FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Everything is a blur. Was a blur. Will be.

It's all so...

It's all so simple, so why isn't it making any sense?

Here I am. Now. Present.

All I need to do is-

Is...

Damn.

There's an answer, right there, but it slips away. It all slips away.

Seconds stretch to melted minutes made manifest by powers outside my reach, rendered obsolete by divine truths too tough to teach.

Foes vanquished. Minds ascended.

Only flesh and infinity, that's all this is.

Never needed anything more.

I look up at him. He looks down at me.

The simplicity, the purity of it all.

He's inside of me. I'm moaning.

Maybe I'm not such a strict top after all, or maybe I only like bottoming while high.

Wait. Huh?

It's all a blur.

It's all so...

How did I end up here?

I was...

There was a monster. In the mirror. In my phone.

The monster was defeated, then disposed of.

God, I was...

I was okay. And then I wasn't.

My brain was on fire.

What happened?

We moved here, into his bedroom. Or maybe I prepared first, or was that after we...? Or did I even prepare at all?

It's a struggle to put it all together; determining chronology a fool's errand.

Come on. You've got this.

We spent some time... What was it? Did he give me...? Or did I snort some...? Ah. And when was that? Ten minutes ago? Thirty? An hour?

A lifetime.

I can see my clothes folded in a pile on the floor. Did I do that? No, I'm not that neat. He must have folded them for me.

Was that when...? Or was it...? Does it matter?

No. No it doesn't.

Things don't have to fall neatly into place.

He's inside of me. I'm gripping the bed hard with one paw, stroking my dick with the other. My tail is threaded between his legs, wagging.

Just flesh and infinity.

Feeling and divinity.

Pleasure, not pain. No pain. No more. Not again. I've had enough of that. We all have.

Pain is only a mode, an option, one that I am done selecting.

Pure physical pleasure. That's what this is. I am a vessel, purely physically pleasuring him.

No, it's nothing so grandiose. I am a hole. But a good one.

I am absence, waiting to be present.

Or I was.

Here I am. Now. Present.

And then...

It slips away.

And he is...? He is an otter.

He had a name once. So did I, I think.

It all slips away.

His aura is brilliant lilac. If only I could see my own.

I am breathless and bred. Worn out in that spoken with a wink way. Exhausted in body and mind but so full of... full of what?

Well, cock at least.

He grunts and grins and pants and slams and I push and grind and pant and moan. He says...

He says: "I'm close."

As am I, it feels like I always have been.

"I'm closer," I tell him.

It's not simultaneous but it may as well be. Who finished first? It's a mystery

All colors and sounds and heightened howls. Feelings blown out of proportion, emotions made monument to stand evermore as eternal reminder of... of this. Whatever this is.

I'm covered in my own cum.

I'm full. Full of... full of what?

Well, cum at least.

He pulls out and sighs that utterly fulfilled, pleasured, perfect sigh that guys so often sigh after spurting their seed inside another's hole. I collapse back, lying still and sticky, chest heaving in deep, exasperated breaths of climax and completion.

I am here. Now. Pres-

The ceiling swirls. Everything is vibrating, if only slightly.

Here-

No.

There.

There I am, lying on the bed. There he is, above me, admiring his work. This is ludicrous, It's insane. I should be-

But I'm not.

No, really, I should be-

But I'm not.

I need to be-

But I'm not.

"Fuck, that was amazing."

But it's not him saying it, it's nobody. It's nothing. Nowhere.

That's all there is.

All there ever was.

All of infinity defined in an instant.

Not flesh, nor feeling. Nothing.

Was it always so simple?

The ultimate answer to the ultimate question.

All color collapses into black, then explodes into white, then settles back to normal. Whatever that is.

We are...

We are:

Nothing.

Nowhere.

Dimensions twist and turn, alternate co-existing realities clash and condense, all of everything everywhere stops its endless, formless expansion and for less than a moment I see it all. I see from further out than anyone has ever seen.

It's just a pinprick.

Everything, absolutely everything, is only a pinprick on a vast, rich and truly, utterly, unknowable canvas. A canvas we are doomed to not only never understand, but to never even glimpse in its totality. Not that seeing it would help, we wouldn't even begin to comprehend it.

Experience is drift. Existence itself is only a single entry on an endless spreadsheet. All that's even left to pretend to feel is the dull numbness of demise.

I know this now.

This is the truth.

This is the truth.

I was someone. I used to be. At least, that's what I thought. Now I understand the cold unreality of the facts. I am nothing. I am nowhere.

In this present, in this... whatever this is, I am a line of sight. A consciousness detached. An audience. Nothing more.

I am a viewer watching a performance of no consequence with no opportunity to affect it in any meaningful way.

