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A moment of

panic

"Deep breaths."

Deep

breaths.

Deep

breaths.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

I do what he says.

That wretch. That fucking...

Marty.

"It's only going to get more intense as it sets in, relax into it."

So this is only the tip of the iceberg.

He's holding my paw.

I'm only starting to feel the effects of the acid and already I... It's not intense, per se, but already it's hard to explain.

Marty leaves and he's gone and I notice the walls are more cream than off-white.

He's back with a glass of water, tells me to drink. I do.

"I'm so sorry about what happened with Adrian, I don't- I mean, I had no idea, I-"

But it's pointless.

He kept my phone. Adrian almost died because of it. That's true, but it's not the whole truth.

"What you did didn't help things, but it didn't cause them either. What happened with Adrian is my fault Marty, not yours."

"Kale..."

It's his fault too - of course it is - but I can't blame him for what I did.

For what Eve did.

For what Adrian's parents did.

For what happened to Adrian's friend.

For what Adrian did to himself.

It's all so complicated.

Not just that, everything.

"It's a lot of people's fault."

Time pulsates unnaturally. Was it always doing that?

Every moment is a vast ocean. Every decision a universe unto itself.

Are these minutes passing by or just seconds?

I usually have to unjustly and overzealously simplify things to even attempt to understand the world around me, let alone to actually do anything with that obnoxious overload of information. But now, world seen in a new light, things seem manageable just the way they are.

Every breath we take, every movement we make, every word we say splinters into an infinite set of universes spiraling up and out into forever.

I shouldn't have taken the acid, it was a bad decision. I can see that now. It was an awful decision, but I know why I made it. I didn't know before, but I do now. Things make a lot more sense when your mind is clear.

And my mind is clear.

I was hung up on fear. So much fear.

It was a mistake to let things get to this point, but now that I'm here I can't say I have any complaints.

"How are you holding up Kale? You look pretty spaced out. Are you feeling okay?"

He's worried, that's sweet, thinks I might be having a bad trip, but actually...

"No, I'm fine. I'm feeling good."

He smiles and the whole room brightens.

It was naive to take the acid when I didn't know how it would affect me. It was frankly foolish to trust Marty. But I'm not angry at him, I made this decision. I'm not even angry at myself, I had my own reasons and was influenced by all sorts of contextual pressures. Ultimately I accept and understand my failure to properly evaluate the situation at the time. Now though? Now it's all so obvious.

Marty has proven himself to be untrustworthy. If he was set on getting high I should have left him to it and got the hell out of here, but something kept me back.

Lingering context, now obliterated by acid.

I needed that hit, I've been experiencing withdrawal. Surprise, surprise, quitting smoking isn't easy. I needed that hit, at least that's what I thought.

But that's not all. I was tired and lethargic and mentally drained after everything that happened today. After everything that's happened this week. Last week. Everything.

On top of that I've been so obsessed and preoccupied with avoiding what happened to Adrian happening again that I refused to see the apparent and numerous differences between his situation and Marty's. Marty is nothing like Adrian. What happened here is nothing like what happened with the fox.

Seeing Adrian soaked in blood, the panic, him surviving, me knowing he almost died, it changed me. Adrian was the victim - and the perpetrator - but that doesn't mean he was the only one to suffer. I've suffered. It fucked me up so badly, changed my perception so drastically, that I'm sat here, high, with a bona fide sociopath, also high, sat beside me.

It was traumatic. That makes this post-trauma.

That's why I'm offering myself a little sympathy.

Fuck, this stuff is strong. My limbs feel like jelly.

Everything is wobbling, just slightly.

Or rather, it has been for a while.

I'm glad I put that glass down.

I stand up.

"I need a piss."

I seem to be moving erratically, Marty gets up and helps me to the bathroom.

This is only the tip of the iceberg. I can feel my mindstate expanding, contracting, reacting, becoming more deeply altered with every passing moment.

I don't fight it, I let it happen.

It's helping. I'm thinking clearly. Concentration is difficult, movement is imprecise, but clarity? I've got that.

Marty is more lucid than he should be. He had twice as much as me from the same damn sheet of blotter and he's walking fine, talking fine, at least so far.

Just because the acid hasn't hit him hard yet, doesn't mean it won't, but his tolerance must be extremely high. Like, way high. Like, he's done this sort of thing far more than I would have predicted kind of high. Like, he's so numb to it that even double the dose that has me seeing my stream of piss as a radiant golden rainbow is barely affecting him. Like, he's so numb to it that I'm starting to wonder how fucked up he really was on the weekend when we took that cocaine together.

He says he didn't plan any of the manipulative shit he did, that he was just acting on instinct. I wasn't sure what to believe before, but I am now. He was lying. Maybe not all of it was planned, but some of it was. It had to be. As for now, is he up to something? Or is this real desperation?

I don't have the answers yet. Still, I have more answers than I did half an hour ago. Maybe taking the acid was a wonderful decision after all.

My golden stream dries up and I notice that my aim wasn't so great. I clean up drops of misfired piss from the seat and floor with toilet paper and flush it all away before washing my paws. Hygiene is important.

My reflection in the mirror has this odd, overconfident grin. The sight of such an expression on my battered visage makes me laugh. But there's something else there, is... Is my fur really that color? Is my face really shaped that way?

I notice there's a vague halo of light surrounding me. It surrounds all living things. At least it does now. Did it always?

No, of course not. It's a delusion brought on by the drugs, an augmentation of reality. I know what's real and what's not. Then again, if I see it now it's as real as anything else is, at least in some abstract sense.

A soft halo of light surrounds all living things. The fact that this statement isn't true when I'm sober makes little difference.

By the time I'm sat back down it's extremely obvious to me that the acid's effect has only intensified.

"What was so funny?" Marty asks.

"Huh?"

"I heard you laughing in there."

"Was I?"

Was I?

"Yeah you- Actually, you know what? Don't worry about it."

"Okay," I say. "I won't."

"Your belt's still undone, by the way."

