Something That Matters: Part Four

Vanessa on Discord by Gamesfan

>“Oh. Dude. Let me get my sword,” Alex says, throwing the driver-side door shut, making for the trunk. “None of you go in Anon’s house until I clear the area first.”

>Your jaw hit the sidewalk some time ago, and you haven’t thought to reel it in yet

>“Fuck that, I’m going in,” Mike says, striding past you, walking up to your front door – or what remains of it

>Your front door, once the barrier between your family and cold outside world, appears folded in half

>Yes, folded in half, like cardboard, except with wood splinters jutting out at the crease

>The hinges appear attached near the bottom, but are completely shattered near the top

>As if your door took a heavy blow from a police battering ram

>Mike pauses a moment and sneaks a look over the broken frame, peering into your dark home

>“Yo, Jenna, c’mere a minute,” Mike calls, voice echoing into your kitchen

>“Why?” Jenna says in hesitation, off-gassing the fear in her voice by tucking her tail between her legs. “I don’t think it’s safe to be here. Something doesn’t feel right.”

>“Please?” Mike says, with just a touch of faux-supplication. “I don’t have the sensory equipment you do. I can hear like, heartbeats and veins pumping, all of that fruity shit. But I can’t smell scent trails.”

>Alex – having retrieved his katana from the trunk – stacks up behind Mike at the half-bent door, as if preparing to breach a suburbanite drug lab

>Jenna refuses, and urges Mike and Alex to step away from the door again

>You return to the present moment when you see Sam doing something you don’t expect:

>Scenting the wind, like Jenna does from time to time

>Sam then emerges from a chrysalis of self-loathing, his small body guided by an invisible thread, which terminates at your front door

>He starts to march, obeying the invisible commands of his olfactory senses

>The rabbit ends up on your crooked door mat, peering into the yawning black of your home

>His eyes swell as they absorb the darkness, mapping an unseen landscape

>Sam’s legs start to knock together

“Sam?” You say, concern driving you forward, un-gluing you from the sidewalk. “Are you alright?”

>Mike takes another experimental peek inside before retracting his head back

>“I can’t see or hear shit in there. C’mon, bro, what’s on your nose?” He says to Sam

>Sam shakes his head with violence, ears flopping in a tight arc

>He gives a sharp, gusty exhale of nervous energy from his chest

>“I-It’s my dad’s s-scent!” Sam says, at last, as if fighting the belief itself

>The glistening SHWING of an eighteen-year-old human unsheathing a katana – in all likelihood purchased at the mall by its previous owner – rings like clean silver into the October afternoon

“It’s an o-old scent,” Sam says, nose wrinkling again. “H-He was h-here, but he’s already g-gone.”

“What?” You say in total shock. “You mean… he just broke in and left?”

>The sense of security you once held for your home vanishes on the spot, gone in a puff, scattering like seeds into the wind

>Like one of those bulbs people hang on Christmas trees – as delicate as glass; shattered in an instant

>A violent, alcoholic mammal smashed down your front door – and who knows what the fuck else inside – and you missed him by maybe an hour?

>“Anon!” Mike’s voice calls from inside the home. “You better get in here and look at this!”

>You hope that’s not your only lucky break today

>That was your one lucky break

>Your home appears to have taken the brunt force of a category five hurricane

>Tables sit, flipped on their sides or smashed in like a wrestler dove from the tight ropes onto your grandmother’s coffee table

>Chairs are scattered about, their backs snapped, legs decapitated into stumps and splinters

>The couch in the living room looks like someone slit it open with a knife and tore into its guts

>Sam draws your focus to the TV mounted on the wall

>It appears that Sam’s dad has taken the liberty of driving the hatchet your dad keeps in the garage through the meat of the television, embedding the broad, flat edge into the glass panel

>Now the axe hangs, still attached to TV like some dire warning out of a horror film

>Cynically, you think all you need is the spooky writing on the wall-

>Wait

>That already happened

>Jenna confirms the kitchen is a war zone

>Mike verifies the basement is trashed – and a lot of the beer is gone

>Sam follows you from room to room like a lost little kid, throwing nervous glances into every dark corner of your home…

>…waiting for some phantom shape to step out from a shadow and wring his neck

>But all Sam finds is a trail of rabbit fur, wandering drunkenly from room to room, on a war path

>An old scent trail, fading into the sunset

>The ghost of his dad’s presence – that haunting miasma of cigarette smoke and engine oil – is already on its way out

>You, Sam, and Alex pause at your bedroom door

>Strange

>This is the only door in a hallway full of violated family portraits that Sam’s dad left shut

>You tap on the rabbit’s shoulder

“Any change in the scent trail?”

