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What was I dreaming about?

It was just there. I could almost feel it - the breeze blowing past my face, the sun's rays warm on my fur, _his_presence alongside me, his warmth, his breath, his scent - and then it vanished into thin air, returned to gossamer and spider threads, leaving but fleeting images and sensations.

I woke up.

And I cried.

Again.

It's been like that for as long as I can remember now. I can't remember much before that, actually. It was all dark and foggy, and now I'm left with just the pain and sorrow, just the hole left by his absence.

And I wondered why...

Why?

Why was there blood over the glass?

I still have the feelings without the memories, echoes of love and comfort without knowing why I feel them. It haunts me. What is hidden beneath those shadows? Can I uncover it, bring it to light, and actually _know_what happened?

I open my eyes and wipe off the tears. It is becoming a routine of sorts: I wake up, cry, open my eyes, twitch my whiskers and remove the evidence that tears were once here.

I sit down on my bed, looking around the white room I slept in. It always takes me a moment to remember the fuzzy details. The hospital. Psychiatric ward. The nurses are nice here. I can rest and recover.

After a moment, I feel ready enough and leave the bed. I usually sleep naked, so I take the opportunity to stretch my muscles. I like feeling them rippling around just under my skin and striped fur. Soon, I start my daily workout.

I enjoy it - the sensations of muscles working, building up a sweat, feeling the drops matting my fur. It helps chase away those last few haunting echoes, keeps me focused on my body rather than my mind. It also helps me keep that built frame of mine, the one that so intimidates people.

Of course, as a tiger-kin, I'm already taller and larger than most, but the added buff truly makes people think twice before angering me. Also, I feel a... a _need_to maintain my body in such a state. I don't know why, and each time I dwell too much on that thought, there is that haunting darkness that engulfs me again. It takes great effort for me to keep it bottled up until I'm back to the safety of my room, where I can cry.

I sure don't want people to see me crying. It feels like... like a violation. Like it allows them to peek at my soul whether I want it or not. I don't want people to see my soul, to pass over my big frame, my sharp fangs and claws, my brutish demeanor... I don't want them to have a look inside and see how much I'm afraid, how much I'm sad, how much I cry at night and morning without the foggiest clue as to why...

After my workout, I feel pleasantly tired, my body stretched and warmed up and drenched in sweat. The scents are powerful. Time for a shower.

I like to do things slowly, once in the bathroom. Taking a leak. Closing my eyes. Forgetting the outside world... and then, I step in the shower stall and take a scaldingly hot shower. I like it. Maybe I used to bathe in lava pools in a past life ? Like those demons of old, described in the grey books...

Once finished, I step out, washed and purified, and enter the drying stall. The huge fans and the heated air do wonders on my fur. Not as warm as him, of course.

And that's when it hits me - a memory out of nowhere.

It feels like the first time in ages that the veil is lifted, even if only for a moment. I feel passion, excitement, arousal...

We used to have sex either in the shower stall or the drying one, sometimes even between the two.

I can clearly remember his green eyes, alive, not dead, his body still warm, his blood pumping, as we make love.

And then it's gone.

It's frustrating. No - it's torture. I mewl in anguish, paw over my heart, claws out and digging through my fur, almost piercing my skin.

It takes me some time to recover, to make my breathing regular again and let my tears get dried away. Once done, I quickly exit the stall, leave the bathroom and get dressed as fast as possible.

I look up to the clock, noting the time. Soon the morning nurse will arrive with his full set of medicines, vitamins and drugs. He is nice. He looks at me with a smile, even though his eyes show a bit of fear at times. I don't mind. People being afraid of me is usually good news.

And so I wait, looking through the window, the morning sun illuminating the garden. My mind wanders off. I feel calm - not sad, not happy - just calm.

But I keep wondering. Why? Why...

Why was there blood over the glass...?

I hear a knock, and then the door opening. It's him, a slender otter-kin with a tray. His lush, shiny brown fur is still nice to look at. I always have to fight the urge to stroke it, to see how soft it might actually be. Ancestor's fangs, I'd love to bring him into my bed, remove his clothes, nip and lick all over his body and make him hard so I could take it up the ass...

But I restrain myself. There is always _his_presence at the back of my mind. His grey fur, his green eyes, his scent and breath almost physically there. It would be awkward, and the feeling usually helps keep me from acting... inappropriate.

Instead, I accept the drugs and the cup of water, gulp them down, smile back at him. As usual, he asks if I want to leave the room, maybe mingle with the other patients. I shake my head and smile. I have trouble preventing my paws from squeezing themselves too much.

The mere idea of letting other people _see_me is sickening. I don't want to be seen by people I don't know. What could they imagine, seeing such a buff tiger acting so shy? I'd like to feel more confident and let it show - I'd rather be viewed as strong and dangerous, someone who should not be crossed - but I know I wouldn't be able to pull it off. My mind does not feel strong enough to put on such a mask and keep it unbroken.

