Wolf am I
Disclaimer: You'll have to forgive me- this isn't the end of Und Des Nachts, like I promised. This is a wayword tale, unconnected, and alone in the world. I wrote it as a short little thing to take my mind of the ending of my other series, and the beginning of a new one, "Kites".
This thing is vicious and sad. People are vicious and sad. You should never, ever, ever trust us.
We'll cut you up, and laugh about it later.
All of us.
Every one.
No exceptions.
Wolf am I
The Lamb
The night is pretty shitty, and there's nothing to draw my attention away from myself anymore. The bus driver keeps yawning and making me anxious, and then there's a fucker way at the back who's blaring music through his headphones while the rest of us are trying to sleep. I'm sitting near the front with my little brother, clutching my paws over my ears and trying to think about how I'm going to go on living. It's our second week away from home, and Joshua is getting scared.
The seat is shaking under me, and I'm finding it kind of hard to fall back to sleep. We're supposed to be heading to San Francisco, but we've only got enough to pay for a halfway ticket, and I get the lingering feeling that punk sitting across from us doesn't like the way Josh has his head in my lap. The driver has promised to kick our sorry asses off himself if we don't scram at the next stop, and I've agreed readily- we have no money to make it all the way to San Francisco anyway. My little brother keeps shivering against my side every time that old dog raises his voice, and he's been doing it a lot lately. Part of me wants to skin both of them alive, and I keep telling myself that that flea-bitten piece of shit can't tell us what to do. But we don't get to choose. Come Alameda, we are getting off this bus.
There's a noise at the back. Some young mare dropped her purse all over the ground, and she's trying really hard to cram all the stuff back in. A weasel in the back is rocking back and forth, looking nervously at the clouds and trying to pay attention to the music in his headphones. Two wolves in the back are arguing about something... A blind girl, maybe? I can't quite make it out. It's probably soap-opera bullshit anyway. A fox in the front is cradling his head in his paws, and he's white as a sheet. Light, and then thunder, again and again. That's what all our lives have been reduced to. I tuck my paw against a pair of softly spotted ears.
Joshua's head is burrowed into my lap. He's really tired and really hungry, I can tell- he used to be really hyper before we left home and starved ourselves half to death. The way the kid used to jump around makes me think he has a serious ADD issue. I mean, I know a lot of kids say they have it, but Josh really does, and it really drives me up a wall when it takes over and he goes all nuts like that. A whole lot of people make fun of him for it, and I've gotten used to the fact that he needs protecting. From everyone, now days- especially out here in California. I turn my head and look out the window, my claws trailing over his perfect ears. Jesus Christ, Josh.
He's a little kid, even for his age. We left the day he turned thirteen, so he's not much younger than me now, at least on paper. I still have to care for him like I was his dad or something, and although I kind of loathe the idea, part of me feels proud for actually doing some good. Every time I look at him, I'm kind of reminded about how the whole world is a cesspool of awful people and nasty shit that I want nothing to do with. He's got these wide, blue eyes, and this sweet little muzzle with a curt, feline grin slapped all over it. The kid looks like he's never had anything but fun his whole life, which always strikes me as ironic. His figure developed... weird, as my mom would have put it. Josh has these wide, feminine hips and a kind of swivel-y way of walking, flicking his tail back and forth, and turning over his shoulder to look at people when they talk. I tried to make him walk normal a bunch of times, because that's not how guys walk, that's how girls walk... but he never did fix it.
All of that's drilling me, now. As far as problems with cheetahs go, that's one you can't afford to let slip. His fur is soft. His voice is meek and submissive.
God, I hate him.
With his curled little paws, and his stick-thin arms... It makes me want to bust his mouth wide open sometimes. "Why can't you be normal?" I used to scream at him, day in and day out, just like my parents. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
I used to hit him, too, in places where doctors don't look. Not hardâ€"never hard. Just when I was feeling really stressed, or was sick of his cheery bounciness or his girly, swishy way of walking. He used to curl up in his room and cry softly some nights, and when I heard him, I'd come in and hit him then, too. Over and over again. I wish I could do it now, but there are people watching.
The bus stops, and my heart jumps a little. The driver motions for me and Joshua to beat it, so I shake his shoulders a little, and he yawns, and pulls himself out of a stupor. He tells me he doesn't want to leave the bus, that it's warm in here. I agree, but I say to him "Sometimes, they make you get off the bus," and he nods, understandingly. No thirteen year old should ever be that wise.
It's kind of raining when we step out, but we get under a plastic shelter before it starts really pouring. I sit on a bench and try to think out what we're going to do next, holding my head in my paws and trying not to listen to my stomach growling. It's hard. Josh tugs on the sleeve of my hoodie, and tells me he's hungry. I tell him that I don't have time for that right now, that I have to think. But Josh doesn't listen, he really wants food. I look up, and there are those wide blue eyes, staring right back at me. I guess it wouldn't hurt to see a vending machine or something. I sigh and run a few claws through the fur between my ears. That'd be our last dollar.