For all the difference it makes, this may as well be fiction. Reality is worse than myth, it's a con. The greatest con ever devised.

A pillow finds it's way under what can only be loosely referred to as my head. I can see the room better. Or... we or... the...

What is this exactly? I thought for a moment it was my life, but looking now... that's laughable. No, this, all of this, is something else. It's other. It's...

Oh yes.

This otter, he's an actor. I've seen him before. Or... I'm seeing him now, at least.

I must have lost track for a moment, but this? What I'm seeing, what I've been seeing? This is performance.

It's nothing more than an elaborate play.

It never has been.

Scene one. Well, perhaps this is scene two. Scene one was the sex. But before that? Before that... Do you remember? Do we?

It doesn't matter.

Nothing.

Nowhere.

Scene something.

The setting, the stage, is hyper-real. It's a bedroom, one that looks lived in, replete with detail. All the knickknacks, the sprawl of it all, the raging battle between organization and chaos, that photograph, it makes the room feel so real it almost feels like I'm there.

The colors present in the room pop in and out of focus and meld and merge with one another in an absurdist fashion. Everything is wobbling, just slightly. This is life so real it has become surreal.

Center stage stands an otter.

The otter slides on some underwear, regarding me - no, not me, there is no me, not really - the otter regards his viewers with a smirk, looks the audience up and down and tells them: "I know I'm only a lay to you, but that was great. If you ever want to do that again just let me know." There's no response. He continues to examine us, looking over our every feature. He laughs. He says: "Wow, you're totally out of it. I must be pretty good, huh?"

There's a pause as though he's once again waiting for a reply, but none comes. Instead there's a faint sound of steps from somewhere offstage. The otter freezes. A door opens out of sight.

The otter's aura shifts from lilac to a pale blue as his neck twists toward the source of the sound.

"Ryan?"

The otter aims the question at the void beyond the stage. We're meant to imagine there is more out there than there actually is. More than props and costumes and staff. This is suspension of disbelief. We imagine what must be out there: the rest of the apartment. Then beyond that: the rest of the world. We're meant to believe there's more than we see. How strange. How wonderful.

The otter follows the sound, leaving the stage vacant of actors. A quietly orchestrated movement of room tone takes the spotlight for a mere few moments, the invisible conductor making melody from near-nothing. Losing myself in semi-soundless song I find fresh patterns in the paint on the wall. It's like a giant magic eye puzzle, if you look at it just right you'll...

You'll-

From out of sight there's a new voice. It's Ryan's. Of course it's Ryan's.

How did I know that?

I knew because...

I knew because I...

He asks: "Where's Kale?"

Kale?

I-

No, we-

Wait. Huh?

"Ryan, you're back? He's in the bedroom. Wait, Ryan, wait."

Ryan takes a half step onstage and looks at the audience, his eyes widen. His aura is a vivid teal.

"Kale?"

He goes to the frontmost edge of the stage, pushing right up against the fourth wall, almost crossing it as he pokes his head forward, examining us with a contorted expression, a jumble of feelings, questions and conclusions revealing themselves in his eyes.

"Are you okay?"

He waves a paw in front of the... in front of the what? The camera? Is this recorded? Is this...? No.

"Ka-"

No, no, no.

I'm in the theater, with Adrian. He asked me to come with him, remember? It's a date. We've known each other a long time but he's finally pulled the trigger and made a move. It was a brave thing to do considering what happened between us last time we got so close. Very brave. I felt like I couldn't say no, though part of me wanted to badly. But, why? Why was I so resistant to this?

"-cking hell. What the fuck did you give him Marty? His eyelids are drooping, he's not responding at all, he's barely fucking conscious!"

I must have zoned out. Now Marty is onstage too, Ryan is shrieking at him. Is this the next scene? It must be. Maybe it's one of those plays that stays in the same setting from beginning to end, maybe the whole thing takes place in this one room.

Marty puts his paws up in surrender, shakes his head.

"It's not like that. It's not like that. Please, Ryan, let me explain."

Ryan looks set to explode. He's furious, confused, upset and maybe even a little scared.

"So what the fuck is it like Marty?"

"We took some acid and w-"

"And you thought you'd fuck his brains out while he was tripping? Is that it? God Marty, what the fuck is wrong with you? Has he ever even taken LSD before?"

"Well no, but-"

"Well no, but fucking nothing! How can he even consent like this? He can't even say a fucking word. What the fuck did you think this was? You should know better, you should be asha-"

"I took twice what he did, I'm still capable of making decisions, I mean I-"

"You have twenty times the fucking tolerance he has Marty and you know that. This was-"

"Ryan, listen to me. He was talking just fine a few minutes ago, it's only-"

"I'm okay."

They both go silent at once and stare in unison at the audience.

That last comment didn't come from either of them. Where did it come from?