He's right. I laugh.

"It is what it is," I say.

He laughs.

"Maybe that's what you were laughing at."

"Probably," I say, shaking my head. What was I laughing at?

The room is bright, all the colors of the walls and furniture are saturated and in bloom.

This is life on the big screen.

This is life larger than life itself.

This is Life Plus.

Life Extra.

Life Extra, a Registered Trademark.

Life Extra TM is a Registered Trademark of Konroy Electric.

Martin Konroy is next to me, a rich young bachelor with all sorts of prospects and resources.

Marty Konroy threatened to bash his head against a wall until he stopped thinking earlier today.

It's almost funny.

Almost.

Marty isn't hurting himself now though, that's good. He isn't descending back into depression, that's good too. But, what is he doing?

He's turning on the TV, he's streaming to it from his phone.

Electronic, spasmodic bleeps and bloops.

"Thought I'd put on some IDM, I love listening to it while I trip."

This isn't the kind of music I usually listen to, but in this state it's totally hypnotizing. There's a depth to it hidden in the space between each note. There's a vibrant, unique beauty to its near structureless bursts of sound and its erratic thumping beat.

I close my eyes and see swirls of every conceivable color. The colors dance as though they were carefully choreographed animations, synchronized perfectly with the chaotic lurches of the music.

I get lost in the spectacle of it all. The song ends, a new one begins. The whole process restarts.

Songs pass over me one after another after another in alarmingly quick succession. I feel a buzz in my pocket. I should do something about that. Some time.

My body and limbs have lost all tension and solidity and volition and I find myself slowly sliding down the couch, at this point my ass is half hanging off. Somehow it sort of feels right though, like, right?

I open my eyes just far enough to see that the high has finally hit Marty. He's vibing, but simultaneously he appears to be concentrating extremely hard on every passing note. Every new beat is a revelation to him. Every revelation is a sea of potential that leads to an infinitely branching path of decisions and their correlating infinite output of outcomes.

His tolerance hasn't numbed him completely, he seems pretty far gone after all.

I remember suddenly that I'm meant to be taking care of him and doing something about that seems important, vital, urgent.

"How are you feeling Marty?"

"Like I've lost everything that ever existed and more."

"Oh."

Did I fuck this up already?

"But also like I've gained a new infinity."

"Yeah?"

Or did I do everything perfectly?

"Yeah. I'm starting to see it, I think. Just because I failed doesn't mean I should stop. All of life it's like, well it's dangerous isn't it? But it's like, it's something really like, it's unique isn't it?"

He's right.

"So unique, yeah. So special. So... essential."

"Essential," he's nodding. "Exactly. It's essential, right, but it's infinitely fractured. It's impossible."

"It's fucking impossible Marty. It's so fucking impossible."

"Yeah and like, like you said, like, it's how you react to that isn't it?"

"Yeah it's like, it's impossible, but it's like, do I care that it's impossible or do I want to reach for the divine anyway?"

"Yeah it's like you better reach man or else what are you even doing? Like the process is worth more than the result anyway, do you see what I mean?"

"No." I admit.

"Oh."

"But do you mean, like, you reach for the divine because like you'll never reach it, but the struggle is the point? The struggle is what's beautiful, the struggle is pure light, and giving up? Giving up is pitch black. It's nothing. It's worse than nothing it's a wasted infinity."

"That's exactly what I mean."

"Then, yeah, I get it."

He nods, I nod. We get it.

At some point I realize I'm sitting on the carpet, not the couch anymore. Neither of us seem to mind.

We sit quiet for an eternity as the twisting soundscapes of the music add life to the surroundings.

I can see now that color is an illusion. Every color bleeds into the one beside it, infects it, affects it, rejects it. Color is fake. It's more real than anything. It's beautiful. Taken in totality the colors present in the room create a postmodern collage worthy of the Louvre.

It's gorgeous as all life is. But dangerous also. An attempt at reaching the divine, utterly doomed to fail.

But what even is the divine?

"What even is the divine?"

"God, if you believe in that sort of thing."

"I don't," I say.

"Nor do I."

"Then what is the divine?"

He thinks for ten hours, maybe twenty.

"Ryan."

The room dims, colors desaturate, their lack of realness having little bearing on their actions. Everything looks so tacky now. It's all wobbling, just a little bit, but doing so in these desaturated tones gives everything a slightly spooky air.

The patterns in Marty's fur morph and simplify as I look at him until he's all horizontal stripes.

"It's not Ryan," I say.

"How is it not Ryan? We both want him."

"I don't."

I don't think about it, I just say it. It's just a fact, plain and simple. Why was that such a difficult thing to pinpoint before now? It makes no sense to me.

"You don't?"

"With all your history? All your drama? No light can escape that. You need to break free from it. He does. I do too. I'm too connected. I'm part of it now. This drama and context and past-made-present is a mass of shadows, he needs sunbeams. Those shadows are part of me. And of you, and him." My muzzle flutters open and shut uselessly, struggling to cap off my thoughts succinctly. "It wouldn't work. Shadow plus shadow equals very dark."

He giggles. "Eloquently put."

"Yeah," I laugh. "But do you see what I'm saying?"

"I think so. You don't want him because of all this," his paws gesture generally at everything and everywhere and all of time. "Would it be different without the drama? Without the history?"

I shrug.

"Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe."

He looks down and leans forward. His fur rustles and sways as he pushes through the air and leaves a trail of light behind him.

"I should have trusted my instincts, not been so controlled by jealousy. This all could have been so much easier."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you didn't even want Ryan, not really, and I put you through all this and... and now here we are."

"Why do you still want him?"

"He's everything."

"He's not."

"He's the divine."

"He's not."

"Why not?"

"You'll never have him."

"And you can never reach the divine."

We did agree to that didn't we?

What are we even saying?

All this flowery language is just concept, context without concrete. I can carve through it.

"Don't chase him."

"Okay."

"That easy?"

"That easy."

It can't be that easy.

He's a sociopath.

