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Red

Once upon a time I believed the world was beautiful and kind. Once upon a time I believed that I could have my cake and eat it too. I thought that--no matter who I was--I'd be dealt a fair hand, and even after the tragedies that my family and I have endured I knew we'd persevere. And we have; we've gotten stronger because of our hardships. I've never lost anything I couldn't get back, and I've never caused anyone harm who didn't deserve it. All in all I'm a lucky guy. I'm blessed.

Yet I'm terrified--I'm fretful of my situation.

The hospital bed is stiff and sickeningly cool; the bars on either side of me are raised, and my sanitized resting place feels more like a coffin than somewhere to recover. I've never liked hospitals. I've spent my fair share of time in them. It makes me sick on my stomach to breathe in the air here. It tastes recycled, and I can practically smell the sickness and contamination wafting invisibly before my eyes. I'm stiff as well--all over--and the wrapping around my knee and leg is too tight again. If I flexed my hamstring it'd probably break the bandages, but I'm not stupid enough to even dream of moving my damaged limb. It hurt well enough before my surgery, so I didn't doubt that it being cut open and poked around in would bring about a new realm of pain.

Six weeks I had to wait to be fixed. Before that, though, I woke up in a hospital bed eerily similar to this one. I was surrounded by family and friends, their faces dark and pinched up in sadness and anger and melancholy. It didn't seem real. Now I know that was because of the drugs pumping through my veins, but the fogginess of the recollection seems appropriate. The furs alongside my bed--Mom, Dad, Asher, and Sasha (beautiful Sasha)--were always so cheerful. I had to have been dreaming because nothing made sense at the time. I hadn't remembered a thing. Getting to the Haunt and walking around I recalled, but then things got too fuzzy and distorted until the memories all but disappeared. In fact, the last thing I can call up about the festivities is getting ice cream with Sasha and Lee and seeing their faces when they bit into the jam in the middle. After that it's as if I just time warped and woke up with needles stuck in my arm. Having everything that happened related to me was just as surreal.

Waking up here a second time--even given the positive situation--doesn't put me at ease. If not for the fact that it was only me, my mother, and my father in the room I could be right where I was after the attack. Now, though, I was hurting for the right reason. The pain was a good pain. Well, the physical pain that is--sort of.

A torn ACL is any football player's worst nightmare. They're the most common injury in any aggressive team sport, but the commonality doesn't make them any less debilitating. Surgery wasn't necessary, but--if I wanted the option to play again sooner--it was the wiser plan of action. The operation also came with the doctor's--as he put it-- "satisfaction guaranteed" seal of approval, so I couldn't say no to that. However, I wish he would have been clearer as to the specifics of my surgery. There was one tidbit of information about it that was grieving me. Honestly, to someone else, the idea would probably come across as stupid, but to me it raised a handful of questions which gave rise to a torturous amount of introspection on my part.

Earlier, when I'd woken up, the doctor came in to check up on me. I was still a little groggy from the anesthesia, but overall I was aware of what was going on.

"Hey there, Rudy," he'd said all smiles with a dash of doctor/patient sympathy and concern. "How're you feeling?" I'd just stared blankly at him. "Nothing? A bit numb I suppose," he'd snorted while looking over my chart. He was a skunk, and--no offense to his species--but his jokes stunk. He'd gotten a chuckle from my mother, but the well of humor on mine and my father's part had dried up by that point.

After relishing in the chirp from my mom he'd cleared his throat and slipped over to check the levels of fluids in the IV bag hanging by my bed. Satisfied, he stood over my leg and began to undo the gauze around it. "I apologize if this hurts."

I'd grimaced. Of course it hurt. The wrappings had been so tight that they'd hindered the blood flow. Or maybe it was swelling. Either way, unbound it had felt like a gallon of my blood rushed down into the limb all at once, and the wound had flared with such vicious pain that I couldn't help but scream. My pain had raised both the concerns and hackles of my parents, but the doctor seemed to have expected my reaction. He allowed me to relax as best as I could, and then he prodded and poked, looking closely over the exposed cut that was stitched together down my leg and knee.

"Looks good," he'd finally said. "I don't suspect the allograft should give you any trouble. Tissue rejection isn't a big concern in cases with..."

My hurt had sharpened my tongue and wits a bit. "What's an allograft?"

If I'd only known the troubles that one little word would raise in me I wouldn't have asked. I also regret allowing my parents to make the decision behind my surgery without informing me or enlightening me fully to the different choices behind it. I knew they'd choose what was best, so I hadn't bothered. Oh, if only I could go back to change that decision.

