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>Be Sam
>Be eighteen again
>You poke your head out of your bedroom window, heart racing as a train passes by somewhere in the night, probably rattling the old chains hanging in the derelict rail yards as it rockets out-of-state
>You weren’t physically there, back to that day when you were the one on the tracks
>But that doesn’t make your memories of Jacob any less painful
>You…
>You’re so, so, so fucking sorry
>You breath an exhausted sigh as you hop down from the window and start to dig under your bed, pushing aside your brother’s old bat
>The bruises on your shoulder slow you down, so you only just grab the distant paper sack by its frayed tails
>It’s more precious than gold, so you’re extra quiet as you withdraw the bag’s contents
>Comic books
>This whole ritual always makes your body shake
>If dad were to catch you with these…?
>Oh, there’d be hell to pay. Just like last time
>You had welts for weeks, and you never saw those Hurricane Jones limited issues ever again
>These comics are some of the last things you have to remind you of Jacob
>Like a ghost still living in your walls; haunting the halls of your memory and mind
>You sit back against your mattress, your walls covered in looseleaf drawings and sketches, shaking, as the train rips into the night
>You’ve pored over these pages so many times. Countless times
>They’re your crutch, and they help you relax
>Especially after everything that’s happened tonight
>As you flip through the pages, eyes scanning across the fading print, you can’t help but let your mind drift towards happier thoughts
>Like Halloween decorations in front of houses — a rarity in this part of town
>And Anon’s car
>And the way he walked up with you to the house
>You bet he understands why dad treats you like he does
>It’s not like you don’t deserve the punishment and the cruelty
>You’re a useless, slow, timid piece of shit
>Frankly, you don’t think you deserve Anon’s friendship
>Your fingers turn the pages, but you’re no longer reading as Garth Wexton, the Flaming Fist, uppercuts a terrorist
>You can’t help but miss Anon
>In some ways, he reminds you a lot of Jacob — for better or for worse
>You push the comic book away and stare at the drawings on the wall
>Anon is strong and cool, but unlike Jacob, he’s not afraid to be afraid
>Jacob was always talking about being strong, courageous, and standing up for yourself
>And you know you let him down someho-
>The nob to your bedroom starts to turn
>Your eyes split with panic. You dive forward and throw the Garth Wexton comic into the paper sack, which you shove under your bed
>Just as the door creaks open, slowly, like the sound of its joints like torture to your ears
>Dad stands in the door, looking around
>“The hell are you doing on the floor?” he asks, eyes narrowing into slits
>You can smell how drunk he is — the smell of whiskey and old motor oil radiates off him like too much bad cologne
“J-Just, I… I was t-t-trying to do h-homework,” you say, not meeting his gaze
>If dad heard you, he doesn’t give a response. Only glares at you, as if you’d just told him you were a lion
>“Listen. That friend of yours?”
>Everything except your hands goes numb
>You pluck and stroke your ears on instinct
>“What’s his name?” your dad says
>…
>Do you tell him Anon’s real name? You can remember that Anon gave him a fake name, but what was it?
>Brody? Tyler? Joseph?
>“Hey, retard, did you hear me?” your dad steps forward, into your room, dirty boots sinking into the faded pink carpet.
>“I don’t want him around you anymore. So I want his name.”
>Oh God fuck what name did Anon use?
>Shit, better just throw one out there
>“H-His name is Brody,” you squeak, pressing up against the mattress in a defensive posture
>Dad stops walking forward, bracing himself against the door, lightly swaying to the tune of a whiskey stupor
>You notice the belt loose in his other hand
>Sometimes, when he’s drunk, you can make him forget to punish you
>You know that it’s for the best, even so, it doesn’t make you feel good
>So, sometimes you take advantage of the situation
“He’s not my f-friend. S-S-So you won’t s-see him anymore,” you continue. “I d-don’t have any friends.”
>Dad coughs louder than before and braces himself against the door
>“Course you don’t. You never had friends, and you never will,” he says. “But let me tell you something: if you EVER bring any of them back here again, I swear, you’re getting worse than the belt.”
>He steps forward
>You don’t think there’s any avoiding this
>“And you still have so much debt to pay off,” he growls
>You shrink into a tight ball, shivering as his shadow blots out the light from above, the belt loose in his grip
>You try to think of Halloween decorations
>Be the next day
>Be Anon
>“Biological Diversity Week is a state-mandated week in which we, the unfortunate souls who thought teaching was a noble endeavor, get to explain to you the nuances and caveats of a multi-species society. Now, before we begin, do we have ANY questions?” Mr. Bolm says
>Gloria raises her hand
>“…Annnnyyy questions…” Mr. Bolm, your science teacher, asks again, eyes practically begging for someone other than Gloria to speak up
>Gloria makes an impatient grunt and waves her arm
>The science teacher, a human man in his mid fourties, runs a hand through his failing head of hair, and calls on Gloria with a tired finger
>“Yes, Mr. Bolm, will we be discussing sexual immorality and degeneracy as a part of this unit?”