>Sam nods affirmation, drawing a fuzzy finger towards your bedroom

>“T-This room,” he says, “it smells more l-like…” he trails off, fighting a shy blush. “…Anonymous…?”

>Sam nervously squats down on his haunches and sniffs at the air bleeding through a gap at the bottom of your door

>You can hear Alex snickering behind you, his katana still drawn

>“C-Clear,” Sam says in a hush

>You exhale a tired breath as you throw open your door and hit the lights

>You step in to take a look inside and-

>Your knees automatically hit the floor

>A pained wail echoes from your body

>You raise your arms to God, as if to ask, ‘how you could you allow such evil to happen?’

>Jenna and Mike rush and appear at your bedroom door, summoned by your horrific scream

>Sam and Jenna cover their ears on instinct

>Mike stares into your bedroom, speechless, eyes wide

>But Alex…

>…he puts a hand on your shoulder…

>…gives a gentle, affirming squeeze

>“I’m… I’m so sorry for your loss…” Alex says

>You feel like a father having to identify your own child’s body after a horrific accident

>Your gaming PC is in ruins

>Glass case? Shattered into crystaline bits

>Ram sticks? Ripped from their sockets and snapped like twigs

>CPU? The wafer is folded neatly on your desk, like a silicon taco

>You, Anonymous, crawl, sobbing, to the mangled body of your graphics card, discarded across your bed

>You cradle what’s left of the PCB against your cheeks

>And you weep

>For now you must start down one of two paths:

>Buy a new graphics card

>Or go to college

>Because they cost about the same

>You don’t hear Sam wander into your room – slinking by Mike and Jenna, drawn in by the overpowering scent of decaying laundry and body heat

>Out of curiosity, he plucks a folded piece of paper off your pillow as you mourn

>He unfolds it and-

>-tries to restrain a frightened squeak with a palm across his mouth

>Sam’s frightened gasp rips you from the act of mourning

>The gaming PC can be replaced, right?

“Sam?” You say, snatching the letter from his trembling paw

>You examine the bleached sheet of printer paper

>There are five words pressed into the sheet, written with such force and anger that the letters themselves look like they’re bleeding black ink

>Like the letters themselves had been stabbed

>You read aloud the five words in a cold, even tone

“I know where you sleep,” you read

>Below the letters, there are five very simple crosses…

>…each one scratched into the paper with hate

>“That’s my d-dad’s handwriting,” Sam says, leaning against your bed

>The rabbit looks so faint, and yet so flush with color

>How?

>Mike snatches the paper out of your hand and marches it over to Jenna

>“What’s with the t’s?” He says, jamming a pale finger at the crosses

>Jenna sighs

>“Mike, those are crosses – like what you’d put as a grave marker in a cemetery? It means he wants to kill us.”

>“Or,” Alex says, rising from your computer chair, “he knows we’re set up at the white oak door church, and the crosses are part of the message.”

>“Or both,” Mike says, nodding in agreement

>“Definitely both,” Alex nods

>The assurance that his father knows where Sam’s safe house is, is enough for Sam to crank on his ears, tilt open his mouth, and yell

>“C-Can we p-p-please g-grab out stuff and g-go!?”

>The commotion stops in an instant

>All eyes fall on the struggling little rabbit – not as judgment, but more like scientific curiosity

>Sam then shrinks back into his hoodie, and apologizes for yelling

“You have a point,” you say. “My house isn’t safe – at least in the long-term. That means we can’t stay here. So take what you need; if that’s extra clothes, money, sleeping bags, food, alcohol – whatever, just take it. Then, we all need to run through the showers. I have at least three in this house we can use.”

>“Agreed,” Mike says, all-too-casually

>Sam looks like he just stepped in a bear trap

>“W-Why?” He stammers. “I d-don’t want to shower a-at your h-house. What if-”

>You silence him with a shushed finger against his lips

“Three Reasons. One: you reek, bro. Seriously, I’d do your laundry if we had time. Anyway, two: Jenna and I think that if we all bathe, we can get rid of any scents used to track us,” you say proudly

>You get real close to Sam and swing an arm around his shoulder, you know, playfully

>Your shoulders knock together, Sam Squeaks

“And three: you’re dad’s not going to come back. Vanessa’s trap probably delayed our arrival just enough for him to think we’re somewhere else all together. He’s done his damage, and now he’s gone.”

