FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

“Daddy, Momma…” Jim sniffs. “P-ple-please don’t ha-hate me, but I gotta tell you somethin’.” He takes a deep breath. “I–I’m–” He should have done this a long time ago, maybe then things would be different with Wesley. “I’m gay.”

---

I awake to a horrible and familiar nausea wracking me, taking root in my stomach.

I stumble out of bed and across the hall, all but falling into the bathroom I manage to get my head in the toilet just in time. Bile and liquor scorch my throat and sour my tongue as I’m confronted by just one of last night's poor choices.

“Fuck…” I fall to the side onto the heartless tile.

The bathroom floor is cold and lonely. Forcing myself to stand I look to the mirror and the face I see makes my stomach turn. Heavy bags under my eyes make them look sunken and dead, my short beard is scraggly and unkempt, and my hair sticks up in strange ways. I look like a corpse.

Thank God for the Groves hangover cure: Mouthwash, painkillers, anti-nausea tablet, shower, a quick shave, and vitamin C.

There I am, sort of. At least it’s a convincing facsimile of me and not the alcohol-soaked zombie that crawled from the grave a few minutes ago. Next step: breakfast. Everything feels foggy, and I might even still be a little drunk, but I keep mostly upright on the way into the kitchen.

Inside the refrigerator, I find the pile of Tupperware containing home-cooked meals, I guess Mrs. Park forgot to take it with her after my outburst last night. Whatever, I grab one and follow the instructions on the sticky note.

“Potato-Chip Tuna Casserole”, doesn’t sound good but by God it’s delicious. I wonder if I could get the recipe. Shit, I miss going over to Jim’s with Dad for dinner, the Park family are excellent cooks and even better hosts. Jim and I used to stay up late eating leftovers and playing–

No, I don’t want to see them. Or him. I need to clear my head.

My old bomber jacket barely fits, but it’s all I have. I should have packed smarter, autumn mornings were cold here. I look around the house to see how much is left to do. It’s much cleaner than yesterday, and if not for Jim and Mrs. Park I wouldn’t even have half this done. Maybe I should–

It’s much better this way.

I didn’t ask them to help. I need to get out of here. I look around for my phone and find it dead on the bedroom floor. I guess I’ll be walking without music today, that’s no problem; the morning birdsong would do just fine.

I go slow and breathe in the rich, earthy, and sharp autumn air. I have good memories of Autumn, at least before everything went to hell courtesy of Jim and my Dad. Hot apple cider, bonfires, and at Thanksgiving Jim would sneak us a glass of mulled wine from the kitchen and…No, I’m misremembering.

All I remember is everything going to shit, yeah.

The crunch of dirt and gravel is replaced by a quiet plodding on pavement, I’ll enjoy that as long as I can before I end up crawling through the underbrush to the logging camp. I hope I don’t get a tick, eugh.

HONK “Wesley! Hey, I’m glad I found you before–” Grace shouts from her window.

“Leave me alone, Grace,” I reply.

“Wes, seriously, we gotta talk.” Her car rolls along slowly next to me.

“I don’t wanna talk, Grace.”

“Jim called me this mornin’ he–”

“I don’t care, Grace. Jim’s a big boy, he’ll be fine.” I say.

“Wesley, he’s doing alright, I just want to warn you–”

“Go away. I’m tired of fuckin’ rednecks thinking they know what I need.”

Her mouth hangs open.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,”

She laughs. “Wow.”

“Whatever.” These people all looking down on me. I hate it. I hate that look in their eyes.

“Wesley, I’m serious Jim’s–”

I roll my eyes. “Uh-oh, Jim gonna get the boys together because I was mean? I’m so scared.”

“Fuckin’ Hell, Wes, I’m trying to help you! You’re in serious trouble.” There’s a knowing look in her eyes that makes me worry.

“I’m fucking sick of people looking down on me, I don’t need your fuckin’ charity, Grace. I’m really not in the mood.”

Grace stops her car and gets out, her hoof steps clacking against the pavement. “Wesley, Jim’s worried about–”

“I don’t care what he’s worried about.” I spit. “And how many more times do I gotta tell you: go away.”

“Lord…Wes, why do you insist on makin’ enemies out of everyone?” She walks backward as we talk.

I scoff. “Right, it’s my fault.”

“Wes, people here just wanna help you, but you won’t let them.” She steps to the side.

I ignore her.

She sighs. “Wes, one day you’re gonna realize you gotta start meetin’ people halfway.”

I give her the middle finger.

“Need a hand at the house?” Her tone changes as suddenly as the subject.