I don't... I-

I'm in the theater, with Adrian.

He let's out a muffled laugh, tells me he can't wait to see them naked. He's talking about Ryan and Marty.

Wait, why's he...? Huh. Oh, yeah, of course. I met Ryan and, well, heard Marty through his bedroom door the other day, and now we're here at this play they're both in. It's a strange coincidence to say the least. Honestly, it's awkward, but if I had to be here with anyone I'm glad it's with Adrian. He's my best friend. He's-

"-exted you a bunch Kale. I even called an-"

It's Ryan, or I suppose I should say Romeo. I'm losing focus, missing chunks of dialogue, but for the moment focusing on any of it seems impossible.

Adrian's still laughing. He thinks he's about to see my most recent lay get naked; apparently there's a nude scene in this play. Something about it seems odd though. The scene dressing? The dialogue? They've really had their way with the source material, I wonder what Shakespeare would think. Eh, if the critics say Romeo and Julian is a great show then I'm sure it is. The critics know better than I do.

I can't help but smile at Adrian. His laughter isn't cruel; it's teasing, sure, but not cruel. I reach over and take his paw in mi-

"-ou really worried me Kale. Ka-?"

I wish Romeo would stop getting in the way of my inner monologue. I feel like I'm at the edge of something, some important discovery, but I just can't quite focu-

"-my stuff for me but you never read it an-"

This is strange. More than 'odd adaptation' level strange.

You know what? I don't feel quite right.

Actually I-

I should, pay attention.

"He's absolutely fucked, Marty, are you really telling me this was just one tab?"

Why's Romeo calling Julian Marty? I mean, I know he is Marty really, but surely for the performance he should call-

My head hurts.

This isn't right.

It must be... It must be a really radical rewrite, huh?

Marty's face twitches twice in quick succession, his features contorting uniquely each time into two equally inscrutable expressions.

"He's never had it before..."

"And?"

"And it was a pretty fucking strong tab..."

"And?"

"Look, I don't know... I- He's had a stressful fucking day, he's dissociating a bit, you know? He's fine, I promise you, he'll be fine."

Is the audience meant to believe him, just like that?

Ludicrous. He's lying. Kale took more than that one little tab. After he smashed the phone they...

Wait. How do I know all this? I-

I don't know, I-

God, my head hurts. This is all so confusing. I feel like I'm missing all the subtext, all the hidden implications. Maybe if I was more perceptive I could figure it out, but I'm not.

Fuck it, I'll just wait for the neat conclusion that ties everything together, cuts loose ends and lays bare all the answers.

There will be a neat conclusion to all of this, won't there? After all this chaos there just has to be, right?

Ryan's brow is furrowed as he searches the audience with a piercing stare. He reaches a paw out. For a moment I swear I can feel the back of his fingers brushing against my cheek, but... that wouldn't make any sense.

"Kale. Can you hear me?"

Of course I-

Huh?

"Are you okay?"

He wants an answer so badly, but-

"Yeah. I'm just... I'll... I'll be fine."

Wait. Who said that? It wasn't Ryan, no, and it wasn't Marty either. I heard it, certainly, that lethargic, unfocused voice, but nobody spoke. It manifested itself from the aether and vanished again in a flash.

Ryan bites his lip and stares into the audience, eyes overflowing with wordless worry. That voice came from us, that's the idea, or at least from the character we represent. The vivid teal of Ryan's aura desaturates until it's almost gray.

"Okay Kale," he says. "I'll let you rest up. I'm only here to grab some things and go anyway. Call me, okay?"

He's talking to us. He wants us to understand. He's skeptical that we will.

He wants me to call him?

But, I can't. I smashed my phone.

Wait. Wait.

I...

Huh?

The... the scene before the sex. Or was it the scene before that? Or before that? I, no no no, the viewer, the audience character, us, we smashed the phone.

Yeah.

Is that right?

Sort of. Not really.

Something is wrong.

"No, Ryan. Please don't go." Marty says, grabbing Ryan's arm. Ryan tugs himself free in a violent motion and flashes his teeth.

He can posture all he likes, but he's scared. They both are. It's obvious. It's in their wide eyes. Their twitching whiskers. The restless tips of their tails. Their flattening ears. They're both terrified.

Marty's paw is frozen in midair, clutching the space where Ryan once was. The otter's eyes shimmer with the threat of tears. His aura morphs into a pale, sickly green. Ryan's aura finds color again, bursting into the vibrant red of flame and rage. He's stood still and seething, staring straight at the otter.