>The class groans, and your head hits the desk
>Why is she always like this? You thought Sam was oblivious to social cues, but Gloria takes it a step further
>“No, Gloria. The syllabus clearly explains that we have set this week aside so we can learn about the biological and physiological differences between all of us in a scientific lens. Ultimately, I hope you all learn to better appreciate one another.”
>Not quite satisfied with that response, Gloria asks if she can lead the class in a prayer before they discuss such ‘disgusting topics’
>Mr. Bolm shakes his head again, and you can see the desperation for a drink already worn on his face
>“Once again, Mrs. Duchene, the public school system does not endorse any sort of religious ceremony. If you’d like, you may quietly pray. Furthermore, this is pure science and biology we’re discussing. There’s nothing to be afraid of here. We’re not touching religious topics.”
>His words fall on deaf ears as Gloria smacks her palms together like a clap of thunder
>“I’ll pray for all of you, especially those among you who have given in to the evils of Satanic temptation…” she says, casting her judgmental gaze around the room, pausing on hard on Vanessa Doermuth
>“…And those who I believe can still be saved,” she says, as her eyes land on you, punctuated with a wink
>You shiver a little, your soul vacating your body as you meet her vile, hormone-drunk gaze
>Vanessa hurls an eraser at Gloria’s head, and you’d laugh if you weren’t so on edge right now
>Sam hasn’t assailed you with his presence yet, which is a usual Monday morning ritual for him
>That you haven’t seen him wandering around aimlessly between classes had you late to Mr. Bolm’s class — and you’re never late
>You spent the whole time and a few minutes after the bell waiting for him to show up
>And what’s worse about losing Sam is that Vanessa Doermuth is in your class
>You cast a sideways glance at her
>A deer of about five feet, eight or nine inches (not counting the horns), she’s slouched in her seat, eyes glazed over, open-mouthed as she gawks at the ceiling tiles
>And though her fur is a lighter color, she’s dyed her hair a raven black, and cropped it short into an intimidating slice that rests easily across her light green eyes
>The very definition of ‘rebellious phase’, you used to think
>But now, as you study her, you can’t help but see her as something else — a cult leader, a witch, a servant — somehow she’s wrapped up in this whole thing, whether or not she knows it
>Without warning, her eyes flick over to you, and you try to stare straight ahead at Mr. Bolm as he endures another barrage of questions from Gloria
>It’s like she knew you were watching her, despite her comatose state
>What the fuck?
>A few seconds later, a ball of wadded up notebook paper ricochets off the side of your head and lands with unusal accuracy on your desk
>You sneak the ball behind your biology textbook and unfold it, expecting an insult or some kind of joke
>‘Saw you looking at me, ‘nonny.’ Got something to say? – Vanessa’
>And of course it’s written in all black and decorated with pentagrams
>I mean, I how cheesy can you get?
>You scribble a reply, hands shaking
>An otter in a cheerleader’s uniform leaves the room, temporarily drawing your attention away from writing
>Her eyes looked… red
>Stoned?
>There was cheerleading practice after school, that much was true, but of the five in your class, four of them have left the room, and none of them have come back
>You know what to write
>Gotta play it smooth, Anon. Don’t let her know you know she’s involved
>Hell, she might not even know she’s involved with some demonic fuckery
>Jussssst talk about the weather, that sort of chit chat
‘What’s with the cheerleaders leaving the room? – Anon’
>You hop the note over to her desk. Another returns in a few seconds
>‘Why don’t you go to the second floor men’s bathroom and find out? Winky face. – Vanessa’
>What
‘What’s that supposed to mean? – Anon.’