“Why do you care?” I glare.

“I figured I’d be polite and help, even if you’re an asshole.”

“Fine. Knock yourself out, doors unlocked.”

“Good luck, Wes, good fuckin’ luck.” Grace leaves.

At least these yokels had manners. I wouldn’t say no to more help packing and cleaning. My pace is faster than usual thanks to my stress. Fucking Dad, fucking Jim, fucking everyone.

I try to keep the worst of my thoughts at bay and focus on how I’ll be out of here in a few more days, then I’ll never need to see any of these people again. A small smile creeps onto my face as I imagine a future free of this place. Free of Jim.

That’ll be fantastic.

Right?

I shake my head, I’m near the logging camp now. An hour or two there would give me all the thinking time I need, something about the place just calmed me down. Hopefully, Jim doesn’t show up this time. It might be nice, though.

I frown. I hope he’s–

“He’ll be fine,” I mutter, I was fine without him, without Grace, without Dad. I’m fine.

I walk through the brush toward the camp. It looks worse in the early morning light, I can see the holes in the roof, the graffiti, and discarded scrap metal. How had I missed it last time? This town is fucking with my head.

Climbing on the crane I settle down for a good think. Rain clouds threaten overhead and the pines tower overhead like the pointed tips of a crown around the crane that was once my throne, the one place I was in control. I wish I could forget this place.

I need this, and I’m glad I beat the rain. Walking through the rain is usually relaxing, meditative, even, but this sad old jacket probably won’t keep me dry, I should try to avoid the worst of whatever storm is brewing.

An hour passes in peace before I hear the sound of a vehicle coming right toward me. Great, Jim. I hop off the crane and walk around the rotting wood building.

“Jim, we don’t have anything to talk about.” I turn the corner.

“Wesley Groves.” A bear even larger than Jim stares at me through shades, his face is shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat. He wears a dark green vest and matching slacks. Black boots stomp toward me and his badge glints in the low light.

He’s like an older version of Jim, except far more muscular; a wall of fur and raw power. I recognize him as the football coach, is he a deputy now? That’s a bit of a career change, my eyes stop on the badge. Shit.

“Coach, uhm…” I groan. “Sheriff Park.”

“Do you realize you’re trespassin’?” He asks, much too happy with himself.

“No, Mr. Park I–”

“Sheriff to you, boy.”

I roll my eyes. “I’ll just go home. Thanks.”

He sticks his arm out in front of me. “You think so, huh?”

“Yeah, I do.” I try to step past him and instantly find myself on the ground. “What the fuck?! Get off!” I slam an elbow into his ribs and my eyes widen when I see his face.

His grin is sadistic as his fist meets my nose. “You just made my day, thanks Wes.”

Blood fills my mouth and runs down my chin.

My arms are wrenched behind my back and I struggle against the cold metal cuffs. “Fuck off!”

He reads me my rights with far too much delight and shoves me into the back of his cruiser. The seat is hard and uncomfortable. I glare at him through the grate separating us and I spit dirt and grass from my mouth.

“Can you get my hat, at least?” I nod toward the discarded cap on the ground.

“Nah.”

I sink into the seat and strain against the cuffs.

“They weren’t lyin’, Wes. You’re a big boy now.” He laughs from the front.

“Fuck you.”

“Still got your smart mouth, though. Shame.” He shakes his head.

I glare. “We doin’ this? Seriously? You gonna drag me off someplace and leave me there? Or just beat up on the gay boy.”

“Wesley! I am hurt.” Sarcasm oozes from his words. “Nah, that would be po-lease broo-tali-ty. And, I will have you know, I ain’t got no problem with queers. My boy told me just last night he’s a queer, even.”

“What?” I ask.

“Yessiree, imagine my surprise when my wife brings the boy home and he’s all blubberin’, cryin’, oh Wes he was inconsolable.”

My heart rate rises.

“He says ‘daddy don’t hate me’, as if I could ever hate my own boy, and he tells me he’s a queer! Makes me glad you types can get married now.”

“Good for you, enlightened redneck. Fucking cute.” My voice cracks.

“Then he goes on n’ tells me he’s been foolin’ around with none other than the prodigal son: Wesley Groves!”

My pupils dilate.

“Then he tells me ‘Oh Daddy I thought we was becomin’ friends again’!”

Nostrils flare. “So what?”

“Then he told me all those things you said to him last night.” He looks at me through the rearview and even through the sunglasses I can see the white-hot rage burning in his eyes. “Anywho, the missus thought we should have a little get-together, have some tea n’ cookies.”