We get up and head across the station, ducking under the plastic shelters now and then when our fur starts to matt to our heads. There's a coke machine and a snack machine right next to one of those bus station bathrooms. The smell coming from it is god awful, but Josh doesn't seem to care. He jumps up and down a few times near the snack machine, pointing at a bag of Cheetos and pawing at the glass.
Josh had always liked Cheetos, because the mascot was a cheetah, like him. We used to go to the park when our parents kicked us out of the house, and I'd buy him a bag to get him to stop crying. Christ, he cried all the time... he still does. Over every little thing, he'd just tear up, whether it happened to him or someone else. When he was a cub, I used to tell him that mom and dad were breaking up because they wanted another son, and not a girl like him. I'd tell him stuff like that just to watch his eyes go wide, just to watch him turn tail and flee up to his room to bury himself in a pillow, whimpering noisily through the bedroom door.
One time, I made him put on mom's underwear, and I wouldn't let him take it off until she came home. She was so furious, she grabbed one of dad's belts and started whipping him, and I laughed so hard I nearly died. "Connor made me do it!" he yelled over and over again, pointing at me. And mom would just say something like "The hell he did, you little faggot!" and give him another smack with the impromptu whip. Let me tell you, it cracked me right the fuck up. He was so lucky dad didn't come home that night. Mom was so drunk she forgot about it the next day. I couldn't have planned it better.
"Connor" Josh tugs on my sleeve again, pointing to the vending machine. I sigh, and draw my wallet from our backpack. I tell him we only have a buck fifty left, and that we need that money for bus fare. Josh just shakes his head, looking at me with those eyes again. Those eyes will be lady killers one day, I know. We stand in silence, softly striking out the minutes. Reluctantly, I feed the machine. One dollar and fifty cents is all it takes- I can get money elsewhere. My vision blurs as I press in the numbers, and I have to lean against the vending machine to keep from falling on my ass. Numbly, I reach down and pluck the bag out, handing it to Josh. He really needed the food.
I tell him to sit down again, and he does, right on the first dry bench we come to. Another bus pulls up to the stop, and I wrap my arm around Josh, keeping him close by my side. He doesn't even seem to notice as the strangers start piling out, one by one, clutching themselves in the light rain and scrambling to find benches and shelters of their own. I stare at them solemnly- I know about that kind of dead look my eyes have. Grey, not blue, like Josh's. I used to get made fun of in school because I looked like a druggie- but that's all over now.
A tall, broad-shouldered, beer-bellied horse sits down next to us, his tail flicking through the slats on his coat. Both of us stay quiet, nice and easy. The stallion breaks the silence first, looking over at Joshua, who's wolfing down those Cheetos and trying not to pay attention. I'm feeling very tired. He asks us where we're from, and I say Nevada, which is a lie. He runs a hand through his mane, brushing it from his eyes. I know his type, that sick fucker. I know his type really well, and I know what opportunity smells like- wet horse.
He looks down at Josh, and asks him if he's enjoying those Cheetos, and Josh answers him "yes". His fat lips peel back into a grin, and he looks back at me, and asks where we're going, and before I can open my mouth, Josh says "Nowhere", and I know what I have to do. The stranger asks us why, and I tell him we have no money, and a light flickers on in the back of his muddy brown eyes, just like I was hoping for. He slides a hand over his paunch, fatly slipping his hand into a pocket.
The horse leans over to me, and he whispers in my ear "How much for the kid?"
Fifty, I tell him. You can fuck for a couple of bucks. He sneers, his lips pulling up in a silent happy whinny. Josh looks up at him, and then at me, and then keeps eating, having heard nothing. The stranger slips me the cash behind Josh's back, and I stuff it into our wallet, expressionless.
Josh drops the bag when the stranger takes him by the paw and roughly pulls him to his feet. His head whips around to stare at me with quivering eyes, yanked clean off his feet. "Sorry, kid" my mouth wants to say, but I keep quiet. I know the score. Both of them look back at me, and a dirty grin splits the hoss's muzzle. Oh yeah. it says. Look at his hips. Best I've had all week.
They step into the bathroom, and I throw myself at the door, leaning against the cool, grimy metal for support. I'm feeling really rough now, and my stomach hurts. I haven't eaten in a while. The bag is empty when I pluck it up off of the floor, and I'm silently happy that Josh at least got to eat his snack. Inside the bathroom, I can hear a stall open. A kid cries out as some adult forces him inside, and slides the flimsy lock shut. There's a shout, and a smack, and then a quiet whimper as a pair of little jeans are pulled down a around a pair of skinny, girlie legs. I can hear my own breathing, and try to stop it, catching it in my chest and holding it until it burns, listening, hearing.
The sounds bring me back. A wet slap, a feline yowl of half-surprise. It took me back to a couple of weeks ago, when we left. I came home from school early because we'd had a bomb threat that day, and mom and dad weren't around. Dad was at work, and mom was probably over at her friend Terry's house. Terry was a bull, and Josh liked him a lot, which was something mom really thought of as disgusting.