>Blushing like hell, Sam scans around your room – some kind of minefield of dirty laundry, shattered glass, and PC components

“I’ve never s-showered a-a-at a g-guys house,” he says to himself quietly, as if unsure of the act all together

>Oh god damnit

>He’s making it…

>…weird

>“You all have five seconds to vacate the room before I’m naked,” Mike says plainly, and suddenly

>Jenna’s head snaps towards Mike at light speed

>Mike was probably getting undressed long before he warned you all

>The vixen’s green eyes swell with a pale slab of cream cheese that is the back of Mike Sapone, topless, fighting to get out of a pair of jeans like he’s fighting off a python

>“W-W-Woah…” you hear Sam huff, his pupils dilating with Mike

>In a somewhat jealous fit, you shield his delicate little eyes from the sight of Mike’s stocky, shirtless body

>Nobody deserves to see that

>Then, as if breaking through a virginal trance, Jenna shakes her head

>A snarl rattles out of her, and she bares her fangs as she rakes Mike across the back with her claws

>“God damnit, at least go to the bathroom to take your clothes off, Mike!” She seethes

>Mike yelps, lurching forward from the painful swipe

>“Ow, what the fuck! I gave you guys a warning!” Mike exclaims, wheezing from the strike. “Fucking snapjaw! I told you to watch the claws!”

>You gasp

>Sam gasps

>Alex gasps

>Jenna lets a bloody, feral growl simmer within her chest, her fangs chattering with blood lust

>“What did you just say?” The vixen demands, voice deepening an octave

>“I-” Mike says as he struggles to get his shirt back on. “I’m sorry it- it just kind of slipped out, and-”

>Jenna gives Mike a violent shove out the door, his pants still halfway up his thighs

>The vampire nearly goes flat on his face

>“Go shower, Sapone. NOW. Or, next infraction? I bite your cock off,” the fox growls

>Mike hobbles through the door, legs spread wide to keep his pants still halfway on his body

>“Alright, alright! I’m going, fuck! Watch the claws next time!” He shouts, his voice disappearing in your parent%apos;s bedroom

>The subsequent hiss of hot water sloughing the pipes in the walls fills your home

>You lead Sam to your own shower – stopping by the linen closet to find some remarkably undisturbed towels.

>If Sam could pale from circumstance right now, he would

>But fever burns bright and red on his young face, and he looks woozy

>He shudders out a refusal as you open the bathroom door

>“I s-shouldn’t-” he huffs through a rising fever, perhaps delirious. “-I shouldn’t b-bathe with a g-guy…”

>Wew lad

>Time to pull the gay train into station for some repairs and adjustments

“Slow down there, pal. You and I are taking turns showering, and you’re going first. No offense but you fucking reek right now, dude.”

>You spin the faucet to a lukewarm temperature, and demonstrate how to turn the water off

“You can use those, too. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash,” you say, pointing to some blue and black bottles that line the shower floor

“Oh, and take this before you get in,” you say as you drop two little pain pills in Sam’s paws. “And don’t forget, alright? You’ve felt like you’re melting on the inside since this morning. Those pills will make the fever go down.”

>“F-Fever?” Sam parrots, his eyes widening in sudden realization, which you ignore

“Just take the pills, Sam,” you say, sighing with impatience. “I’m going to keep watch while you shower. Don’t clog my drain with fur, got it?”

>The bunny nods in earnest, his greasy bangs falling across his golden eyes

>You shut the door on him as the shower hisses to life

>And then…

>…you slide backwards against the bathroom door with a tremendous groan

“Fuck,” you mutter, stretching the syllables into a dissatisfied plea to nobody. “I really wanted to spend the rest of the week here. There’s beds and bathrooms, and a fucking FRIDGE.”

>You sigh in defeat

“And now Sam’s dad knows where I live, which is… great.”

>To find your address, Sam’s dad probably looked up people with the name ‘Anonymous’ in a phone book

>Or, he’s started following your car – he probably knows its make or model, seeing as how you ran him over with it

>Plus, Sam is awfully sketched out when he’s riding with you

>He always checks behind him, as if he’s being followed

>Ultimately, you decide, it doesn’t matter

>You need to assume that if Sam’s dad – or the goths – know where your house is, they’ve also located Jenna, Mike, and Alex’s homes

>Which means no beds

>No internet

>No cold food like milk, or eggs

>No showering

>No bathroom

>Just more nights camping out at Fort Sapo- fuck

>‘Watership Down’

“Hurry up, bunny,” you grumble, listening for the sounds of a mammal stepping into the shower

>You are Samantha ‘Sam’ Garlen

>Right now your body feels like it’s going up in flames

>Why?

>Because you’re in Anonymous’ bathroom, supposedly taking a shower?

>Is that REALLY why?

>Every breath you take only serves to coat your lungs in Anon’s scent

>Your insides feel hot and confused, like a tangle of balloons haphazardly knotted together, about to burst

“T-This is b-bad,” you whisper to yourself, “I-It s-s-smells so…”

>…much like him?

