claws

>You scratch as the back of your neck as you stare down the clock mounted in the hallway outside of Sam’s last class: history

>Hurry up

>Hurry up!

>When the doors click open, and the bell finally rings, the floodgates let out a rushing stream of kids

>The hallways become a fast-flowing river of multi-colored bodies, all of different shapes and sizes and species

>You imagine Sam getting lost in the hormonal tempest, his big goofy ear standing up like a shark fin narrowly breaching the surface of the open ocean

>You’re thinking so hard about all of this that you don’t even notice when the little rabbit appears next to you, clutching a handful of notebook paper

>“Hey Anon, you w-w-wanna see my draw-”

>Your heart jumps up in your chest, and, rather shamefully, you gasp

>Which causes Sam to gasp

>Very manly, Anon

>Guess a bit Sam is rubbing off on you

>You groan at the idea of becoming an anxious, stuttering mess

>You look down and see the tiny rabbit, swimming in his over-sized hoodie, clutching a handful of paper, looking somewhat shocked

>“S-Sorry,” he manages

>He sounds sad

>And yet… you can see a girlish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth from behind his bangs

>Oh, so he thought it was cute and funny that he scared you?

>You should do something back to him…

>…or just let him enjoy his moment

>It’s really nice to see him smile…

>…and to see him confident enough to prank you

>“I didn’t m-mean to scare you. I ju-just wanted to show y-you my drawings,” he says, anxiously twisting in place

“Damn, Sam. More drawings? Isn’t that what you did last class, too?”

>This kid is an artistic machine

>He probably does the minimum amount of classwork to maintain his GPA and keep his job and spends the rest of his time drawing

>You wonder what he’s going to do after he graduates high school…

>…and on that note, what about you?

>You shake your head, drawing a curious look from Thumper

>Maybe he thinks you’re mocking the way his ears flop around

>Not the time to have this conversation with yourself, Anonymous

“I do want to see your drawings,” you say with a sigh and a smile

>The little bunny’s expression lights up, like you just told him it was Christmas Eve

“But not right now, okay? You can show me in a bit. We’re going out,” you say, eyeing the students leaving class for signs of danger

>“W-We’re what?” Sam squeaks

“Not like that, dumb ass. I meant we’re leaving this class and going someplace else. Shit, Sam, you knew exactly what I meant. Don’t do that to me.”

>“I-I don’t know what I d-did though!” The bunny squeaks

>You clap your hand on his shoulders and bend yourself down to his level minuscule

“Sam?”

>You bring your face uncomfortably close to his

>Thumper tries to flinch away from you, but you manage to root him in place by his slender, malnourished shoulders

>“Don’t not-not talk back to me,” you say, a dumb smile on your face

>Sam freezes, like you threw a wrench into the tiny, fast-moving gears of his mind

>“W-What?”

“Good! Now that we’ve got that settled, c’mon bro. We’re going to meet the rest of the gang.”

>And you take him by the hand

>“W-Where?” Sam says, trying to keep pace behind you

“You’re gonna love it, it’s very… bohemian,” you say, not moving too fast

>Because you don’t want to lose him

>Your car is right where you left it

>Or, more appropriately, it’s where Mike left it

>Somehow parked in three spots

>And you know it’s yours by how shitty the make and model are

>Paint peels in thick curls from the doors

>The windows are spider-webbed with cracks

>One of the door panels is unfurnished

>A coat of rust glazes the whole thing in a light orange

>Oh, and the massive indent on the front hood where Sam’s father stomped on your car during the rescue?

>It sticks out like a moldy, rusted, sore thumb

>The crisp air clings to your skin, and the heavy skies that hang overhead like slabs of wet concrete herald storms

>It’s surprising that thunder isn’t rolling like a freight train overhead

>Didn’t the forecast call for rain?

>You look around the parking lot as you climb into the driver’s seat

>It’s nearly-empty

>You don’t know whether to be grateful or furious that Mike left the car unlocked and the keys in the ignition

>You submerge those thoughts in a bath of stomach acid as you survey the lot, feeling hunger gnawing at you

>Cars drift out of the student lot and onto the main road

>Anthros and humans pour down the sidewalk like lines of marching soldiers

>Sam, unrestrained by his unworn seat belt, presses his nose up against the dirty window glass

>“C-Colors…”

>His voice is a soft wisp

>Though Ranchview High is set upon a hill, foliage gusts up from the surrounding trees, peppering cars and students in the lot

“I bet you could draw this whole scene,” you remark

>“I’m n-not very good a-at anything other than f-f-figures,” Sam sulks, unable to pry his face away from the window glass

>You smile

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Sam. We’ll get you some crayons and a good piece of construction paper and you’ll be set,” you snicker

>The bunny wrinkles his nose at you as a smile tugs at the corners of his lips

>Guess your joke sailed right over his head

>Ah well

>Your car hums to life, sipping on a meager stock of gasoline

>The rustbucket is a thirsty girl, so you’ll have to hit a gas station at some point

>You’re about to take to the main road and head to the white oak door church when Sam gasps

>You turn your head to the passenger seat

>Sam stares out the passenger widow, frozen

>Shivering with-

>-no, those are fear tremors

“Shit, are you okay, dude? Did you forget something inside?”

>“T-That car,” Sam pokes the cold glass with his little finger, “I-It looks exactly like my d-d-d-dad’s.”

>You unbuckle your seatbelt and lean over his shoulder as Sam fogs the glass with his breath

>All you can see is a few students wandering the lot, and a couple cars still lingering

>One of them is a shitty, rusted sedan (like yours) with dark windows

>Its headlights burn against the muted gray light of the afternoon, but it doesn’t look like there’s anyone inside the car

“Are you sure? This is a student lot, you know. There’s about a million shitty looking cars around here.”

>Which was only partially true

>A lot of the suburban kids had nice, new cars that gleamed like polished coins

>And though you were suburban, your parents provided you with a real piece of shit that has nearly killed you twice…

>…not that you’re complaining

>A free car is a free car, right?

>The rabbit shakes his head

>“M-Maybe. I-I don’t know,” he swings his head to face you, “c-can we leave?”

>Something about the car is making him nervous

>Well, it’s starting to make you nervous too

>Retard, what if Sam’s dad is checking the school for his son? He must know Sam works after classes

“Good point. Off to the old white oak door church.”

>You quietly press on the gas and guide your car down the hill, out towards the main road

>Sam clutches his drawings close to his chest

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