"Fuck off Marty. Don't fucking touch me. You have no right to ask me to stay and you have no right to ask me to talk; I have nothing to discuss with you. You used me and I know it." He looks out at the audience briefly. "And now I can see you've used him too. You're sick Marty, you know that? The way you've acted, the things you've said and done, it's disgusting. You're not right in the fucking head!" He twists on the spot and lashes his tail. He grabs a backpack from where it was propped up in a corner of the room and starts pulling open drawers haphazardly, throwing various items of clothing into the bag. "I'm taking enough for the night and going."

Finally Marty thaws and, unfrozen, finds himself in panic mode.

"Ryan, no, please-"

"I don't want to hear a fucking word of it. I'm done with your shit. I don't want to live with you anymore."

Marty shakes his head in disbelief.

"No, Ryan, no-"

"Yes, actually. And if Kale is feeling any way other than abso-fucking-lutely phenomenal the next time I hear from him I'll do everything in my power to ruin you and drag your name through the fucking dirt. Do you hear me?"

Marty is hyperventilating; he's totally freaking out. He takes a half-step toward Ryan then stops himself.

Everything is vibrating more intensely than before. Colors are deepening, widening. It- It's hard to describe.

"Please, don't do this. Don't leave like this."

"It's done. I'm leaving."

"Don't Ryan. Please."

Ryan shoves a drawer closed with unnecessary force, stands and turns to Marty. His words are punctuated with exaggerated emotive gestures. "And why the fuck shouldn't I Marty?

"Because I- I-"

"Go on. Out with it."

"Because I love you. Because you're the only person I've ever fallen in love with. Because you complete me. Because life without you is meaningless to me. Because I don't know what I'd do without you. Because I need you Ryan. I fucking need you."

Marty is desperate. Every muscle in his body is tensed. His every hope and dream is riding on Ryan's reaction.

Ryan regards him blankly, arms folded. He lets the otter's words fade and lets silence fall, lets it drag, before speaking.

"Oh, that's right is it? Well guess what Marty? I don't fucking need you and I don't fucking love you." The intensity of his delivery increases with every word, a growl building at the back of his throat. "I am not chained to you, Marty. You don't control me. You want me to love you? What a joke. I don't even fucking like you." The tension becomes too much, his talking explodes into full blown shouts. "Want to know the truth? I. Don't. Want. To. Ever! Fucking! SEE! YOU! AGAIN! AND IF YOUR LIFE IS FUCKING MEANINGLESS WITHOUT ME THEN YOU SHOULD GO AHEAD AND FUCKING KILL YOURSELF!"

He takes a breath.

Marty crumbles.

His self-made, delusional version of reality disintegrates around him. The stories he had built to keep himself going, to justify his excesses, are torn from him wholesale.

He is left with nothing.

Ryan, given a moment of respite, hears himself.

All his anger peels away in an instant only to be replaced with shame. His paws cover his muzzle and he shakes his head.

His eyes well up.

Ryan extends a paw halfway toward Marty, then pulls it back. He's confused. Upset at himself, at Marty, at us too. He lets out a wordless growl, all anger and anguish.

Marty staggers back. Sniffs. His legs are weak, trembling. He lets the weight off them, sitting on the edge of the bed. He's crying that same cry I first saw earlier today. The one without the dramatics. The one with all the pain.

The one that...

The same cry I...

I...

Oh.

This isn't a play, is it?

I, me, I. I have been here for what feels like forever.

In this apartment.

With all the drama.

With all the pain.

With Marty.

With all the lies.

With the past and the future and all the blood spilled so far and all the blood still left to spill.

This isn't a play, it's...

It must be...

Come on, come on. You can do this.

It must be-

That's it!

It's a serial drama, one that I've decided to binge watch.

It's intriguing I'll admit, though perhaps a little self-indulgent and dramatic for my taste, but hey I've been watching for quite some time by now, I may as well stick it out to the end.

"I- I-"

Ryan tries to speak, but can't get past the first word.

"I..."

It's a loop.

"I- I-"

Marty keeps on crying.

"I..."

It quickly becomes ludicrous.

"God," I want to mutter. But there's no point, they can't hear me through the screen.

Ryan looks directly at the camera, his features fallen. He looks back toward Marty.

"I didn't mean that," he manages to say, finally. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said- It was a truly awful thing to say." He takes a quarter step toward the otter. "You shouldn't- I mean, obviously what I said was wrong. I don't want you to- I didn't mean that, I... I-"

Not again.

"I-"

The loop threatens to reinstate itself.

"No," Marty says. "You were right. I should just fucking kill myself. My life is meaningless. My life is over."

For two seconds Ryan stands there with his muzzle hanging open. Then he explodes into sound.

"For fuck's sake Marty. How can you say that? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry for what I said, but you need to get a grip. I am not your whole life. If you truly thought I was then that is on you!" As soon as the last word leaves his mouth Ryan winces, he shakes his head. "Look, I'm upset, I'm angry, I'm confused. This is all so fucked up, I don't have a level-head, I can't think. I'm sorry for what I said, just, please, let me keep my mouth shut, pack my stuff and leave." He turns to the camera once more. "And if you can put some clothes on I'd prefer if you came with me. I think sobering up and getting out of here would be best for you."