>The room spins, so you grip the bathroom counter for dear life

>The room is awash in sharp, masculine odor – sweat and sandalwood, spices and something floral

>It’s distinctly human, too – you know the smell

>Your affinity for humans is a sad addiction of yours you’re still unwilling to admit to

>Or, maybe, it’s just Anonymous you’re addicted to?

>Ever since you met Anon, you’ve allowed your body and mind to obey the subtle, magnetic pull of Anon’s kindness, honesty, and ‘friendship’

>If you could call what you had a ‘friendship’ all those years ago

>You run your paws through the tangled locks of your greasy hair as your mind wanders

>Anon merely tolerated your existence back then

>To you, that was enough

>He didn’t run, didn’t call you names

>Just…

>…tolerated you

>But now…

>…Anon’s voice is gentle and slow…

>…his words are kind…

>…he protects you…

>…he treats you with respect…

>…he even holds your hand sometimes…

>You realize you’ve been staring at your scarlet reflection for like a minute, right?

“I s-s-s-should shower,” you say to yourself in a shocked huff, tearing yourself away from the reflective glass

>Maybe a cold shower will help douse the flames of your…

>…uh…‘fever’

>You swiftly gulp down the pills Anon left for you, pretending that they’re going to do anything to improve your condition

>You know they’re not

>Because you know this overwhelming feeling – Jenna probably knows it, too

>You’re going into heat

>You want to throw your head off the sink for your body’s ineptitude at a time like this

“T-T-This isn’t what w-w-we need r-r-right now…” you say, chest stuttering in self-directed anger

>Christ, why are you such a burden to everyone?

>There’s a series of light knocks against the door

>“Yo, dude, are you going to shower or not? I still have to go after you,” Anon says from behind the door, his voice tired and maybe a touch defeated

>See? Even he’s sick of your bullshit

“Y-Yes! S-Sorry!” You stammer, quickly shucking your ratty hoodie and whipping it onto the sink

>“Alright, cool,” Anon says in a flat tone, his voice partially muffled by door. “Look – I don’t know how it works with anthros and showering, but try not to use up all my conditioner, please.”

“I-I won’t, I p-promise,” you say, tugging on the waistband of your pants

>You hesitate, eyes flicking to the closed door

>Quietly, you shuffle across the tile floors and test the lock

>The lock holds

>Unlike back home

>At last, you lose the pants

>And there you stand in the mirror, wearing a stained white undershirt, clad in an old pair of thin boxers, far too small for your hips

>Your meager breasts stand like little bumps against the thin, white fabric of your undershirt

>With a little hesitation, you delicately palm them, wondering why you even have sexual characteristics in the first place

>You know that you’re a woman – that was never in doubt for you

>You’re just… not a good woman, if that makes sense?

>You could never make Anon- err, you mean, any other man, happy

>So why are you so self-consciousness about your body?

>Because your most feminine features are your hips and thighs?

>Because you’re so underfed, your slender, delicate frame perched atop your prominent haunches makes you look ridiculous?

>Built like a bowling pin?

>Even as emaciated as you are, your lower body is nature-built for sprinting and kicking

>Put all of this into one cowardly rabbit’s body, and your like a badly cobbled-together art project

>You pull your undershirt up, just a a little bit, hesitating at in the middle

>Here goes the worst part of showering

>In one quick motion, like ripping off a bandage, you jerk your shirt up, tugging it over your long ears

>And when your eyes open again, there you stand:

>A brown Mini-Rex rabbit, wearing nothing but an old pair of her brother’s boxers, blushing like she’s dying of scarlet fever

>You hurry away from your reflection and into the shower, hoping the hot water will help you feel less… stimulated

>You ditch the boxers

>You build a curtain of steam in the small bathroom, taking far longer than you probably should have rinsing yourself

>This is the first time in a long time that you’ve felt safe enough to actually properly bathe

>And that…

>…that’s a feeling that can’t be bought

>Finished, you swipe a layer of steam off the mirror with your paws

>Your fur smells like body wash

>With your freshly scrubbed hair, shampooed, conditioned, and laying in ropes across your face, you can’t help but feel…

>…what’s the right word?

>Cute?

>Your eyes widen with the possibility

>What about pretty? Are you, Samantha, pretty?