“...Okay?”

“Unfortunately the roads closed, so we gotta take the backroad.” He smirks at me through the rearview mirror. “You shouldn’t’ve talked to my boy that way, Wes.”

Backroad…What–Oh no. Oh Shit, FUCK! “LET ME OUT! YOU FUCKING CUNT!” I thrash around the backseat, desperate for an escape. I’d heard the old sheriff did something like this once, and the victim had bitten off part of his own tongue. I look around for the seatbelt and whimper when I see it’s been cut out.

I hear a clinking sound from the front of the cruiser and I can’t stop the sob that escapes my lips. “Lookin’ for this?” Dangling from his paw is the shredded remnants of a seatbelt.

He turns down an old dirt road and stops in front of a metal barrier. He stops the vehicle to unlatch and open the gate. He takes his time returning, making sure I have plenty of time to observe the path ahead.

“LET ME OUT!” Tears sting my eyes and I pull so hard against the cuffs my wrists almost bleed, my throat becomes raw from screaming.

Uneven terrain, holes in the ground, fallen trees, and incredibly thick underbrush nearly obscure the road entirely. If I was able to hold onto something I could probably get through the ride, albeit a little motion-sick. But restrained like this? I’m fucked.

He sits and tightens his seatbelt. “I’d say buckle up but, ah well.”

I kick at the door and try to weasel out of my cuffs.

Sheriff Park laughs. “Don’t tire yourself out yet, Wes. We got a long way to go.” The car's engine thrums to life.

“This isn’t legal you bastard! I’ll call my lawyer and–FUCK!”

He floors it and then hits the brakes. My head slams into the metal grate between us.

I fall back into the seat only to be launched up into the ceiling of the vehicle as we go over a deep ditch. He swerves suddenly sending my head slamming into the window. He brakes again causing me to tumble off the seat into an awkward, scrunched-up shape on the floor.

“Shit!” My head throbs and bleeds as I slide into the door again. “P-please, stop!”

I hear him humming. “He was mighty hurt by you.”

“He–I–” I try to get off the floor but struggle with my restraints.

“‘You’re just a hole,’ Was that it?” He asks.

I sob and shout something unintelligible.

“That don’t sound like an apology, Wes.” I hear tires screech as he hits the gas.

“NO, PLEASE, I’M SO–” I cry.

The rest of the ride is a bloody smear. I cry and spit a wad of red phlegm onto the floor, regretting it when my cheek slides into it. At some point, I vomit, or maybe I pissed myself. I can’t keep up as my brain stops working, unable to form a coherent thought.

I’m face-down with my head tilted to the side in case I vomit again. I move my mouth and try to speak but no words come. Have we stopped? Or am I just dead, it feels like I’m dead.

The door opens and I’m yanked from the car. “Yikes, Wes, you gotta use your seatbelt buddy!” He shoves me forward.

One of my eyes feels swollen shut, and the other is soaked with sweat and tears but I can make out the house we’re marching towards. Two stories with a green tin roof and brown paneling. It’s Jim’s parent’s house.

Sheriff Park laughs as we walk up the steps. I hear voices inside. It sounds like… maybe three people. It must be Jim, his Mom, and… Who?

A paw grabs me by the shoulder and thrusts me through the door. It happens so fast I can’t keep my balance and I fall face-first onto cold linoleum tile. I moan and watch blood ooze from my mouth to the floor.

“Wesley?!” Jim shouts and a chair scrapes against the floor.

“Cubby, he’s just lookin’ out for you.” His mother adds casually.

Someone hisses through their teeth. “I tried to warn you, Wes.”

“Fuck yo–GURK!” A boot meets my ribs sending blood spraying from my mouth.

“No!”

“Language. There are ladies present.” Sheriff Park roughly rolls me over so I can stare at the ceiling.

“Daddy, what did you do to him?!” Jim says.

“We just went for a drive.” He stares down at me and pulls me up to my knees so I can see the others.

“Si-sickin’ your daddy on me…” Fuck this is hard, but anger keeps me going. “Because I won’t let you suck my–RRRAAAAAAAHHHNNGG!!” My jaw snaps shut like it was tied with wire and I fall over onto the floor again, writhing as spittle flies from my mouth and every part of my body tenses up as an insidious clicking sound fills the air. I feel like I'm floating outside my body.

“Shit, Sheriff that’s–”

“Daddy, stop!” Jim begs. “You’re hurtin’ him!”