"Ryan," Marty's voice is meek. "Do you really think I would hurt him? Do you think I forced him to get high? I would never. Never. Please, you have to believe me."

"Marty..." Ryan has softened a little, but still he can't find a kind word to say.

Marty doubles over and bursts into a stretch of sobs and wails. "You really don't believe me, do you? You for sure don't trust me, and why should you? I bet if you woke up tomorrow to news that I was dead you would breathe a sigh of relief." His wet eyes lock onto Ryan's dry ones. The husky regards him with an odd concoction of pity, disdain and fear. "If I was dead you would be happy."

"Marty I-"

"Tell me I'm wrong." He cuts in. Behind the sadness and pain plain and present in Marty's eyes lies something else: a searing commitment and conviction to... to what?

His fur sways and slides in an unearthly, ethereal manner making him look more like a living art exhibit than an otter. Ryan's fur organizes and arranges itself into a pattern of protective barricades, poised to push Marty away.

Things are still vibrating at that accelerated rate. The two soon-to-be ex-roommates' auras are pulsing and shifting subtly in color.

"Marty wh-"

"Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're fucking crazy Marty, you know that?"

"I'm figuring that out," he says, wiping the damp from his eyes and standing up. "I'm figuring out a lot of things. You don't love me Ryan, I'm done tricking myself into believing that but, I'm wondering, did you ever love me?"

"What the hell are you-?"

"Or did you use me for my money and means like so many others have? Is that all I ever was to you Ryan? Money? A warm bed?"

Ryan closes his eyes, exhales, clenches his fists, unclenches them, lashes his tail, breathes in and out and in and then, finally, opens his eyes again.

"Fuck you Marty. Fuck you! How dare you say that shit to me after all we've been through? I stuck with you through so much. You know that. You offered me money, somewhere to stay and a new life and I rejected you, remember? You're the one who pushed me to accept this, to come with you, remember? How dare you say I fucking used you? You're the one who used me, manipulated me, and Kale," he gestures at the camera. "How can you not see that? Or is this just more of your petty posing?" He picks up the bag he had half-filled with his possessions and brandishes it in front of Marty. "You know what? Your money paid for all this. Not directly, necessarily, but it supported my lifestyle, my living situation, it's what enabled me to be here and buy these things, so keep it. Keep everything." He shoves the bag against Marty's chest. The otter's breathing is fast and ragged. He doesn't take hold of it. "It's yours, everything you gave me, everything I bought while I lived here, you can keep it all. If you want the clothes off my fucking back I'll send you those too. When I get back to Canada I'll mail them to you." Ryan lets go of the bag. It falls to the floor, clothes spill across the floor. "How could you even ask if I would be happy waking up to news that you were dead? Of course I wouldn't. It hurts knowing you'd even say those words. Of course I don't want you to kill yourself Marty. I'm sorry for saying what I said, but don't treat me like a monster and ask me if I ever fucking loved you. Don't act like all that time we spent together meant nothing. Yes, Marty, I loved you and you questioning that is worse than petty, but oh my god am I glad that part of my life is over. You've been awful to me. You've treated me like your fucking toy, as if I was yours to do with as you pleased. Do you have any concept of empathy whatsoever? Do you exist solely in your own fucking head with no regard at all for the feelings of others? God Marty, it's like dealing with a child sometimes. Let me be clear with you: I don't want you do die, but that doesn't mean I want to be around you. I don't love you anymore, and I never will again. And if you want the truth of it all, the real, honest fucking truth," he pauses. Marty doesn't say a word. He doesn't move at all. It's almost as though he's stopped breathing altogether."I hate you." Marty closes his eyes. "I hate your fucking guts." Marty crosses his arms and holds himself tight. "And I wasn't lying when I said I never want to see you again."

Cold silence. Marty is motionless.

Ryan shakes his head, breaking out of a momentary stupor. He looks out over the fourth wall, staring right at us, wearing a thin frown. Marty breathes slow, deep breaths, his eyes screwed shut.

It crosses my mind that this show would be more popular if the characters fucked all the time instead of dealing with endless torrents of interpersonal melodrama but, hey, it is what it is.

"Kale, are you feeling any better?" Ryan asks, his words spoken softly. He reaches a paw out past the camera and just as before I feel it brush gently down the side of my fa-

No, no, that doesn't make any se-

It's the audience. We're the-

We don't answer his question. We're just viewers, of course we don't ans-

"I just..."

That third voice again. Why does it kee-

"Kale?" Ryan asks in a whisper, quietly urging the voice to continue.