He's lying to me or at least he's holding back the truth. He always was, he probably always will be, apart from that moment he was crying without the theatrics and all he had was his pain, naked and pure.

That's the only time I've ever seen the real Martin Konroy.

Marty is a character, nothing more. For now I just accept that. Perhaps this trip will reveal how to fix him, if he can be fixed. He picks up his phone and changes the music.

"Thought I'd put on something spacey. The electronic stuff is a bit intense. I've got this shoegazey, dreamy playlist I'll put on if that's okay."

"Sure."

It goes on. Colors gain intensity again. The music is low tempo and noisy in a nice sort of way. It's soothing and introverted and intoxicating and It fills me up. I feel warm, alive. So alive.

How did I never notice how alive I was before now? How alive we all are?

How wonderful. How amazing. How marvelous. How majestic.

Billions of people living together on a spinning sphere, struggling but striving to survive.

"Were you ever seriously interested in me?" Marty asks.

"Yeah," I say. "I was."

"Was?"

"Was."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did I ever interest you? I'm curious. What did I do right? I've done so much wrong I- I don't know."

"You were suave, sexy too. Confident. Opinionated. A good conversationalist and..."

"And what?"

"It's silly."

"No, go on, please."

"Well, it's just that.."

"Just that what?"

"Well, you're a great kisser." Silence. "Like a really, really great kisser."

"No kidding?"

"I'm serious."

"Huh. I guess that's something to be proud of at least."

"Absolutely."

Our words vanish into the music. I close my eyes for just a quarter of a second, losing myself to the wavy, rhythmic vocals steadily chugging along in beautiful, pained croons. The darkness behind my eyelids wobbles in time with music.

I feel something rub against my arm and I open my eyes. He's sat next to me on the carpet. His face fills my field of view. He has this lazy smile and he's glowing. His light eclipses the room, making everything else appear shaded by comparison.

He's pretty.

If only he weren't such a cunt.

"You know," he says. "I'm really glad you stayed."

His words come out in slow motion, drenched in reverb. His eyes are bright and clear. He smells good. I hadn't really noticed that before. Why hadn't I noticed that before?

I was so blind. We all were.

Is there a word for blind, but instead of not seeing you can't smell? I don't know. There should be if there isn't.

"Yeah?"

His smile widens.

"Yeah, of course. Tripping with you, it's like... It just makes so much sense, you know?"

Do I know? I already established that getting high was... what was it? I know I was thinking about this earlier. What was I thinking? What did I decide?

My face screws up, Marty notices.

Slowly, hesitantly he reaches out and brushes my cheek. I shiver.

"What's wrong Kale?"

"I don't know," I say. And I don't know.

"You don't know?"

"I don't know," I confirm.

"Then relax," he says.

And I do. I relax my muscles, I relax my body, I relax my mind. It feels great.

A fragment of context flits through my mind and it's the most important thing in this universe.

"Don't hurt yourself Marty."

"Kale..."

"I mean it," and then out of nowhere I'm at the edge of tears. I can't quite discern why, but at the same time I know it makes total sense.

"Listen, wolf, I'm not going to hurt myself."

"You promise?"

Five albums play in the seconds it takes him to respond.

"I promise."

Mission accomplished, right? Mission accomplished.

This feels wonderful, otherworldly. I've entered the good timeline.

I'm crying, but they're good tears, happy ones. I smile at Marty, his expression wavers and so does the corona of light around him, varying in intensity and hue, pulsing. He spreads his arms and questions me with a glance, unable to hold my gaze for long. I nod. He wraps his arms around me and holds me tight, he nuzzles into my shoulder. I let him.

He's warm, and soft.

I stare at the TV. It shows the album artwork that correlates to whatever song is currently playing. Right now it's a deep red square with the artist name and album name in white text at the top, but the depth of the color represented in subtly differing shades across the cover is absorbing. The tones seem to flow and mix and blur and sharpen, waves and patterns and impressionist blotches. It's everything. It's nothing at all. With that alongside the moaning, lethargic, heartfelt music, I'm totally enchanted.

My head is bobbing. The sounds and visuals morph into sermons about the depths of human existence, life and love and all that good stuff. It's wondrous and awesome, in the truest sense of the word. It's terrifying.

I can only hear snippets of the sermons, but it's enough to realize this knowledge is forbidden, or at least it's exclusive. Most don't know it. Most never will. Most who learn it won't believe it. Everything, absolutely everything, is connected. We are all just fragments of the world-soul. When we act against the common good we're acting in the interest of self-annihilation, we become like a virus that needs to be cured or cut out completely.

Love. And, oh, love. I'm full of it. Absolutely bursting. Absolutely glowing with the stuff. If you knew how to look you'd see. Confused, damaged, repressed love. It's obvious, honestly. I'm sure you've seen it. The truth, that is. I'm sure you know already. You don't need telling. All those mental barriers I built so high and kept for so long... It's almost time to tear them down. I'm so close now. So close. I'll be ready soon. So soon. Tomorrow? Tomorrow.

But today? Today's a whole different day. Today's a whole different story.

Marty lifts his head from my shoulder, his nose brushing against the extremities of the fur on my neck and cheeks. I can feel the vibrations traveling along every individual strand. How did I never feel this before? There was so much to feeling, so much to existence, that I was so woefully incapable of experiencing until now. That is a tragedy. But this? This is a triumph.

My tail tingles and twitches at the subtlest of motions, all my senses exaggerated and exemplified beyond anything I could have imagined. Then again, my imagination was so limited back then. Now it is limitless.

"This is your first time. Are you feeling good Kale?"

I nod. "Yeah. Wondrous, bordering on transcendent."

"Good," he says. "I'm glad. It should be close to full intensity by now."

I can feel it.

It feels like...

It feels like everything is so important, yet nothing has to matter. It's all up to us individually and as a group to make everything right, or to do nothing at all. It's all up to us.

"It is."

"Good," he says again, but I've lost track of the conversation.