The house was really kind of empty. I thought about playing videogames, or maybe eating some chips or something when I came across Josh, sitting on the floor in the living room, looking all misty-eyed as he grinned over his artwork. Josh was always drawing stuff and showing it to me- not like I gave a fuck. I even burned one of his crayon drawings when I was younger, just to try and get him to stop showing me. I took dad's lighter and laughed when he tried to put it out in time. The water washed off all the wax, and you couldn't even tell it was a drawing of something anymore.
"What are you doing?" I said to him, and he looked up at me, trying to hide the sharpie behind his back.
"Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Nothing, Connor."
"Don't lie to me, fairy. I can see you hiding that marker."
"Connor, I wasn't-"
I remember feeling my eyes widen when I looked at what he was doing. It was a picture, of course... a photograph of our family a few months ago, on summer vacation in Washington. We were standing next to a monument of some sort- I don't really remember. We made Josh stand off to the side, and the photographer kept asking my dad why we weren't going to take a picture with him. "He's not part of the family" my dad said. I guess he wasn't thinking about it, because Josh started crying, and the photographer felt so bad, he got Josh a snow cone to cheer him up.
Josh had marked the photo up with the sharpie. Actually, he'd draw in a little cartoon cheetah, right next to us, smiling happily. He was drawing himself into our family photos. "You fucking idiot!" I screamed, pinning my ears back. "Are you crazy?! Do you know what they'll do to you!?"
"It was an accident!" Josh pleaded. "Honest!"
"Josh, this picture had to cost like, thirty dollars! Dad's gonna beat the shit out of you!"
He looked like a wounded kitten. "Don't tell him, Connor! Don't let him find out!"
I told him that he was a retard, that he was a fuckup failure who was gonna get eaten alive for doing it. I should have been happy as a feral in a sunbeam. But when he stretched out his little paw for the photo, I just gave it to him.
My ears snap up. Someone's calling from inside the restroom. Someone saying "it hurts" over and over. My teeth grit, and I press my frame against the door. This stupid body. I'm so hungry, and things are getting stretched out, slow and mean. There's a wet smack everytime, and lewd, nasty pops that follow it. He's getting destroyed in there and I know it. I'm his brother- I can feel his screaming. Even with a hand crushing his muzzle shut. I clench my fangs, and take a few deep breaths of that rancid bathroom air through my nose.
My sneakers barely touch the slimy tile. It smells like vomit in here, and I can hear the sounds of a tiny feline body being penetrated by some old sick fuck even more clearly. It's wet. The horse is leaking like a faucet, I know. I can smell him. He makes me sick. I pull the door to a stall open and slide inside. The desperate gasps, every quite murmur, the gleeful little whinnies and lecherous, touching hands- all of it- is one metal siding away. I stop and rest, trying to remember how we got there, and trying to forget I was right next to, and what I was going to do.
I remember the first bus ride, the first time someone asked if they could just talk to him in private, alone, without me there. They gave me thirty bucks, and I said "hell yes you can." Hell yes you can.
My shaking paws lift the lid off of the toilet back- it's slippery. Someone pissed in the tank. The smell is stinging my eyes. I'm so hungry, Josh. My muscles barely work anymore, but I try and take a look. I peek over the edge, and see it all. Blood is running down his thighs, his mouth fishooked on a fat finger, gagged and screaming nothing into the bathroom. He's dying and I let it happen for years. I let it happen and I help.
I drop the lid on the horse's neck. It kills him. I watch it crack evilly, bend back and snap like a twig. He looks up at me, and I look down at him and tell him he's a sick old fuck while blood dribbles out his eyes and nose, his body slumping to the floor like the fat sack of shit it is.
Josh trips as we run to the bus. Too scared, too hungry to think. Fifty bucks in my wallet- I don't touch his. The new bus driver is a feline, too. A panther. We pay the money, and get in the back. Josh isn't crying. He rests against me, and he's so cold, and I feel so dead, and I'm freaking out.
The bus starts. We're going to San Francisco.
And as the lights roll by, shining in slits through the streaked windows and broken blinds, I feel my brother's head in my lap, and he's purring softly. He might be sleeping- I can't tell. I look down at his face and think about how feminine it is. I think about how girly his eyes are- they're gorgeous. I think about his lips, black and thin... they really bring out the whiteness of his perfect fangs. His ears are round and perfect. He's beautiful. My paw shakes as I rest it on his neck, and run it over his ears. Josh doesn't wake up.
People in this world are strange. They hate people like Josh, where I'm from, simply because he was born this way- small, feminine, pretty... We beat him, sure, we cast him out- The world did. Did they fear him? Did he scare them somehow? The fact of the matter is, the world is afraid of the wrong people. Foxes who wear girl's clothing, coyotes with slender, lapping muzzles, tigers who wind up in the beds of housecats half their size.
The world should be afraid of people like me.
It should have always feared us.
Always.