"I just need a few minutes to..."

The voice peters off again.

Ryan nods.

"Yeah," he says. "I'll wait outside, okay?"

Okay.

Wait. What?

I-

I don't-

Ryan turns toward the room's exit. Marty stands in his path. His eyes are open now. They're blank. Completely blank.

Dead.

There's nothing left in them. Nothing at all.

Nothing. Nowhere.

It makes me-

Wait.

No.

Yeah.

It makes me shiver.

His aura is almost invisible. I thought for a moment it was gone but, no, it's there. If you look close and concentrate, if you stare hard enough, you can see it. It's translucent, almost totally see-through, and clinging tight to his body, but it's there.

"It's over," he says.

Ryan's tail flicks and his ears stand straight, alert. He's on edge. I am too; at attention, trying to discern every little detail. If only everything weren't so shaky. If only the colors weren't so undefined.

This is the most important thing I've ever seen and I'm fighting for every second of focus. Maybe I'm overselling it, maybe this is pure schlock, not art. How am I meant to tell the difference? How is anyone?

"I'm leaving," Ryan says, making his decision.

"I'm never going to see you again, am I?" Marty asks, but it's not really a question.

Ryan sighs.

"Maybe not."

Marty smiles.

I can't help but shiver.

It's not right. That isn't how he should react. That's not Marty.

"Okay," he says.

Something must have snapped inside of him. Something major. Ryan sees it too, he must, but he doesn't react. He walks out of the room in silence.

Marty doesn't say a word or move to stop him, he lets the husky go.

It's not right.

Ryan makes it two steps out the door - on the edge, but not quite out of shot - before stopping.

Something is wrong. He knows it. I-

I know it too.

"Marty."

"What is it Ryan?" Marty asks. Calm. Quiet. Unnatural. Unnerving.

"Your life isn't over." He says. There's silence. He keeps speaking. "I'm one person, losing me doesn't eliminate all hope for you. I may not want to remain close to you Marty, but I don't want you to give up." He sniffs and takes a deep breath, his earlier rage and conviction nowhere to be seen. This whole thing has been far more difficult for him than he has let on. "I don't want you to die." His voice is croaky and hoarse. He dabs at his eyes. As much anger and resentment as he feels toward Marty he still cares about him, deeply.

"Don't worry Ryan," Marty responds in a deadpan. Ryan forces a smile and nods. "I'm already dead."

Ryan flinches, his aura contracts.

"Why would you say that?"

"Really Ryan, don't worry about it. Go. I'll help Kale and send him out when he's ready."

"What are you talking about? You're not making any sense."

"Just go."

Ryan stares deep into Marty's eyes, searching for something, anything, but there's nothing to be found. His eyes are blank. Dead.

Ryan shifts his jaw in discomfort, then twists on the spot to face the apartment's exit. For a moment I seriously believe he's going to leave, but he shakes his head vigorously. "Marty can you please ju-" He freezes in place. His eyes are glued to something out of sight, his muzzle slightly parted. Before he says a word I know exactly what he's seen. "What the fuck?" He twists again and takes a step toward the room, toward Marty, toward m- "Why the fuck is your gun on the table? What the hell happened? Did you buy bullets? What the fuck is going on?"

Marty's apparent calm, his neutrality and newfound quietness, all dissolve at once. Perhaps his blank stares, his terseness and total compliance were one last wall, one last defense against a tidal wave of total despair. Maybe he wasn't quite broken. Maybe he had one last fight left in him.

If he did, it doesn't matter any more, the fight is lost. If he wasn't broken before, he is now.

"Ryan, no, I don't have any bullets I was- I was just-" He bursts into a violent fit of tears, unlike any I've seen before. I don't know what to make of it. It's both performative and real simultaneously. This is Marty let loose: no filter, all emotion and instinct. "I love you Ryan!" The words explode from his sobs with force. His aura blooms into an engulfing dark violet. Everything is wobbling even more violently than before. Merely observing the scene makes my stomach churn. "I love you Ryan. I love you. I love you so fucking much! I love you more than I've ever loved anything or anyone. More than family. More than acting. More than art itself. You complete me Ryan. You made me whole. I know I've been an asshole, I've been manipulative, cruel, borderline fucking insane without you, but that's just it: without you. When I was with you the world made sense. I was a better person. You know that's true. You know it. As we drifted further apart I became less stable. Without you I've become the same self-centered asshole I was before we met. You made me a better person. You really did. I need you in my life. I need you. I'm no good without you. I'm awful. You're right to hate me for how I've been, for who I am now, but I promise you Ryan, you can fix me. I love you and if you would have me I would do absolutely everything in my power to become worthy of your love, as I once was. I know I've fucked up, badly, but please tell me I'm not past redemption. Tell me there's something left for me to fight for, to live for. I love you. The thought of living in a world where I'd never see you again, never hear you again, never feel you again... Oh god Ryan, it's not a world worth living in, and I know if I stuck around I would only make it worse. I know it. You're my guiding light. You're my rock. You're my everything. You're what I hold onto when nothing else makes sense. Please Ryan, don't leave me adrift. Don't leave today and never come back. Don't do it. I can't live like that. I can't live without you. I love you so much Ryan. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I ---- ---"

He repeats the words on and on. His face is wet, his voice reduced to a rasping wail.