The music playlist ends to be replaced with what I may have previously called silence, but it's nothing like silence. Silence is absence. Silence is pure. Silence is hard to attain on earth. Impossible, maybe. There's a variety of electronic hums, the distant sound of cars, people outside and around, there's our heartbeats and our breathing.

It is its own song. A cacophony of quiet things, all playing in unison, out of time and out of key and so very brilliant.

I'm quite high.

The thought rings out loud and clear in my mind, coming seemingly from nowhere.

How much acid did I actually take? One tab. That seems like a low dose, or at most an average one, in theory. In practice I have no idea. It was one tab, just one tab, but are all tabs made equal? I mean, it's just paper, right? With the drug soaked in or something like that. If that's the case then one tab is a meaningless metric. The strength could vary wildly from supplier to supplier.

I asked him how much he would take, he said two tabs. He gave me a meaningless metric.

It was such a pointless deception. Marty being Marty. Is this all that he is? Is this all he can ever amount to? Lies piled on top of lies so high the real him is totally buried. All he is is his dependence on Ryan. All he is is his worst flaws.

No. I refuse to believe that. There is hope for him. There is always hope.

We are all together part of the world-soul. People can be good. People can do bad things over and over, but catch themselves and they can stop and they can change and improve and ultimately they can be forgiven. That's what I want to believe. That's what I choose to believe.

Marty is more than the sum of his worst parts. Or even the sum of his best parts. He is more. He is part of the one, the world-soul. As we all are. We all glow, yes, but we can all shine too. For some it takes more effort than for others, that's all.

I want to tell him this, all of this, to communicate that I believe in him, that he is me and I am him and I love him as a brother, as a twin, as a friend, as an enemy, as a lover, as anyone. Everyone should feel love and feel loved until the point they have proven themselves utterly irredeemable. Marty has not passed that threshold yet, not for me. I hope he never will.

I want to tell him everything, but when I look at him and part my muzzle no words come out. My eyelids are heavy. I'm tired, yet so awake. He looks into my eyes and his muzzle parts too, slowly, gradually, but no words come out of there either. He tilts his head and slowly, so slowly, his muzzle edges toward mine.

His aura intensifies until it's so bright it washes out the rest of the room entirely. It washes out the rest of the world. All context self-destructs in an instant. Why I'm here or how I'm here or even when, I no longer know, but I am here. I am here. I am now.

Marty is trying to kiss me, and looking now into his sad, shimmering eyes, remembering one thing and one thing only, the taste of his tongue, I think I must be trying to kiss him too. I must be otherwise my head wouldn't be moving towards his, otherwise our tongues wouldn't be touching and tasting and tangling, otherwise our muzzles wouldn't be locked and I wouldn't have closed my eyes losing myself in our connection. That wouldn't be happening, but it is.

Kissing him feels different like this. Fuzzier and more clear all at once. I can feel and track every motion. Every taste bud on my tongue gives its own individual bit of information which I parse one by one in the space of a quarter of an eighth of a nanosecond. I can taste him with absolute lucidity, and he tastes good. Conversely, we are clumsier, more erratic, less precise in our motions than usual. Still, it's undeniable he's a great kisser. The push the pull the give and the take all delivered in perfect proportions at masterfully timed intervals, all thanks to him. When we come apart we look in each others eyes and find lust. We become nothing more than our most primal desires. Names and histories stop mattering. All we are is a wolf and an otter getting hot and messy.

He pushes me as if to send me backward, sprawling, onto the carpet. I resist and push him down instead. He relents with a wild grin. We keep kissing, no music to guide us other than the approving hum of hardware and wires. Time melts and melds along with our muzzles. We rightfully fuse into a greater part of the world-soul than either of us could be apart. Time flows backwards and forwards and backwards, or maybe it ceases to exist entirely. It certainly no longer matters.

At some point we're lying on our backs next to one another. I'm panting. Maybe he is too but I can't hear him over my own fevered breathing. The blank, monotone ceiling becomes an art piece unto itself. What does it say about society? More than I can easily express in the infinitesimally small amount of time I have to observe it.

My phone buzzes. It triggers something in my brain. I frown. I put my paw in my pocket and clutch it

I've made a mistake.

Again.

Big surprise.

But what was it?

No.

Mistakes.

With an 's'.

Plural.

But what were they? Or what are they?

I want to collect my thoughts, to focus, to remember, to concentrate, to figure things out to...

I keep ending up walking circles in my mind. Or falling down pitfalls leading elsewhere. I want to know what, I want to know why but I-

I what exactly?

I was upset about something. Or someone was.

No, get more basic than that.

I'm at Marty's obviously. We just made out. I'm not quite sure why, but it was fun.

We came here because Ryan had... yeah, okay. And then I got high why?

Because it was the easy choice.

Because it meant I didn't have to think. It meant I didn't have to hurt. It meant I didn't have to worry about what happened next.

I tried to justify it another way, to sweep it under the rug, but my reasons were selfish. Self preservation over all.

Since Adrian almost killed himself I've acted like there's nothing that matters more to me than the safety and well-being of others, but really that's a half-truth. In plain English, that's a lie. That whole mindset is a subconscious trauma response. What mattered to me more than anything was not having to go through that again. Not having to be witness to violence. Not having to be accessory to self-harm. All that blood. I-

I wish this was obvious to me before. What Adrian did damaged me. That I helped let it happen only hurt me more. That I almost didn't make it on time... That he almost...

Now I'm here. Now I'm running. Now I'm making bad decisions. Now I've got high with a sociopath in attempt to numb myself from future trauma. Better to trip and stay than leave and live sober with the possibility that he kills himself, more for my sake than his you understand. So I'm here, tripping. I got the fuck out of my head. It was the perfect solution to my problem, don't you see? If he kills himself now I'll barely even know it's happening.

Maybe that was the idea. If it was, the joke's on me. My mind is drifting, but it always comes back to him. This high won't save me from anything.