The doctor had just answered me as if giving a lecture. "It's more or less the replacement of damaged tissue with an undamaged specimen." He'd then grinned and went to fetch fresh gauze from a drawer. When he came back he gently tapped my knee and began to tear open the pack of bandages in his paws. "Yours came from a young man much like yourself."

I hadn't understood what he'd meant. Came from?

"Terrible accident," he'd continued. "He died much too young."

I then knew what he'd been talking about. I saw the little red heart on my own license and had realized I had a piece of someone else inside of me. That revelation had struck me hard. Suddenly I'd felt defiled. I'd looked down my leg practically feeling the foreign ligament crawling underneath my flesh.

To my discomfort the doctor had continued, and he succeeded in driving the nail of his tale home.

"Motorcycle crash," he'd said. "Lost his helmet when he went down, and--well." He again tapped my leg. He'd smiled at me. It was a weak, quivering expression, and it made goose bumps tingle up across my skin.

After that he took my mom and dad to sign paperwork, and I was left alone to contemplate exactly what I had gone through, what I could have gone through, and what I still had to go through.

It was terrifying. I saw my mortality. I saw how I could have died down in that gulley and how I would have had nothing to show for it. Like the fur whose ligament was stitched into the fiber of my being, I could have been a corpse waiting to have its parts cut out and recycled. My life--what was it?

What was I for that matter? What had I accomplished? Would I have been satisfied on looking back over my existence from the afterlife? Could I have said I'd done everything I'd wanted and that I had no regrets?

No. The answer was no.

I took into account the fact that I was still in high school, but that excuse didn't seem to carry any weight in my mind. I'd already been through so much. Others my age hadn't had to deal with nearly being killed--twice. I'm sure the furs who sit around me in class haven't had to deal with being forced into a life of seclusion out of their parent's fears for them. They probably haven't had to deal with the horrors of nearly losing their fathers and then building him back from the ground up. They've had the opportunity to find love for a long time, and I just got my grasp on it, severely injuring my best friend over said love.

What was worse is that Lee was going through the same thing as me--because of me. I'd broken his arm. I'd taken so much away from him. I had so much taken from me. Neither of us were going to be able to play football for a while, if at all anymore, without the risk of hurting ourselves again. That left me at a crossroad in itself because my future had more or less been riding on my abilities as an athlete. I'd already been offered scholarships and grants to play at some pretty prestigious colleges. Now I didn't know what to do. Recruiters were fickle creatures. They only wanted the best for their institutions, and right now I was anything but. I was maimed. That road to higher learning was already closed as far as I was concerned. There were other routes, other doors I could open, but football has been such an engrossing part of me for so long that it hurt to know it wasn't an option anymore. I'd been going on under the assumption that I may have wanted to go pro, and now I didn't know what to do anymore.

My future was up in the air yet again, and where it would settle when it came back down I hadn't the slightest idea.

That fact alone unnerved me more than anything.

I had things keeping me grounded, though; my folks for one--dad especially. His physical disability had us prepared for my recovery to come, and we had an idea of what to expect. Just as importantly, though, I had...

"Hey, stud."

Speak of the devil.

I looked toward the door and found Sasha leaning casually against the frame. I know he never likes to see me hurt. He was barely comfortable with the idea of me being injured. Still, even as I watched his grey eyes lock onto my bandaged leg he was smiling. It was a ragged, pained thing much like my Skunk doctor's had been, but I preferred it immensely more. Well, Sasha was my boyfriend, so of course I would.

He rarely left my side nowadays, and why I was surprised he was here was beyond me. Much like my mother was to my father, he'd become my right hand. He'd also seemed to come out of his shell more, and he helped me along on the route of legitimately being out to everyone_._ And I mean everyone.

After the Haunt fiasco the whole school and town knew that something had gone down; if you didn't than you were beyond dense. It was no surprise that, to go along with the news of Corbin's arrest, the act of him hurting Sasha was revealed. Furs knew Sasha was gay; he never hid that fact from anyone, and the fact that the police believed the Doberman's actions had been hate based around homosexuality led furs to this thought: Hey, he attacked two other guys. They must be gay, too! Such a travesty!

Dammit. I hate when gossip is right about things for a change. Not because of me, though. I'd known full well that this would happen eventually and was ready and willing to be officially gay in the eyes of all of my peers. No, it was Lee that I was worried about. He hadn't even told me that he was gay, and we were--had been--best friends. We'd tried talking to him, Sasha and me, but Stonewall Lee had seemed to come back with a vengeance. Nothing we said could get through to him. Well, Sasha will get the occasional mute response. He doesn't even give me a glance in passing anymore. I've told him over and over again that I'm not angry, and I've apologized more times than I can remember, but he's just shut himself off to the world.