"Marty," Ryan tries to cut in, but it's useless. The otter is speaking over him, drowning him out with his doomed repetition. Ryan screws his eyes shut and balls his paws into fists in frustration. When his eyes flick open they're glistening, his fists unfurl. For all his justified discontent, for all his rage, his heart and history get the better of him. "Marty!" He yells. But it's no use. The otter is stuck in his loop. Ryan's composure melts away just the same as Marty's did. He's a mess. "I just need some time Marty, I just need some time," he says. "I'm not in love with you, but maybe in time we can heal. Please, just give me time. I could learn to be a friend to you again, Marty, I just need time."

He's pleading, bargaining, with his abuser, overwhelmed with fear. Marty is barely even listening.

On some instinctual, internal level I am overcome with disgust. Marty caused all of this grief and now that he's been called out on it - now that Ryan has rightfully disowned him - he has exploded with implicitly suicidal despair, weaponized his own suffering. Ryan is falling for it. It's so obvious to me now, yet only a few hours ago I...

Wait.

I-

If-

If I hadn't watched this whole show up until now, I may have taken Marty's outburst at face value, but I know better. It's all theatrics with him, even when it's not. Especially when it's not. For Marty everything is theater, always. Everything is an act, always. I thought there was some sort of line drawn between the 'real' him and his elaborate performances, that was my mistake. His reality is so deeply interwoven with his performative fictions that any distinction between them has long since faded to nothing.

Perhaps I shouldn't be so quick to pass judgment. This is his desperation mode, he probably isn't speaking with malicious intent. He's lost, truly lost, and he has my sympathy, but in truth, even desperate and lacking malice, he cannot be trusted.

Marty's relentless assault of sound has by now devolved into nothing more than a series of warbling moans that only share a passing resemblance to words.

Ugh.

Look at me go.

What exactly do I think this is? I'm watching and giving my every little comment and observation, but this isn't my story, I'm just another viewer. I'm of no importance to what is unfolding in front of me; I should shut up. Hell, I've never been the center of any storm, only adjacent, only ever leaning over, looking in, acting like I offer anything other than overlong analysis, some degree of verbosity and a deeply medium level of charm and intellect. I'm mediocre, average, dull. Always have been. I...

I-

I might be some sort of storm drain or drama magnet, but these whirlwinds of events that crop up around me are not mine to claim. At most I'm a bit part player in other people's stories, a recurring character and a boring one at that, doubtless not a fan favorite.

There I go again with that endless inner monologue. What does any of this even matter? I'm just watching this play, no, this TV show, no I'm...

I'm-

I'm Ka-

I-

I'm Kale.

No.

No no no.

Kale's a mess. Kale's selfish. Kale got so high he couldn't think straight. So high that nothing meant anything. So high that his life wasn't his. So high he dissociated. Now he's lifelessly watching life unfold around him. That isn't me. I wouldn't do that. He's the perspective character of this show, nothing more.

Fuck, I need to pay attention. I'm missing things.

"You've hurt me Marty, but seeing you like this isn't what I wanted. I don't want to walk away and leave you like this. I want to know you'll be okay," Ryan says. He's right beside Marty now, holding the otter's wrists in his paws. "Tell me you'll be okay."

"I can't. I'm not okay without you Ryan. I need you." Tears. Sobs. Strained voice.

"I- I don't know what to say."

"You don't love me like I love you."

"I don't."

"You don't even like me."

"I-"

"You already said it."

"I- I was angry. It's complicated."

"You said you hate me."

"I- Look it's- It's complicated," Ryan is both high strung and worn out.

"That's just another way of telling me you hate me. I love you so much and you fucking hate me."

"It's not that simple. I don't- I don't hate you Marty. It's just- It's-"

"Complicated."

Ryan sighs. "Yeah, it is. But you matter to me. With all we've been through how could you not?"

A pause.

Marty pipes up, meek and inquisitive. "I do?"

"Of course you do Marty, don't be ridiculous."

"You're acting like it's obvious."

"Isn't it?"

"Not to me. You- you told me I should kill myself." He chokes on a sob.

"I'm sorry, so sorry. I wasn't in my right mind," his pace of speech is fevered, tinged with underlying panic. "I didn't mean it."