Clarity. I had so much clarity. What is it that I have now? Is this clarity? Or is it rage? Confusion? Despair? Trauma? What is this? What is it?

And my phone? My phone... Fuck, I've been getting texts for the last, how long? Thirty minutes, hour, two hours? How long has it been?

The butterflies in my stomach feel more like full grown birds. My paws are shaking with nervous energy, the world vibrates on an ever faster frequency. All of reality will shatter if I'm not careful. Everything depends on this. Everything depends on this.

On what?

On this.

I'm losing track. What was I thinking about?

It was-

Marty's paw is sliding under my shirt, he rubs small, sensual circles into my chest. It feels good, but-

No. Something is wrong here.

"Marty," I breathe.

"Kale."

I put my paw on his arm and he stops moving. We melt into a single being and then, just as fast, we split into a trillion tiny pieces.

A eureka moment. The floating light bulb switching on. I'm disassociating. Floating further and further away from point of context. I'm losing Myself. Myself with a capital M. I only hope that I won't spiral out so far that I can't see the big picture. When you're far enough out, absolutely anything looks like a pinprick.

I wish I could blame Marty for this, but I can only blame myself. I took the tab willingly.

But I'll be okay, I just need to keep track of the big picture. The big picture...

Still, I'm curious.

"How much acid did you give me?" I ask.

"One tab," he says. The most obvious answer in the world. The continued, pointless deception.

"Yeah, but, come on, you know what I mean. How much?"

He frowns.

"I guess they weren't the weakest tabs."

That's all he says. He seems to lose interest in the question, in his words, and then the world. He drifts into the music of our beating hearts and the humming electronics.

I don't blame him, really. Did he intentionally give me a large dosage? Maybe. Maybe he didn't even think about it, considering how used to this stuff he is. Maybe it doesn't matter. Or, maybe I just don't give a shit anymore.

I lose interest in my own question and lose myself in my inner world. We share relative silence, bodies pressed together, until another question pops into my head.

"What are we doing here?"

He didn't expect that. I didn't expect that. I've stopped expecting anything. He keeps his paw where it is.

"Did I do something wrong?"

His voice is a meek whisper, dripping with anxious tension.

Did he do something wrong?

I can't stay focused on any one thing for quite long enough to answer that.

"Wait," he says. "Don't answer that. I know the answer. I've done a lot of things wrong. I'm a fuck up, I have been since I was a kid."

Was that the big picture?

His words seem to echo off the walls, the end of his sentence repeating over and over.

"How was it, growing up with a family like yours?"

Our eyes meet again and it feels like we're seeing each other, I mean really seeing each other, for the first time. The layers and layers and layers of dishonesty that he wraps himself in all fall away, finally. Underneath he's a wild animal. Hurt, innocent, scared, lashing out in every direction

"My mother was a saint," he states. And I can see her in my mind's eye. A white furred otter with angel wings, glowing, her corona brighter than all the rest, her light outshone the sun in Marty's eyes. "She killed herself when I was twelve." He lifts a paw and traces a finger along his neck. "She slit her own throat with a knife, like this. One decisive motion. It was no accident. It was no bluff, nothing like that bullshit I pulled earlier. She knew what she was doing. It was premeditated." When speaking about her he almost seems sober, it's as if all the mind-altering effects of the acid simply dissipate in the shadow of his mother's light.

I screw my eyes shut.

"I'm so sorry."

A pathetic platitude. But what else can I say?

Nothing. There's nothing to say. The past haunts the present just as the present haunts the future. There's nothing to do about that. All I can do is be here, with him. I can hear his pain, I can feel it myself. I can offer empathy. It's been a long time since she passed, but still it hurts. It always will.

My paw explores with touch alone and finds his fist. His fingers uncurl and our paws fasten around each other. A simple gesture of solidarity.

"I didn't discover the body. I didn't even see it. I just came home from school one day and she was gone. Dead. I'm not sure if it was better that way or not, to never see her again."

Under my eyelids I find Adrian waiting for me, drenched in blood, at the edge of death.

I open my eyes. The ceiling swirls.

"You're better off this way. Trust me."

He squeezes my paw.

"I do. I hope one day you can trust me too."

"One day," I say without really knowing what the words mean. Days are arbitrary, time is an illusion, trust is sacred.

"Yeah," he says, voice heavy with resignation. He doesn't believe that day will ever come. "As for the rest of my family, my sister managed to keep me sane for years, then she went headfirst into the family business. She committed hard. We stopped talking so much after that." He laughs derisively. "Maybe that's why I'm not so sane anymore."

I nod at the ceiling, imagining the constantly forming and dissipating patterns are an extension of Marty and that they, not his physical form laying beside me, are what is actually talking to me.

"And your dad?"

"My father's a cunt. He's a homophobic, chauvinistic, money driven capitalist who has never said a kind thing in his life to me or my mother. He'd defend me from harm or slander, sure, give me money, give me good schooling, provide for me, but only to keep up appearances. Only to defend the family name. Whatever you think of me, he's worse. He's awful. He drove my mother to suicide and didn't shed a tear." He pauses, sighs, wriggles his paw free from mine and rolls on his side, laying an arm across me. When he speaks again he speaks softly. "I know I'm privileged, I have access to money and opportunities that others don't, but that doesn't mean I had a good childhood. It doesn't even mean I've had a good life. I haven't had a good anything really, not until Ryan. Ryan was, is, everything I ever wanted or needed, but I fucked that up too."

Marty's history helps put everything into perspective. He is not a soul in an empty void, absent of past or future. His life hasn't been all sunshine, if he's telling the truth. For once I find myself believing him. Here and now there is no reason to lie. We are adrift in the cosmos, invisible, infinitesimal dots of matter in an ever-shifting, infinite aether. He's telling the truth. If he wasn't Ryan would expose him the moment I get the chance to ask, and then he would be both adrift and alone. Totally alone.

But when it comes to Ryan he doesn't get it. He doesn't see. He can't.