>…

>Oh wow, you think you look pretty, actually

>No, Sam, that’s the heat talking to you

>Nobody has ever seen you as ‘pretty’ before

>In fact, you look like a boy. Mammals don’t usually call boys ‘pretty’

>You’re just a useless coward

>Still…

>You lean closer and examine your damp facial fur up close, scanning across your shoulders and neck

>With unsure eyes, you lightly twist your floppy ears, hanging down from your skull like two useless snakes

>You let a wandering finger trace their pink insides before smoothing the fur out across your face

>Your nose wrinkles at your own gentle ministrations

>Finally, you run another hand through your hair, pushing it back into a loose shape

>It’ll dry very soon

>Now it’s time for the unpleasant part of being naked

>You drop your slender, rounded shoulders and summon a misty breath from the small well of your courage

>Your eyes flutter shut as you face the mirror

>You let out a nervous breath…

>…and allow the towel around your chest to fall into a damp pile

“I-I did it?” You say, in disbelief at your own meager act of courage

>You are indeed totally naked

>Outside of this bathroom, you haven’t been totally naked in a very long time

>It’s never been safe to do so

>The first thing you notice on your body are the scars and welts that never healed – a map of abuse written across your skin, contained by your visible neck line

>It’s like a history book of abuse

>A belt that stopped your fur from growing in across your thighs

>Bruises from a still-recent beating across the lower chest and arms

>Scars like the trenches of world war one running across your shoulders

>And that perfect circle of a burn wound, from when dad punished you for trying to run away

>It’s all there in nauseating familiarity, etched onto your skin by hands that were meant to hold you, not hurt

>Sighing, you try and focus on your task

>With appraising eyes and wandering fingers, you scan over your damp body, its fur matted down with your own warmth and unscrubbed shower water

>Dotting your brown chest are two budding, pink nipples, fixed in place to your palmable breasts

>Your ribcage is visible beneath that

>Your midsection is thin, borderline emaciated

>You poke at a rib and wince in pain

>Your bones feel hollow; fragile, even

>Like that of a bird

>You travel down further, eyes moving to where your waist pinches in…

>…and then bows out again with feminine exaggeration

>Your haunches – which meld into your prominent thighs – are powerful, even for how weak you are

>And…

>…between your powerful legs

>You run a finger down your crotch and shiver from the heat

>…is the pink slit of your sex

>You’ve never known how to feel about your own ‘urges’ and desires as a woman

>Girls aren’t tough, is what you told yourself – and you can’t be a girl, at least to others

>So you’ve always suppressed your apparent need

>Jacob wanted you to be brave

>And dad…

>…dad wanted you to replace the son-

>-never mind

>You couldn’t be either of those things

>Not brave

>Not a boy

>No matter how hard you will yourself into these roles, you just can’t move the needle

>All you can do is pretend, like some kind of freak

>Pretend for dad, so he doesn’t beat the hell out of you in grief

>And…

>…pretend in Jacob’s memory, so you can pretend to be tough

>You’ve lied about who you are for so long that you’re a stranger to your own feminine side

>But it’s there – more so than ever – lurking beneath dark skin

>None of this make you feel brave

>In fact, it makes you feel weaker than ever

>So you pretend t be someone you aren’t

>So you can pretend that you’re strong

>Jacob would have wanted this… right?

>Still, there is a piece of you that remains core to your identity…

>You do a quick turn in the mirror

>Your puffy tail flairs out, and you catch a rare glimpse of your naturally padded buttocks

>One-part genetic gift, and one-part muscle gained from running away from your problems your whole life

>A strange thought echoes in your mind, which you echo

“Does A-Anon like tits or ass b-better?”

>Oh God, did you really just ask that?

>You flash back to the cheerleader in the halls who caught Anon’s attention

>Do you think you can compete with natural sex appeal?

>Deep in your heart, you observe a small flutter of hope exists in an otherwise barren void

>Nobody finds you attractive, Sam

>Especially not Anon – he’s being nice to you, since you’re friends now

>Yeah…

>…you’re…

>…friends, haha…

>…

>YOU DON’T HAVE FEELINGS FOR HIM

>NO

>Even though your heart feels like it’s trying to escape your ribcage when he’s close

>And- And when you’re with him, all the anxious noise in your head goes quiet…

>…like nothing else matters but your moment with him, adrift in a void where there’s no air, no distracting noise, and no light but him

>Anon is handsome, he’s abundantly kind

>He’s brave, too, and you’re really, really glad you’re his…

>…friend

>Gah, who the hell are you kidding?

>Anonymous is your knight in shining armor, Jesus fucking Christ

>Your ‘knight in shining armor’ pounds on the bathroom door, sending you into the ceiling like a stomp-rocket

>“Yo! Samuel L. Garlen. Sammy. Sammethy. Are you done in there or what? Everyone else is waiting, and I still need to shower.”