>You turn in your chair. Vanessa flashes you a smug, punchable grin
>You’re almost tempted to go to the second-floor bathroom and find out for yourself
>Another note from Vanessa hits your desk
>‘You know who is an even bigger slut than any cheerleader? Gloria. I bet if you put on some priest’s robes she wouldn’t mind being your little choir girl. Winky face – Vanessa XXX’
>Now that’s just disgusting
>You shiver at the idea of Gloria’s body on top of your own
>You don’t mind anthro girls to be honest, but you do mind Gloria Duchene. You mind her a lot
>You scribble a quick note, and throw it at Vanessa—
‘That’s disgusting. I’d never do anything with Gloria. But seriously, what’s going on in the second floor men’s room that you know about? – Anon’
>—Which never makes it to its recipient
>Paper, that fickle bitch, never cooperates with you
>Instead the note sails a wide left, bouncing off Louis’ head
>Louis, in a room full of other gray wolves, would quickly stand out like a tree stands out among saplings
>He’s gawky, tall, body stripped of the typical broad-shouldered muscle and angular features that define his species
>Were he in anyone’s pack, he wouldn’t even qualify as an omega wolf
>His disinterest in reality and other people actually makes him some kind of autistic alpha
>Plus he just outsizes most other wolves, at a cool six-foot eight, so tall he has to slouch wherever he goes
>He uncurls the note, reads it, and then shoots you a disinterested look
>You silently tear another piece of notebook paper out and scrawl down some instructions
>‘Don’t go in the bathroom, Louis. Trust me. Something is up. – Anon’
>You crunch the note up, hurl it, and…
>…it bounces painlessly off Vanessa’s head
>You grit your teeth and swallow a barrage of swears
>She reads the note, holding back her laughter, but just barely
>You try to signal for the two of them to switch notes, but Vanessa pockets Louis’ note with a devil smirk, and Louis raises his spindly, stick-like arm
>You can see trails of red ants crawling through his fur, probably a sign that he yet again brought his ant farm to school despite what happened last time
>You wonder why they never bite him
>Mr. Bolm breathes a sigh of relief when he sees Louis’ hand go up
>“Yes, Louis. You have a question?”
>“Yeah. Can I use the bathroom Mr. Uhhhhh…”
>Mr. Bolm looks like he’s about to collapse
>He wheezes a yes and weakly announces that his name is “Mr. Bolm” as Louis makes his way to the front of the room, hands drowned in his pockets, body curved in a slouch
>Gloria’s hand flies up again as Louis walks past her, his spine bent in a permanent ‘C’
>“Mr. Bolm, do wolves eat their mates?”
>Louis slams the door loud enough to shake the glass windows on the opposite side of the room
>“What? That- No. They don’t,” he replies, rather quickly
>“Do wolves eat their pups? Do wolves have a lot of pups? Do wolves-“
>“No, yes, and whatever you’re about to ask: No.”
>She weakly lowers her hand and looks around the room
>Everyone is as still as lead statues
>“Well come on people, don’t any of you have questions before we get started?”
>Jenna Orthorn raises her hand
>You’ve always liked Jenna
>She’s a red fox, clever as hell (no stereotypes implied) and reads the same books you do
>Jenna may be one of the only anthros you know somewhat well
>Fuck, you even have her phone number from sophomore year when you had to do that English project
>You text on ocassion, and say hi in the halls, but you’ve never really spent time with her outside of class and projects
>Still, going to her house was cool — it was your first time at an anthro’s house
>You didn’t know what to expect, but it mostly looked just like your house, save for a lottttt of loose fur
>There were accommodations for climbing onto walls and furniture, wider drains for fur and hair, and dinner was largely a carnivorous affair, but really…
>You expected a lot different
>Something doesn’t seem right with Jenna right now
>She almost never speaks up in class
>You notice that she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her dress practically vibrating as her legs tap holes into the tile floor
>Mr. Bolm notices too. “Bathroom, Jenna?” he says
>“YES!”
>She bolts from the room, her nimble body maneuvering around larger desks
>Vanessa and Gloria watch Jenna’s red tail bounce through the door, Gloria with fascination, Vanessa with a sick and gleeful smile
>Almost mechanically, that goat’s hands shoot up, and she speaks without ever being called on
>“If foxes mate for life, then why is Adrian Orthorn such a man-slut?” she quips. “He’s been with at least three other vixens since freshman year. I heard he and Jenna-“
>“Gloria,” Mr. Duchene stiffens up, face going red. “If you don’t have any appropriate questions about mating rituals or rites for Canids, then PLEASE be quiet. I reserve the right to remove you from the lesson, you know.”
>Gloria shrinks in her seat with a pained expression
>“Yes sir!” You swear she’d salute if she were told to do so. “My apologies sir.”
>Mr. Bolm sighs
>“It- It’s okay. Now if we could move on, with class almost over-“
“One more question, sir,” Gloria’s voice reaches a military staccato
>He hangs his head even lower, arms slackening like socks full of yogurt
>“What is it? You get one more question, Gloria.”
>“What about humans?” she asks, her hooves clacking anxiously on the floor as she sneaks a glance behind her
>At you
>“Do humans mate for life?”
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