Ryan is no longer a person to Marty, he's a symbol, an icon. Ryan has become enshrined in a narrative the otter has created for himself. He's unwittingly become the central figure in Marty's self-made mythology. The cult of Ryan. Membership: one.

The Ryan that Marty has become so obsessed with is not a real person, he's a projection, nothing more.

Marty may have lost himself in a web of ill-founded beliefs, but he is not hopeless. He can be found again. I have to believe that. I choose to believe that.

We are one, all of us. All that we do should go toward the healing and growth of the world-soul. Marty is a part of me as much as I am part of him as much as we are both a part of all life on this planet and beyond. I won't let him rot.

"There are other people out there for you," I say.

His aura dims, then brightens.

"Maybe there is," he says.

He moves his paw across me until it finds its way under my shirt again. It feels so good to be touched, my senses all firing at two-hundred percent, but-

"I'm not that person Marty."

Easily spoken. Easily meant. Why was all of this so difficult before?

He sighs again.

"Yeah. I know." He doesn't move his paw. "That doesn't mean we can't enjoy the pleasures of company. I don't want to think about Ryan, I want to feel good." His tail settles across my legs. "And, well, I've found being touched feels pretty fucking great while tripping."

He's not wrong. The sensation of his fur brushing against mine is heightened and distorted simultaneously. Everything is extreme and abstract at the same time.

He moves his paw across my chest and I let him. The ceiling explodes into radiant multi-colored light beams.

It feels so good.

If life isn't about feeling good, what is it about? The good of the collective of course - the good of the world-soul - but feeling good as an individual is important too. Is this the big picture I was so concerned with? Is this what it was all about?

Touch, feeling, pleasure, joy.

I let out a little grunt of appreciation, giving myself away. He giggles, shifts position and peels my top back, pulling it over my head and exposing my chest completely. A warmth and tension blossoms at my groin. The primal, passionate animal inside of me knows what it wants, it's howling for it. To disregard it completely would be an affront to nature, to pleasure itself.

I tear my eyes away from the light show on the ceiling and look at Marty. His laughter brings a glow to his eyes. His corona has changed color to a blooming lilac. It's the color of his passion. It is lust and sex drive and anticipation all at once. It's alluring.

There's a tug at the corner of my consciousness. An encoded signal. I can't quite make it out. Something like... Something like: you're running. Something like: you're sinking. That's what it says. But no, I'm lying down.

Why though? Why am I even here? What was the big picture?

There's me, there's Marty, Ryan, Adrian, Eve. There's something... There's something to it. If I could just...

I can't quite put it together. I don't want to. Why would I right now? This feels so good.

I slide a paw under Marty's shirt, returning the favor he paid me. He gasps at my slightest touch. I maneuver myself into a kneeling position and take off his shirt. I lean forward, eager. Overeager maybe. We kiss, but it's all too short lived. He pulls away after barely any time has passed and grins. I reach instinctively for his thick, sturdy tail and stroke it. I can feel my dick pressing hard against the constraints of my underwear and I have an almost overwhelming desire to free it.

Marty's sexy, he's charming, and a great kisser, but I have no interest in him past the physical. Present and history are a mist to me in this moment, but he's fucked up. I know that at the very least, I can feel it. Then again, here and now, that fact only turns me on. It's a bad reaction, a terrible impulse. It comes from a destructive, hedonistic, primal part of me that at most times is nowhere to be seen. Right now it's all I have.

Or...

I see myself suddenly, shirtless with Marty, touching, kissing, hard as a rock, dick begging for release, pushed down against my leg, leaving a sticky patch on the inside of my boxers. What am I looking at exactly?

Lust. Pent up sexual energy at the verge of release. Two guys ready to relieve a little tension, and god knows I have a lot of tension to relieve.

Do I? I do.

Something about Marty falters. His ears twitch, his tail too, he looks away and then back. His eyes lose their sheen.

"Kale, are you sure about this?"

He's the one asking me. It's ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous. It makes perfect sense. All of it.

Everything was thick fog. I was looking out into the distance, searching, I couldn't see a thing. Now I'm up close and seeing clearly what's right in front of me.

All there is is life. All there is is desire. All there is is the delicate balance of ecstasy and despair. We are just souls walking the tightrope, trying not to fall.

"Why shouldn't I?" I ask. "We're single, high and horny."

"But..."

"But what?"

"I'm still caught up on Ryan, and you..."

"I what?"

"Oh come on. I mean, I should have seen it sooner, but you? Really? You're not quite that blind are you?"

No. I suppose I'm not.

"I was."

"And now?"

"No."

"So why are we doing this?"

"You're here, I'm here. It feels good. We both could do with feeling good. And, well..."

"And what?"

"The future? That's for tomorrow. In truth it's scary. Everything could go wrong." When did I become so openly vulnerable? "But we're here, and we're now, and this is happening."

When did things start making sense?

Or, was it-?

When did things stop making sense?

Or, is there even any difference?

More importantly, when did my underwear come off?

All good questions.

All overshadowed by the otter's tongue tracing a path from the underside of my balls to the tip of my cock.

Oh my fucking god.

It feels unreal, incredible. The sensation surpasses the physical. It's mental, it's emotional, it's borderline fucking spiritual as he licks up my pre, repositions himself and gradually takes my entire length into his muzzle.

Space and time are mere suggestions. Him and I are only vague concepts. All of existence is boiled down to one point of space, one feeling. It's all cock and muzzle. It's all humping and pumping, licking and sucking, teasing and huffing, moaning and groaning. It's all so much. Too much. Not enough.

It lasts forever. It lasts absolutely fucking forever. All of goddamn time. It lasts no time at all. It's over before it began. It takes a thousand days. It takes twenty seconds. I don't know, I don't care.

All I know is I'm blasting his throat with thick spurts of my cum, body raptured by an orgasm that exists beyond words, beyond explanation. It's easily the most intense, most overwhelmingly euphoric ten seconds of my life. That entire time I'm spurting into his mouth and he's lapping it all down like a good boy and oh fucking fuck. My god. It's more than great, it's...