“J-Just a minute,” you say, scrambling off the floor to your feet

>In a flash, you throw on your clothes, and you check the drain again for fur

>Thankfully, you scooped all of your trimmings out of the drain and into a nearby trashcan

>Wouldn’t want to offend Anon with your biological quirks

>He’s probably not used to having anthros in his house

>You and Jenna need to set positive examples

>You pull open the bathroom door as a cascade of steam follows behind you

>You’re damp, but fully-clothed

>Anon – reading from the red book suspended in his palms – eyes you curiously

>You nervously brush strands of wet hair from your eyes, as if you’re trying to impress him

>“I-I’m done,” you say, trying to smile

>More like, trying to look Anon in his handsome blue eyes, a shade of navy-

>-JESUS

>The heat is really getting to you

>You feel especially self-conscious standing beside Anon, body wet, wearing crusty old clothes

>Anon slaps the red book shut

>“Lookin’ good, Sam. Alright, go grab some things you want from the house while I shower, alright?”

>He then cluelessly slides past your stiff body, vanishing into the bathroom

>“I promise, I’ll be real quick,” he says with a quick, playful wink

>The bathroom door slams with a heavy WHOMF

>The hiss of the shower follows not long after

“G-Grab some t-things I w-want?” You parrot

>You… don’t what to do

>You’ve always waited for someone to tell you what to do, and where to go

>Your eyes work down the hallway of shattered family portraits

>You bounce a little on your heels

>‘some things you want’

>Anon has…

>…comic books in his room, right?

>You find Anon’s room easily

>It’s the one that smells most like a mix of sweat, cologne, and human musk

>Like him

>You open tease open the door, and the same wave of pheromones from before hits you like a wall

>The smell dizzies you, so you steady yourself on the door frame

>Your head swims through the musk, your shaking legs pulled through the door by sheer hormonal urgency

>You spot the unwashed clothes strewn about Anon’s bedroom floor, like land mines of pheromones

>It feels like your brain is all noodles

>In fact, it’s by sheer luck that you wander to Anon’s bookshelves, and find the comics you wanted to look at

>Through an overwhelming haze of hormonal need, you select a copy of The Man of Steel, and try to read

>But a few minutes later, you’re not reading any more

>Instead you sit facing the book shelf, rubbing your thighs together unconsciously, like two sticks trying to start a friction fire

>This heat is getting to you, huh?

>…

>Nah, you can control yourself

>Totally

>You didn’t hear the door open punch open

>You’re too focused on trying to keep your thighs apart

>But you hear an absent-minded tune whistled behind you

>You turn to look, and stifle a gasp

>Anon is wearing nothing but a towel around his waist as he retrieves clothes out of his dresser

>He probably doesn’t even notice you, small, tucked into the corner by the book shelf like you’ve been forgotten

>He goes to undo his towel

>An impulsive, concerned squeak works its way out of you

>Despite the heat which tell you otherwise, you use a copy of The Man of Steel your face

>Anon jumps in surprise

>“Oh FUCK, dude!” He says as he tightens the towel around his hips

>Your eyes creep just a little over the top of your visual barrier

>Anon is standing by a pile of clothes, holding a towel against his body

>Chest bare, hairless…

>…still damp from the shower

>“Why are you hiding in my room?” Anon asks, cheeks blazing red

>You forget to answer

>You’re just…

>…staring

>Potentially drooling

>Anon snaps his fingers twice, and you shift back into focus

>“I need to change into clothes so we can leave. So just like… turn around, or something. Okay?”

>Your response is involuntary

“W-W-WHAT?!” You stammer

>Anon tilts his head, sincerely lost

“I’m going to change into clothes,” he repeats, “in my own room. Do you have a problem with that?”

>You try to back yourself further into your literal and metaphorical corner, but find no purchase

“L-L-Like you’ll be n-naked?” You say, breathless

>A very confusing moment of silence passes

>Anon blinks a few times, and then answers, slowly

>“I’m not wearing anything underneath this towel right now,” he says as he pats his hip. “I don’t know how YOU get dressed, but I need to be naked first. So turn around.”

>You don’t want to turn around

>Every muscle in your body fights Anon’s command

>You’ve never seen a human… naked… before

>You briefly saw Anon without a shirt, but…

>…oh God fucking damnit

>This heat is going to ruin everything for you

>Anon is oblivious as always

>He turns around and starts to collect socks, underwear, pants, and shirts from his dresser

“I-I n-need to…” you stammer, standing up and shielding your eyes with a copy of Superman

>A horny voice in your head tells you to ‘drop’ the comic

>Anon’s back muscles are probably so strong

>And maybe, if he thinks you’re not looking, the towel will slip off

>And he’ll turn around

>And he’ll say to you, ‘Sam, I want to make sweet, gentle love to you.’

>Too bad, retard. He’ll never say that

>HE STILL THINKS THAT YOU’RE A BOY!