So I smile and shake my head. The nurse smiles back at me and nods, saying maybe tomorrow I could join them, reassure the few patients who ask about me. He then leaves the room.

I can't remember his name. It always escapes me. One second, I read it from his nametag, then the second after, it is missing. I can feel the contours of the letters inside my mind, but I can't pull the_meaning_out of it.

After his departure, I stay sitting on my bed, looking through the window at the garden and its flowers, the sun playing over each blade of grass, the wind gently rocking them. I could spent hours watching this, mind blank, soul appeased.

There are days when I feel restless. I spend hours and hours working out again and again, even running around my tiny room. And when it is not enough, I jerk off, multiple times, filling the room with my heavy scent, masculine, feline, intoxicating...

Not today, however. I feel serene enough. I won't have to open the window to refresh the room, and that, in itself, is comforting.

Maybe it is the drugs they give me that makes me docile and appeased. If so, I wish to thank them.

And then I have another flash. Another memory dragged up from the depths of my mind.

I'm sitting on a bed. I have a plushie between my paws, just over my lap... such an innocent looking item. I'm also naked, my tail swishing back and forth behind me. I know I'm smiling, and that I'm waiting for _him_to enter the bedroom. Soon enough, he is there, still clothed. He sees the plushie, a small greyish wolf over my lap, hiding my belly and crotch.

He smiles.

Oh, Ancestor's fangs, the mere memory of his smile is enough to make my heart melt into a puddle of rosy-tinted goop.

Still smiling, he asks what am I doing with this smaller version of himself. I answer that it is a placeholder for the real deal. Another smile, hungrier, this time. A hint of arousal lights up his eyes. Licking his lips, he approaches, removing his clothes, one by one...

And then it is gone again, the vision ending as abruptly as it began. This time, I sob quietly. This memory isn't as much sad as it is bittersweet. It is a good memory, and I feel sadder for the knowledge that it won't happen again. I can still clearly see his tarnished eyes, his lifeless body, his paws clenched and the expression of utter horror splattered over his face.

I shiver. I curl up into a ball, a huge ball of muscles and fur, but still... I can't help the bigger tears that form at the corners of my eyes... I can't help letting them roll over my cheeks and leave dark trails in my fur.

He died suffering. Such terrible pain... It was obvious from his face. From the wounds mutilating his throat. He died suffering and his last thought was for all this pain to stop, once and for all, and the thought before that, and the one before that too...

But still... despite all this, I was still wondering why there was blood over the glass.

I stay like that for the longest of times. I let it all pass through me. When done, I shakily extend my paw and press the call button. I want the cute otter to answer, but I know it will probably not be him.

I have to wait a few minutes before someone knocks at the door and enters. I am pleasantly surprised to see the otter, wearing an expression of worry. I shiver and croak, still curled up over the bed, shivering uncontrollably from time to time.

I look weak. I look pitiful. Normally, I would hate myself for appearing like that to anyone. But that nurse... with him, it is fine. He seems surprised to see me like that. He asks me what is wrong. I can't answer, my throat tied in a knot, my tongue dead as a pile of sand.

He gets closer and sits down next to me. I shiver again, but not for the same reasons. Up close, he is handsome. His roundish face hides well the fact that he is actually quite athletic. A swimmer's build, despite how cliché it might sound for an otter. And his eyes, his beautiful eyes... he stays there, looking at me, looking genuinely interested and worried about my well-being.

Coming from him, I like it. I cannot express it with words, I cannot reassure him, I cannot _tell_him how good it feels having him around.

So I take a shortcut.

I simply put my paws over his shoulders, and, with a speed that surprises him, I kiss him. I feels his whole body tensing up as I press my lips against his, slipping my tongue inside his muzzle as I firmly hold him.

I savour the moment. He feels so great, he tastes just right, his body so close to me feels so good...

I feel him trying to fight this off, trying to break the kiss. I do not stop, I do not let him go, I keep kissing. When I'm done, _I_choose to break the kiss, smiling at him and looking at him... yes, lovingly.

He seems stunned. And then, angry. Fleetingly, but still. He soon reverts back to his adorable self. But...

But something is broken in his gaze.

His eyes look... cold.

This, more than anything else, makes me back off. I almost feel my paws burning, as I remove them from his shoulders.

He stands up, and gets out without a word.

That's when it all come down on me, crashing down my mind and crushing my heart.

What have I done? Why did I allow myself to do that ? How could I possibly _force_myself upon him like that?

I feel like shit for hours, letting the sun pass through the sky, not touching the tray of food some _other_nurse brought. I was left with my thoughts unbridled. And soon...

Soon... the memories start to flood back. My mind keeps poking back at the walls separating my conscious mind and my memories, and soon I feel them resurfacing, one by one.