Its over.

I must have been moaning loud. I'm panting now.

Marty lifts his head and licks his muzzle, eyes greeting mine with a fiery stare.

"Delicious," he says. "Seemed like you enjoyed that quite a bit."

"Oh, I did," I say. "You need to try it."

I'm pulling at his pants before even making a conscious decision. All that makes sense to me is to share this transcendental experience with the one who graced me with it. I get to his underwear and pull that down too, revealing his dick only at half mast. No matter. Nothing a tongue can't solve. I get to licking.

"Eager pup," he growls with this cute little growl. I would usually bristle at being called such a name, but it's of no consequence to me now. This is more important than sub and dom, top or bottom, this is divine. "I've had sex while tripping before though wolf, you don't have to rush things."

He pulls me up so my head is level with his and we kiss again, and I can taste my cum and my dick on his tongue, and it drives me wild. Even so recently spent I still feel a rush of rabid lust and horniness. I'm instinctual, feral, borderline rabid.

There's a buzz close by and I look to the source. It comes from my pants, the ones sprawled across the floor a foot or so away.

A chill runs through me.

This means something. What does it mean? It's important. I know that much. I feel that much.

I get up, pick up my pants and fish through the pockets without a word, pulling out my phone. The screen is cracked - seeing that makes my head hurt - of course the screen is cracked. The screen is off, of course the screen is off.

It's my phone. I had forgotten. It had stopped mattering. It had stopped meaning.

No, no, no. This was important. This is important.

It's-

The big picture, it was-

I-

...

I'm-

I'm starting to

oh god

I'm-

I'm starting to panic.

What the fuck did I think I was doing? I-! I-!

Stop.

Breathe.

"Hey, Marty, I need to check up on something. Mind if I use your bathroom for a bit of privacy?"

I was a fool before for thinking I was as high as I was going to get. Even now I'm only falling deeper into the trip, only losing more and more of-

"Of course," he says, a sense of curiosity obviously present in his tone at my sudden shift in priorities. "No problem."

He's nervous. Upset, even. It's obvious.

He stopped hiding his emotions from me a while ago. How long ago? How long have I been here how? How long has it been since I took that tab?

Oh fuck. I feel like I might throw up.

Walking is more difficult than I remember it being. I stagger and sway my way to the bathroom and shut the door behind me and twist the lock shut, securing myself in solitude.

I sit on the toilet, lid down, and stare at my phone. The screen is blank, cracked. I'm terrified to press that button and light it up. Absolutely terrified.

This is important. This matters.

What the fuck did I think I was-?

Focus.

Fuck. I'm gonna have to do it.

Marty sucked my dick not five minutes ago. Before that he was threatening to blow his brains out. Before that I found out he was a manipulator and a liar. Before that I-

What the fuck am I doing I-

I-

Breathe.

Marty was- Ryan has- Adrian is-

Closed eyes. There's color and shapes. Open eyes.

I access my phone.

Four texts. Three from Ryan. One from Adrian.

I'm here because- I'm here because-

Manipulation, depression, self-harm, suicide, lies, lies and more lies. The blood. So much blood.

The big picture.

What was it? Was that it? Is this it?

I-

I check the time. It's been two and a half hours since I took that tab.

Two and a half fucking hours.

Two and a half hours and I've been totally out of it and

and

and

oh fuck

This is what it felt like at the start. Is this what it's like? A bad trip.

Marty said I don't want to have one.

I don't want to have one.

The world is twisting in on itself, becoming mangled.

I want to throw up.

I'm hunched over the sink, dry heaving. Nothing comes out. It's just a feeling. It's not real.

What is real?

What's going on?

My phone buzzes. Another text from Adrian.

Oh god. Oh god oh god.

I can't. I can't I can't.

What am I doing?

Why am I here?

I'm hyperventilating.

The me in the mirror looks misshapen. It's not me. That's not me in the mirror. That's a monster.

It's as red as it is gray. It's eyes are black holes. Nothing piled on nothing. Voids that sucks in everything around them.

It's not a wolf, but it is. It's not a fox, but it is.

Is it-? What is it doing? Is it-? It's holding a phone. Or is that-? Is that a razor blade? Or-?

Blood.

All that blood.

It's covered in it, it's-

It's not.

It's-

Kalie.

It says.

Kalie, don't look away.

But I have to. I can't take it.

There's a thud.

What did I do? I-

Fuck.

My head hurts I-

Oh god.

What's happening?

I dropped my phone fuck I bend and pick it up oh god my paw is shaking I stand and the mirror me is normal now but no something is wrong it's smiling instead of frowning I don't understand what's happening won't somebody tell me what's happening please oh god I don't like this I try to leave but I can't the monster has locked me in here no no no I locked the door don't be stupid Kale don't be crazy you're just tripping it's okay you're just tripping Kale there's no monster it's just you and it's just you and oh god it's just you and Marty and this fucking phone filled with memories and moments and endless possible futures and don't even yeah don't even think about it just yeah just you know what to do okay yes I'm here I don't want to be I want to get out I fumble with the lock and it slips through my fingertips and I'm definitely hyperventilating and is it just me or is the lock glowing like it's white hot like it's on fire like it could burn through my fur and my skin and my flesh and oh god don't turn around whatever you do that's where the mirror is that's where the monster is don't look in your left paw whatever you do that's where the phone is that's where the future is oh god how what why I breathe breathe breathe in out in out breathe it's not working breathe in out in breathe it's not fucking working breathe in out breathe you're just tripping kale the lock comes loose I push the door open I'm free I'm free I'm-

Breathe.

Marty's eyes widen as he sees me burst out of the bathroom. He must have heard me struggling with the lock and come to investigate, he's halfway across the room.

I can't have been in the bathroom long, but it feels as though I've entered a new era.

I haven't read the texts.

If I don't read them they don't really exist.

What am I doing? What am I doing here?

This is fucked. This is all fucked.

"Oh, Kale! Are you-?"