>From behind your purity screen, you begin to stammer an excuse to leave the room, but the sound of heavy, damp fabric hitting the carpet makes your heart stop

>Oh no

>Anon… he’s…

>“Hey, turn around for a second,” Anon says, all-too-casually

>…naked

>You oblige, snapping a full one-eighty into the corner until you feel like a little kid sent to time out

>Anon mumbles something, but you can only hear the nervous flutter of your heart, pounding like a hummingbird in your skull

>You drop the comic at your feet, hands and latching onto your ears, tugging painfully

>Stupid

>STUPID

>Why did you think you could waltz into Anon’s room – at the start of your cycle no less – and start rifling through his stuff?

>Stupid

>You’re grateful that Anon doesn’t seem to mind your presence all that much

>You get the sense that he half-expected you to be at his comic books in some way or another

>Years of abuse say otherwise

>Maybe he’s REALLY mad, and he’s just hiding it?

>You know the signs in dad and Jacob, don’t you?

>Anon is totally hiding his anger

>Good going, fucktard

>Add this to the ever-growing list of your transgressions

>Goddamnit, dad was right

>You should apologize to Anon. Maybe you can salvage this?

>So, still clenching your ears, head swelling with catastrophic thoughts of abandonment, you impulsively turn around, already sorry for everything that you are

>“P-Please don’t h-h-hate me-” you start

>But Anonymous stops, bare-chested, clad in a pair of boxers

>He has one leg shoved down the length of a pair of jeans

>Your eyes meet, a familiar sentence in your story

>And in that moment, you swear, the world stopped moving…

>…if not for the frantic echo of your heart

>Anon opens his mouth to speak

>“Hey, Sam?” He says

“Y-Yes…?”

>There’s a brief, almost necessary pause

>“Are you gay?”

>Your eyes devour Anon’s body

“…I g-guess not,” you say, in full honesty

>At that, Anon forces his legs into his pants and cinches them up to his waist

>He still eyes you while he dresses

>“I want you to know that if you are gay, it doesn’t bother me.”

>Your breathing hitches

>You haven’t taken your eyes off the human

>And you’re squeezing your thighs together again like some impatient teenager

“I… I’m not-” you start to answer, unsure of where you’re steering the conversation

>Anon interjects, impatient

>“Sam?” Anon says, a little annoyed. “You’re staring again.”

>Ah, right

>You blink yourself back to reality

>You avert your gaze while the sound of Anon dressing himself occupies the silence

>“Do you feel any better?” Anon asks, this time sounding concerned

>No! There’s a fire burning inside your heart…

>…and between your legs

“W-What do you m-mean?” You press nervously, hoping Anon isn’t starting to catch on

>“From the fever,” he explains. “You were burning up so bad this morning I thought I was going to have to pretend to be your dad and call you out of school.”

>“O-Oh, right,” you say, digging your feet into the carpet

>He still thinks that a ‘fever’ is why you’re so warm

>Imagine if he really knew the truth?

>You clutch at your ears, telling yourself, ‘Anon can never know’

>Nobody can ever know what kind of weak, gutless bitch you really are

>So you lie

“Y-Yeah, I f-f-feel a lot better n-now, h-haha,” you say, forcing laughter. “B-Besides, I don’t t-think I have an-any more s-sick days l-left to u-u-use.”

>Anon’s tone softens

>“I believe it. I bet your dad made you use all your days up, didn’t he?”

>You struggle to keep you eyes off of Anon’s body

>The whole of your being and existence as a woman demands you drink in Anon’s unremarkable body

>Sure, he’s not a jock, so he’s not musclebound

>He’s average build, if not skinny, in fact

>Tall-ish

>Really, just very unassuming

>But to you, he’s your superhero

>Anon is your Man of Steel

>…

>Wow. humans really take awhile to get changed

>“Sam?” Anon asks again, bringing your memory back to the question you left hanging

“Right, r-right, s-sorry. I was… t-thinking about something,” you squeak nervously from the corner. “When dad h-hits me t-too hard s-somewhere h-he doesn’t want people to s-s-see, I have to p-pretend to be sick until i-it heals up.”

>Anon hums in thought

>“What about your mom, or your brother? Why don’t they try to stop your dad?”

>Your eyes fall to the copy of Superman at you feet

>Your courage seems to drain out your toes

>Be brave, damint

>This is what Jacob would have wanted

>Brave!

“M-Mom is… gone. S-S-She left y-years ago; d-dad says it was because of m-me, and my brother J-J-Jacob.”

>There’s a quick, aromatic hiss as Anon applies a shot of cologne to his chest

>The sweet, slightly bitter scent hits your nostrils instantly

>Oh…

>…that smells nice

>“You know, you bring up Jacob a lot around me, but you never really talk about him. Were you two tight?” Anon asks

“W-What?” You chirp, confused

>“Sorry,” Anon says. “I meant, were you two close?”