So, it's not just Sasha who's changed, but it's Sasha alone who's changed for the better. He's grown up. Not completely, though he's definitely matured. From what I can tell he no longer cares about what others think of him, how they see him. I think he's finally come to terms with who he is as a person, and that person cares deeply for the wellbeing of others.

His body had completely healed from his attack, and he looked no worse for wear. Since it was winter now though, his fur had gotten wonderfully plush. His bushy tail swished through the air behind him as he came toward me, and I took in his sweet, December scent as he leaned over and kissed me softly on the lips.

Did I mention he's become surprisingly assertive over the course of our relationship? Well he has. I can no longer say I wear the pants as he's usually the one to help me put them on in the first place now. It's funny how the dynamic has changed, but I believe it's the one difference in my life that I appreciate and even love.

We bumped noses as he leaned back, as it's become a cute little habit, and I let my head fall back into my pillow as my head swam a little. He stood next to my leg with a queasy grimace across his muzzle.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"It's bleeding through the bandage."

I tilted my head to the side a bit to see that he was right. The doctor changed the gauze didn't he? Was I that loopy that I couldn't remember? Or was I seeing things because of the drugs wearing off? Sasha's hair even looked different from yesterday. His long, wavy auburn locks were cropped much shorter than I'd ever seen them before. The sides and back were so trim that they'd lost their kink, and his bangs didn't hide his face anymore.

"You...your..." I stuttered, slightly taken aback. Sasha has always been so glamorous and picky about his appearance that I didn't expect him to suddenly change it so drastically. Fuck how stupid a pun it is, but it fits this situation too well. "Hair today, gone tomorrow."

He rolled his eyes, smiled bashfully, and then ran his paw over his skull. "Ugh. You have no class."

"What happened?"

He shrugged. "I just...felt like I needed a change." His ears fluttered as he frowned. "Why? Does it look bad? Do you not like it?" He immediately ran and surveyed himself in the mirror over the sink.

There was the Sasha I knew.

"No," I said. "No, it looks really good, Sash! Honest. You just took me by surprise, that's all." He stopped tousling his hair and smiled, embarrassed. "I just thought I was seeing things. I'm still a bit out of it here."

He grabbed a chair and pulled it up next the bed, resting his chin on the rail once he was settled. He still sported his frown. "I know."

"What's the matter?"

"You're scaring your parents," he sighed. His chair squeaked as he sat back and crossed his arms. I'm sure his eyes lingered on my face, but I'd turned to look out of the window. I knew another lecture was headed my way, and I wasn't too thrilled about that. "I met them in the hallway," he said. "They made sure to tell me that you haven't been acting like yourself. They're worried. I'm worried."

"Why?" I asked, still looking through the blinds into a dull white sky. The disregard in my voice was met by a ragged breath from him.

"You know why."

"Well," I huffed irately. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Tough shit; we're going to anyway." My anger instantly subsided as he leaned back over and grabbed my paw through the bed railing. "You're not going to become like Lee: Reclusive, detached. I won't have it. I'd never forgive myself if that happened." He made as if to tuck a stray hair behind his ear--habit I suppose--but paused as he remembered he'd gotten it trimmed. Instead he scratched his cheek, playing off his slip up as nothing. "I'm having a hard enough time as it is--dealing with all of this." He pleaded to me with eyes downturned. "Please don't make it harder."

I wanted to make him happy, but -

I felt the numbed pain beginning to thrum to life in my leg. I closed my eyes as the muscle twitched and sent a quick bolt of agony into my hip, and in my mind I saw myself lying cold and stiff on the ground jammed beneath the rock I'd thrown in anger--anger from hurting Lee. I saw my best friend bloodied and broken. I opened my eyes and saw Sasha. I saw love in him. I saw love unrightfully scorned. I saw the fur that Lee had silently cherished for so long, and I saw the fur that I cherished now. There was pain in my body from fighting over him, but there was pain in my heart as well for fighting a certain truth: Lee loved my boyfriend just as much as I did. I knew it, and Sasha knew it. That made the relationship between us all too complicated, too delicate, and too agonizing. Lee was trying to escape from the pain of it all, but we were drawing him back in with every apology, every attempt to patch what we had back together. It wasn't working. We were trapped in a loop of give and take, and as far as I could see there wasn't a compromise in sight. Well, there wasn't a fair compromise--one where we all came out better off.

I think Sasha knew that too, yet he strove on. I know he blames himself for what happened--he told me so--and he's been carrying the weight of all our tribulations since both Lee and I poured our souls out to him on stage. How could I add more to burden him with? I should be lightening his load, but how exactly was I supposed to do that? Well, for starters -

"I'm sorry," I said. I clutched his paw tight as if he were on the verge of slipping away. "That's not going to happen. I'm not going to hurt you like that." I sighed, and he scooted closer as I clenched my teeth, the jolt of pain subsiding just as quickly as it had arisen. I peered at him through lids half closed. "We'll talk."