"Marty, this is, this is-!"

Wait. There, right beside Marty, on the table. Do you see it?

You see it don't you?

The gun.

The gun is right there.

Right where he left it.

I went to the bathroom.

He stood up.

He walked to the table with the gun and-

I burst out of the bathroom.

The gun is lying there.

Right there.

Marty could just reach over and grab it.

No. What are you even-?

There's nothing to worry about. The gun isn't loaded. There are no bullets.

Kale. Kalie. Wolfie. Wolf boy. Kalie, Kalie, Kalie. Marty is a liar. Don't you see? He's lied before. Many times. Many many many many times. Why believe a word he's said? Maybe he merely forgot to load the gun earlier. Maybe he loaded it while you were in the bathroom.

Yes, yes, and maybe the first bullet has your name on it. Yeah. Maybe the bullet says Kaleb. Or maybe it say's Kalie. Or Kale. Or Wolf Boy. Or Gullible Cunt. Yeah. That last one.

Maybe.

Heh.

But, maybe not. Maybe, Kale, maybe, what if, actually, maybe, that the bullet has his own name on it. Maybe it says Marty on that bullet. Maybe it says Martin Konroy. Maybe it says Rich Psycho. Imagine that Kalie.

Maybe, think about it, maybe he took the LSD to steel himself. Maybe the high has set in enough now that he's ready to splatter the walls with his brains.

Heh.

Think of that Kalie. Think of that. Think of Marty killing himself. Think of Marty putting a bullet through his own head. Bang. Dead. No more Marty. Never again. The end. The fucking end.

Think of that Kalie. Think of all that blood. Think of the lifeless corpse you'd be left with.

The monster is in my head.

The monster from the mirror.

The me, but not me.

The him, but not him.

Get it out.

Get it out.

"Kale." Marty clicks his fingers in front of my eyes. "Kale!"

"Huh?"

"I was talking to you. You totally zoned out. You dropped your phone too. Are you okay?"

He tries to pass me the phone.

The cracks in the screen seep blood. The blood isn't real, but it's there. The blood isn't there, but it's real.

I don't want to but I have to. I reach out gingerly and take my phone.

Tiny claws emerge from the cracks and dig into my paw, it won't let go.

The phone is a vessel of present and past. I am it's source of energy, it's conduit. It's using me. It wants to hurt me. It wants to show me things I don't want to see, tell me things I don't want to know, remind me of things I don't-

Remind me of...?

Oh Kale. Oh Kalie. You'll unlock the phone won't you? You'll unlock the phone.

Just let the otter kill himself. You don't even like him. He's already sucked your cock. He's outlived his usefulness.

The monster. The voice. It somehow transferred from the mirror to my phone. I know it did. It must have. And now... And now I have to kill it.

"Kale? What's wrong? Kale? You're here with me. Try to focus."

Kalie boy. Wolfie.

Don't listen to the otter.

He's a liar. He poisoned you with this drug. He has a gun. He's going to use it.

Oh.

We're lucky Kalie.

Look.

He walked up to you, clicked in your face, and left the gun on the table.

Don't give him a chance.

Grab it.

Threaten him. Subdue him.

He will kill you if he has the chance. He will kill you. Pick up the gun.

I take a step toward it.

"Kale? Are you even listening to me?"

"That gun," I say, pointing. I take another half step. I'm closer to it than he is.

"What about the gun? We already... oh. God, no Kale. No. I wasn't going to- oh god. Is that what you thought? I got up because it sounded like you were struggling in there. It was nothing to do with the- I don't even have any bullets, it's empty," he takes a step. "I'll show-"

"No!"

He stops moving. Stares wide-eyed.

I go to the table. I pick up the gun.

It's heavy. It's cold.

It feels so wrong in my paw.

It feels like death.

Monster machine in one paw, murder machine in the other.

I need to check it for bullets. How did he do that again? I can't concentrate. Everything is wobbling, just a little bit, but it's wobbling. All of it.

Pull the trigger. Just pull the trigger Kalie. Then you'll know whether it's loaded or not.

Shut up, just "Shut the fuck up!"

I said that out loud. That was stupid.

Marty looks terrified.

I can't check the gun without both paws free, but the phone-monster has burrowed into my flesh.

I'm part of you Kalie. You can't cast me off. I'm part of you. You gullible cunt.

You fucked up, you know? Do you even remember? Of course you don't you self-serving asshole.

Your friends need you and you're ignoring them. Don't you see Kale? Don't you see? You are the monster. You are the fucking monster.

No.

No.

You don't see anything do you? You really don't. You feeble minded dolt. You really don't get it Kalie.

Fine then.

I'll show you.

The screen lights up, it buzzes and it buzzes. The monster is trying to break free. My heart is thumping. My head is pounding. I'm confused and scared.

The cracks in the screen remind me of something. Something awful. Something I can't quite bring to mind right now. Something I can't remember.

Can't I? I-

I can't let the monster break free.

I throw my phone to the floor, miraculously it flies from my paw without leaving gaping wounds in the trail of the monster's claws. It thuds against the carpet, unscathed. I grab the gun's barrel and bring the butt of the gun crashing down against the buzzing phone, hard.

There's a loud crunch as the phone caves in on itself. The cracks spiral out and expand until they envelop the entire screen. Small bits of glass shoot off in random directions. I raise the gun. The screen is black. The phone has stopped moving. The voice is gone.

It's dead.

The monster is dead.

Marty stands there, mouth open, stunned.

"What the fuck was that about?"

I check the gun for bullets, easily remembering how Marty did so earlier with my newfound peace of mind. It's empty. Of course it's empty.

I put the gun down and rub my temples.

"I had to smash it," I say. "It was evil."

I feel a weight lifting.

I should feel good.

I should feel so good.

I should, but...

But what?

I don't remember.

I-

I won't.

He regards me with an expression of frozen stupor that lasts five years minimum, then his face lights up. His muzzle contorts. He smirks.

"Yeah," he says. "Makes sense."