I barely register being lifted off the ground and held against something soft, between being tossed around the truck and getting tazed I’ve lost almost all of my senses. I feel like I’m underwater.

“Jimmy, I ain’t lettin’ anyone treat you that way, you hear me?”

It’s hard to keep track of everything in my dazed state.

“At least try not to kill the boy, James, he needs to apologize.”

Soft paw pads rub my cheek. “Wes, Wes can you hear me?”

I groan something resembling a response and lean into the gentler touch.

“Jim, let him go.” I think that's Jim's dad.

“No!” Someone pulls me closer. “I won’t let you hurt him!”

“Fine, but I gotta say somethin’ to him.” I feel hot breath on my ear. “You talk to my boy that way again, Wesley, and I promise that a little car ride will be the least of your trouble.”

Jim whines, at least I think that’s who's holding me. “Can you uncuff him, please? He’s bleedin’!”

“Jimmy, boy, I don’t care if you’re…” He hesitates. “I don’t care if you’re queer, but you deserve better than him.”

The tightness around my wrists goes away and I moan with relief.

“Daddy…”

“Cubby, I know you like Wes–”

“He’s hurtin’!” Jim replies.

“You’re not thinkin’ right.” His dad says.

“I am!” Jim squeezes me close. “He was just angry! He didn’t mean none of it…”

“That isn’t an excuse.” Mrs. Park says.

My head lolls to the side into his shoulder. “Soft…”

“Wes, Wes?!” Jim asks. “God, Daddy, he can’t even speak!”

“You were a little rough, Mr Park.” Was that Grace?

“He deserved it,” Mr Park nods. Maybe? Everyone is just shapes now. Shapes and voices.

Jim whimpers. “He won’t ever talk to me again cause’ of this daddy!”

“He don’t deserve you, Jim.” A growl. “But I think he’s learnt his lesson.”

“That ain’t for you to decide, Daddy!” I’m squeezed into something soft, warm. “He’s hurt, he needs help!”

I press my face into the soft fur. “S’nice.”

“Wes? Wes can you hear me?!” He snaps his fingers next to my ear, I think.

My nose hurts, but this is nice. Warm and soft.

“Grace, we gotta get him to a hospital. You drive–” There's a flurry of activity and voices melt into static. I’m lifted into the air and I reach up placing my hand on…Jim? It can't be Jim, Jim hates me, but this face is so soft.

“S’cold…” Are we outside? I involuntarily cry when I’m put into the backseat of a car. “MMmnooOOOOO! No more!” I struggle but can barely muster any strength at all.

“Shh, shh Wes, it’s just me.” An arm wraps around my shoulder as I’m buckled into place.

“Keep him awake, he’s got a concussion.” Who's talking?

“Wes, can you hear me?”

I nod.

“You know who I am?”

“Jim?” I lean under his arm. I wish it was Jim.

“That’s right.”

“No.” I shake my head.

“No? What do you mean?”

I sob. “Jim hates me now. He left.”

“I’m right here, Wes.” Someone rubs my shoulder. “I don’t hate you.”

Did he kiss my forehead?

“He should hate me.”

“Why, Wes?”

I shake my head.

“Please talk to me… Please.” Am I being hugged? Or did someone put a blanket on me?

“He’s supposed to.” I’m not in control.

“Why am I supposed to–”

My voice is sticky with blood and mucus, it sounds more like croaking. “I’m bad. Bad.”

Silence.

“God, he’s delirious.” A second voice.

“Wes, I forgive you.” My back is being rubbed, that’s nice.

I’m so tired. “Why?”

“I dunno, Wes.” Weight presses down gently on my head. “I jus’ wanna help you.”

I hate that. “Why?”

“Wes, I–You need help.”

“I…I don’t deserve…” My eyes are heavy and I can feel my heartbeat in my ears, lulling me to sleep. “He left…I deserve…it…”

“Wes, Wes!” A paw grabs my cheek and wipes away tears. “Look at me, Wesley. I’m right here. I won’t leave.”

His eyes are big and green and warm and kind. Like him. They’re sad, too. I always made people sad, or hurt, and I hate when they look at me like that. He looked at me this way before, I think.

I command my mouth to open, to speak, but it defies me. I need to tell him to stop, to spare himself from me. To hate me, like I do.

“Wesley.” Jim sniffs,

His eyes are so big and full of tears, his cheek fur is soaked with them. All because of me, because I hurt him. He says he forgives me, but that’s just because he feels bad for me. Pity is as bad as hate.

“Why?” I need to know.

He kisses my forehead and cups my cheek. “I love you, Wesley.”