That fragile smile spread across his muzzle again. "Thank you."

"You still swimmy headed, baby?"

Sasha jumped as my father wheeled up silently next to him. He chuckled warmly at the fox, but then returned his attention to me. His ears twitched expectedly, as did the taut muscles in his arms. He was gripping the wheels to his wheelchair anxiously. He hated hospitals more than me.

"Not really--no." I lied. "Why?"

The doctor then came back in with my mother, and dad lowered his voice and set his jaw as he smiled grimly. He spoke through his clenched teeth. "Well, because I want to get the hell out of here. Capice?" His eyes then stayed glued on Doc Skunk as if he was a child and the practitioner had pulled out a needle.

Sasha snorted.

My mother cocked her head to the side. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," my boyfriend snickered.

"So," said the doctor. "We've got the release forms all filled out, a wheelchair on the way for you, and--oh." He rolled his eyes, switched off the IV pump, and yanked on some rubber gloves. He then removed the dressing around the IV catheter on my arm. "Don't want you dragging this out with you." He grasped the spot where the thing went into my arm and slowly pulled it out, looked closely at it, and then he tossed it into a container with a sign on it that read "Sharps - Hazardous Materials."

I was curious so I asked. "I don't have to stay or anything?"

My dad cleared his throat huffily. The doctor shook his head. "No. ACL reconstruction has become an outpatient procedure. You don't have to see me again unless something goes wrong." He coughed as my parents flashed him a stern glance. "But it won't, so--yeah, no worries."

Hooray for confidence.

Doc filled out my chart, and Sasha and my mother did their best to get me into decent clothes for travel. Moving, as it turns out, made me want to just lie back down and never do so again. The pain in my leg was almost too much to bear. To my relief the doctor handed my mother a prescription for pain killers and other things as Sasha and a nurse helped me into the wheelchair that finally arrived. When she asked me if I wanted it filled on the way home I replied quite vehemently, "Yes; right away. Oh yes."

Before leaving the nurse gave me a pamphlet on how to properly care for my incisions, and the doctor gave me more info on my meds and when to take them. I got some crutches and a gaudy looking leg brace, but I wasn't made to put it on. Sasha carried those for me as we made our way out.

In passing I looked into every room. Sometimes they were empty, and sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of someone inside. They'd stare at me as we strode past as if envious that I was being set free, but--in all honesty--I was scared to be leaving. Now my new, foundered life of uncertainty began, and I got to struggle to become who I was--or become someone else. I felt that I was suddenly being forced to decide my future for what it was right then and there. What am I going to do? When I graduate, where am I going to go? College? What kind of job do I want to do? What do I want to be? What if it doesn't work out? What if something else goes wrong?

I wanted answers. I wanted something tangible to strive toward, but--after your world has been completely turned upside down and everything you knew and wanted is suddenly out of reach-- it felt impossible to set goals. There were so many after all; so many opportunities for success, and just as many failures, lay ahead of me. It was overwhelming. By the time I was pushed from the elevator I felt sick on my stomach and lightheaded again. I was glad that I was sitting.

Mom pulled her Subaru around, and the nurse and Sasha helped me into the backseat. I had to sprawl full-length, as I wasn't supposed to bend my knee, and I squealed as the nurse slammed the door and the force of it sent another shockwave of pain up my leg. Dad flung himself into the front seat, and mom folded up his chair then stuffed it in the back of the car. The doctor and nurse waved and went back to work as we got situated, and I rolled my window down as Sasha came around and tapped on it with a knuckle. I still hadn't gotten used to his hair being so short.

"Yes?" I asked cheekily while trying my best to mask the agony I was in.

He grinned. "Can I come over at around six?"

"Well, no," my father sniffed sarcastically, his ears wiggling.

Sasha stuck his pink tongue out at him.

"Nya, nya," dad whined through a smile.

"Six it is then," my boyfriend said. His ears flicked as my mother slammed the trunk of the car. I bit my lip to keep from screaming as the car shook, but he could read me like a book. "Careful, Momma! You've got precious, fragile cargo back here!"

I heard a squeal, and my mother practically stuck her head through the window. "I'm so sorry, sweetie! Oh, lord!"

"It's fine, mom," I assured, hoping and praying that the road home wasn't bumpy. Potholes seemed to attract her like magnets.

She got in, and Sasha leaned in closer. I could smell the lavender scented shampoo he uses as a breeze trickled in through the window. "Don't forget we have to talk," he whispered.

"I won't," I said.

"Everything will be alright."

"I know."

Although, I wasn't so sure that it would be.