Black and White
WARNING: M/M adult situations and violence, but nothing worse than what real life would throw at you.
Here are the first two of five sections of a short story I'm writing. It deals with the themes of loss, love, and growing up.
I am hoping to find other writers who could copy-edit and edit / advise my work. Hopefully what I've posted here is of good quality.
All comments, advice, and encouragement are welcome.
Black and White
The First Time I cheated on my boyfriend, my mother had been dead for exactly one week. It was with a sleek black wolf, and we'd caught each other's eyes glancing across the bar. I was wracked with grief, and it showed in my slumped form and disheveled clothes as I sat staring at the glass beer mugs stacked neatly on the counter in front of me. He took his time, and finished his drink before he stood up. I saw his distorted reflection as he approached before I heard the scrape of a chair when he sat down to my right. His musk smelled of equal parts arousal and alcohol, distinct even against the swirling backdrop of bar food, beer, and bar patrons. I was nervous, shaking, still raw from loss, and afraid of what I might do.
He scooted closer, and growled, "I like your tail."
I thanked him.
He stared at me intently. "Are you mature?"
I didn't understand what he meant. I still don't. I replied yes.
We walked arm in arm out the rear exit into the chill darkness of October. We turned in to an unlit alley, where he stopped to press me up against a concrete wall. Hard. Pinned facing away from him, I felt his hot breath as he mouthed the scruff of my neck and forced his paws into the top of my pants, dragging my jeans down by the waistband. He was older than me, maybe even twice my age, and his muscles were wiry sinew. I felt his firm warmth against my back, and my tail was gripped tightly by a paw as he pulled upward.
If someone had peered through the rain at the two of us, they wouldn't have seen a fox with a wolf. Instead, there would be shapeless black on black on black, with only the white of my tail tip visible through the gloom. If someone had stood there, filling their muzzle with the scents of the moment, they wouldn't have smelled neediness, or lust, or grief. Instead, there would be the freshness of rain, and nothing more.
As he pushed into me, his jaws closed on my left shoulder. Then, he was biting me. My shoulder exploded in pain, and my vision dazzled white. I twisted under and away from him, elbowing his chest. I panted with dizzying agony, and glared at him, confused. I smelled blood.
"You lying fox-slut," he whispered into my ear, "you're not mature." With that, he cuffed me across the muzzle, spinning me down into a trash-strewn puddle. He kicked me. Once. Twice. Three times. I lost count.
I laid there in the darkness while his footsteps splashed away into the distance. I listened to the softness of rain around me. I want my mother, I thought. My mother is dead. I balled my paws into fists and sobbed into the asphalt. I want my mother. My mother is dead.
His Eyes Widened as he stood frozen in our doorway. The coyote dropped the book he'd been reading and ran to our apartment's front gate, letting me in, then with arms around me hurried us out of the rain to our room. He removed his green t-shirt, using it to towel off my head, and the fabric came away splotched with black.
"You're bleeding," he gasped.
I patted my paw against the side of my head, then saw the dark red that clung to my fingers. Mmm. I must've hit my head.
"Were you jumped? Oh God, your shirt's all torn, where are you hurt?" His ears flattened as his worried eyes flicked over my body, over my tail whose tip was darkened with grime to nearly the same soot black that normally covered the rest of me.
"I can't," I started. I sat down, leaning against the wall next to our shoe cabinet. "I couldn't find my keys."
"Oh god, don't worry about that. Don't worry about that, I'll go find it tomorrow --- you need a towel." He bolted to our bathroom, came back with a stack bunched in his arms, and hung one over my shoulders.
I leaned my head back against the wall, and closed my eyes. "I just want to sleep."
"You can't!" he yelled. "We've got to get you cleaned up, you can't sleep like this. Were you stabbed?"
I shook my head. "You're such a boyscout," I thought as he cut away the remnants of my shirt, patting me dry as he felt through my fur for other wounds.
He stopped at my shoulder. "These are bite marks." A confused look fell over his face. "This wasn't just a mugging, was it?"
"I just want to sleep," I repeated. The dizzying nausea that persisted even through my walk home rose through my stomach. "Just --- I want to sleep"
"Fuckers just think they can kill a fag, and no one would notice?" His hackles rose along with his voice. "God damn it! I told you not to go out, God, you're not even in the right mind, not so soon. You should've let me come with you!"
I shook my head again, and relaxed as the towels drew away the coldness. I don't remember falling asleep right then and there. Neither do I recall how I ended up in bed when I woke at noon the next day, fur already dried and brushed. "You're such a boyscout," I thought. I rolled over and dug my muzzle into the other pillow. It was cold, since he'd left for classes early in the morning, but it still carried his dusty scent. I laid like that for another half hour, breathing deeply and staring at the wall. I want my mother. My mother is dead.