>At that, your heart catches in your chest

>You want to say that you were close

>But then you’d have to admit that at times, you and Jacob were world’s apart

>Your brother was your protector, your guardian angel

>He tried to give you the gift of self reliance

>He taught you how to hurt the people you love

>How to lie to cops

>How to kick back when someone kicks you first

>But Jake had too much of dad in him

>Too much hate and whiskey hot on his breath

>Too much vitriol

>Too much spite

>To eager to get even, and not make amends

>Plenty of times, Jake was your enemy, too; a threat actor no better than dad

>Jake was too eager to prove to others – and himself – that he wasn’t a coward

>All he wanted, though, was to make you tough

>Jacob was an Indian summer; you should have known he couldn’t stay forever

>Maybe Jacob knew it near the the end, that is

>He kept that understanding somewhere near his aching heart, like a cancer, until you helped it metastasize…

>…on the tracks…

>…when everything’s gone quiet-

>“Sam! Stop!”

>Anon drags your hands away from your ears, his tight grip ringing a pained circle around your gentle wrists

>“You’re going to hurt yourself, dude!” Anon says with a concerned shout

>At last, your eyes crack open

>Huh, your eyes are wet

>You didn’t even realize you were crying

>Anon forces your hands against your sides before you even realize what you were doing

>For the first time in years, pain sings a dull melody into your ears, which reverberates with your pounding heartbeat

>You meet Anon’s gaze, which turns out to be a mistake

>His face is screwed up in a mixture of fear and concern as he kneels on the carpet in front of you

>“You’re scaring me again, Sam. Please don’t do that,” he says, trying to smile

>You’d wipe a pained tear from your eyes, but you can’t move your arms

“S-Sorry,” you squeal, helpless. “I d-d-didn’t mean to. I was thinking o-of my-”

>“Brother?” Anon cuts in

>You nod, slowly

>The human studies your frightened, tear-stained eyes for a moment, as if your brother Jacob is the final missing piece to a puzzle written across your face

>At last, he says, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

>He cuts loose with an exhausted sigh

>“I didn’t realize how painful it is for you to talk about him.”

>He seems mildly disappointed

>You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to hide from Anon’s disappointment

>All you can retrieve is a portrait of your brother, his face worn down, eyes sunken in and tired, smoldering with anger

>He looks like dad

>Then, you hear a train approaching in your skull, and your legs start to tremble

>Jacob died for… this?

>So you could still be a coward?

>How pathetic

>But you aren’t alone this time!

>You have people who care about you!

>The fact that you’re in a friends house right now is proof of that

>Your fear peters out into small tremors pressed into the carpet

>You suck down a gulp of Anon’s cologne and pheromones

>Here it goes, Sam

>It’s time to be brave

“N-No. I need to t-tell you, o-or I’ll live to r-regret it,” you stammer suddenly

>You gather yourself, exhaling a tightness in your chest

“M-M-My brother is d-dead.”

>Anon tightens his grip on your wrists, as if anticipating another panic attack

>A silence that drags on for far too long follows this statement

>And then…

>…Anon’s grip comes loose from your hands

>“Shit,” he says in confusion. “I honestly had no idea. I’m sorry, Sam.”

>You raise your paws to the to light and examine the concerned, scarlet rings encircling your wrists

>Nothing you can’t handle, of course…

>…but how strange it is to be hurt out of concern and love, and not out of hate or malice

“I-It’s… okay. W-We were close, but h-he died f-four years a-ago,” you huff, the memory already bruising. “I need to g-g-get over it.”

>Anon raises a questioning eyebrow

>“Four years ago? That was right before I started high school,” he says in shock. “You too, if I remember.”

“Y-Yeah. T-The s-s-summer before,” you say

>And you wait for another question, but Anon stops talking

>Before you can react, he slips two thin, pale arms around you

>Anon then pulls you in a gentle hug

>You can feel the rigidity of his body pressed against yours

>The sharp angles of a boy; the arc of his body now towering above yours

>The gentle fabric of his shirt, which always smells like laundry soap

>You breathe in, inhaling his clean scent and freshly-scrubbed skin

>As your legs turn into noodles, you dissolve into Anon without another word

>You…

>…you can hear his heartbeat

>A muscle the size of his fist, in perfect articulation of his feelings

>Ringing like clean silver in your ears

>“You know?” Anon starts, his voice deep and scratchy against your senses

>It sends shivers up and down your body, like little veins of electricity

>“For everything you’ve gone through – and all that you still have to go through – I think you’re pretty strong.”

>He tightens his hold on you, squeezing out, a stammered, “I-I d-don’t-”

>“It’s true,” he says, voice low and husky. “You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

>And you want to say, ‘how can you believe that after all the people my cowardice has hurt?’

>Instead, you hum into Anon’s chest, and listen to his beating heart

Oliver Hart

Author of Foxing, The 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