The happy ones. The times we celebrated our birthdays, so close to one another, just a few days apart. The times we had sex under the moonlight and how he howled and howled as he bred me fiercely, just how I liked it... The times we shared a plate of sushi at a restaurant because we wanted to have a lovers night but were both broke...

And the not so happy ones. The constant fights, the depression, the drugs I took in large quantities, the love I felt being twisted into a new feeling.

I want to stop the flow here. I don't want to delve more into that. I am falling down a well of darkness that feels infinite, cold and inevitable.

I am falling down, and good memories rush at me, intertwined with the dark ones.

The night we spent together in his car, in the outskirts of the city, contemplating the stars...

The day he hit me hard in the jaw, grabbed the bag of cocaine I was consuming and sent it flying through the window...

The nights he would spent tracing the contours of my muscles with the tip of his claws, marvelling at how well built and strong my body was, making him so jealous, he said, but so aroused, too...

The days he would shout at me for flirting with other men, or for being unable to leave the house for the shortest of times, ruining his social life because all I wanted was to curl up in a ball in the sofa...

I can't stop it. I remember, and it hurts like hell seeing all the reasons why I loved him so much, and how we both destroyed that love...

How he kept bringing men and women to bang, as I laid on the sofa, high as a kite...

How he kept belittling me in public, making people laugh at me...

How we both got arrested in opposite parts of the city and each spent a night in jail, never talking about it afterwards...

How I killed him.

How I roared with years of anger and anguish, unable to reconcile my shy and scared nature with the image I wanted people to see - all because I was abused as a kitten by my parents, forcing me to do _things_to them, _things_that also made me enjoy being a bitch for whomever might like me and take me home. I felt like trash for never succeeding in anything; it made me feel right to just be a slave to someone else, someone that could feed me sex and drug. Nothing else mattered.

I squeezed and squeezed my paws around his throat until he kicked me in the groin, allowing him to escape as I was recovering from the pain, but he wasn't quick enough. He almost made it, grabbing the shotgun before I swatted it away, leaving deep claw marks on his wrist., I pounced on him, my jaws closing on his throat, my paws holding his arms pinned down to the ground as I bit_down on the soft flesh. His blood filled my muzzle, burning away my tongue and my voice, stripping me of the all the words I could utter. _I ripped his throat out, his blood gushing everywhere as he stared at me in horror...

But that wasn't what happened in reality.

I roared, yes. I strangled him, yes... but I didn't recover fast enough. He was holding the shotgun right at my head...

And I thought, I thought...

Pull the trigger.

End this.

I'm not worthy.

I still wonder what he saw in me at that moment. He dropped the gun, fell to his knees, and hugged me tight. He cried and cried, told me it was going to be all right, that we'd both make it work, somehow.

And I saw the window behind him, the big window that led to the balcony. And I wondered, yes, I wondered...

Why was there blood over the glass...?

And I was there. On my knees, near his corpse. His horribly mutilated corpse. I had imagined killing him, and I had imagined him falling to his knees and sobbing.

I left the house and staggered through the streets. I could feel them staring_at me, judging me, making me feel like the little bitch I had been and still was - the little bitch that got abused by everyone I was sold to. I _wasn't welcomed when my Mother died, leaving me with relatives that _hated_me, that kept quoting the grey books and stating how much of a _sinner_I was for killing my Mother, a well-loved woman that had a bright future ahead of her before some brute courted her, seduced her, impregnated her and left her to her own devices, bringing _shame_to the whole family...

And when I came back, I saw the door opened. The door I forgot to close as he was asleep in front of the TV.

He had been brutally murdered as I was wandering around aimlessly.

I had killed him as surely as if I had torn out his throat myself.

I couldn't bear the idea. Couldn't bear the fact that it was irremediably done_and that there was nothing I could do anymore to save him, to save me, to save _us.

I screamed and screamed and screamed, and fell to the ground, sobbing, crying and cursing myself again and again and again...

And then I woke up in the hospital. Maybe I was placed here because I was mad from the start, too crazy to be condemned, just another junkie story for the tabloids.

Time has passed. I'm hungry. I eat. I wait for the otter nurse to come back with my medicines and drug substitutes for the night. He does not come, replaced by a nice female avian, maybe an eagle, I am not sure.

I feel heartbroken.

All I can think off is the blood over the glass.

I think I'll fall asleep. I think I'll forget all of it once again. I think I'll do that day after day. Maybe one day, I'll wake up fresh and well rested. The window will be open over a splendid view of a sun basked garden with just a hint of breeze. He'll be there close to me, looking at me lovingly with his big, beautiful green eyes. Maybe he'll kiss me sweetly, and he'll ask what I want for breakfast... and I'll say, with my own voice, my own words, that anything would be fine, really, but first I would like to hug and snuggle, to hold him close to me... just hugging and sharing a far deeper intimacy that would have ever been possible any other way...

...but there will always be blood over the glass.

Always. Always...

I think it's time to forget.