"It's- It's okay."

"It's not. I should never have said that."

"It's okay."

Ryan grimaces.

"Marty," he says. "You're important to me. I don't want you to hurt yourself. Please promise me you'll be okay if I leave."

"I- I can't do that Ryan. I don't think I will be."

"Then promise me you'll stay safe, please." Ryan pleads. Marty says nothing, his head falls, his gaze lingers on the floor. "Marty."

"I don't want to hurt people anymore." Marty says finally. "I don't want to hurt anyone ever again."

"You don't have to."

Marty looks up and shakes his head.

"It's all I know how to do. Without you I'm nothing more than a leech. This world isn't better off for having me in it."

"Don't say that Marty."

"Ryan-"

"Don't say that."

"I can't live without you."

"You don't have to Marty, I- I just- Look, like I was saying, if you give me time I'm sure we can rebuild our friendship."

"It won't work Ryan. I love you. I'll never stop loving you if you're still a part of my life."

"Then maybe I shouldn't be."

"But I can't live without you."

"Marty, please," Ryan is struggling. He's on the verge of tears. "You're leaving me with no answers."

"I'm not."

"Marty..."

"I need you. I love you."

"I don't love you Marty." Tears slide down Ryan's cheeks in silence. "And we're never getting back together. How many times do I have to tell you that until it sinks in?"

Marty inhales slow, then exhales.

"It's sinking in now," he admits, his posture slumped. "I mean I already knew, really, I just had to hear it from you, and then hear it again to be sure it was really true."

"It's really true."

Marty nods. "I'm sure you think I'm overreacting but it feels like my entire life has gone up in flames."

"Marty..."

"You're the only thing that ever made sense to me, the only person that ever made sense of me."

"You're wrong about that. I didn't make sense of you Marty. I have never understood you. I don't know why you do the things you do or why I'm so important to you. I'm just another guy Marty, there's really nothing special about me."

"That's not true Ryan. You're so special. You might not see that, but that doesn't mean it's not true. Even if I'm inscrutable to you, it doesn't matter. You made me feel whole, happy, in ways I've not felt before or since."

"You could have anyone Marty, you could find peace and joy in another's arms, if only you would stop chasing me."

"I don't want anyone else."

Ryan's eyes screw tight and his fists curl once more before he gets a hold of himself. "I can't do this Marty. Please, just tell me you'll be alright and that you will take care of Kale. We can talk more tomorrow, I'll call."

"I won't lie to you again Ryan. I don't think I'll be alright. I'm in so much pain and I can't see it ever going away. When I think of the future there's nothing there, just an endless void."

"Listen to me Marty. I'll tell you what your future is."

"Okay. What is it?"

"I'm going to call you tomorrow afternoon. We'll talk and work out the next step, together. That's all you need to focus on for now."

I-

Stop.

But-

Shut up.

No. Listen.

Ryan entered the apartment angry, determined, with clear goals in mind but by now all of that has been siphoned away. He is diminished, anxious and unsure.

Ryan's fury at Marty couldn't survive contact with the real thing, feeling the weight of their shared history and context reflected in the otter's desperation, in his fatalistic words and body language. Ryan has been worn down. Now he's making deals with his tormentor.

"Don't, Ryan."

"Don't what?"

"Don't go. Please don't go."

"I can't stay Marty. Not now."

"Not ever," Marty corrects him. Ryan doesn't disagree. "This hurts more than I can put into words."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"But you are hurting me."

"Marty..."

"It hurts to know you don't love me, it hurts more to know you never will. It hurts to know you don't want to see me again. It hurts to know that you're only planning to call me tomorrow because you think I'll kill myself if you don't. It hurts to think that I might. It hurts to know I am at fault for all of this, that I pushed you away, the love of my life, that I am the architect of my own demise. It hurts to know I'll never feel your paw in mine again or taste your tongue or pleasure you in all the ways I have before. It hurts to know I may never be in the same room as you again. It hurts to know I'll never again wake up to your scent and the sight of your smiling face. It hurts to know I'm not the one you'll spend your life with. It hurts like a cut throat. It hurts more than pain. This is like death to me."

"God, Marty, please don't say those things," Ryan begs. He's high pitched and scared. "I know you've got a lot of tolerance, but you're not in your right mind. You're high and this has been a hell of a day for you. Everything feels awful right now, I know, I hear you, but your whole life isn't contained in this one day. You need time, as I do, to settle. Please, if you love me like you say you do then trust me on that. Give yourself time."

"What good will time do? Every second is pain and new death."

"Marty, please, trust me. Time will help. It always does. Give yourself a chance and you'll see."

Marty doesn't seem to know what to say. His jaw shifts uncomfortably then he inhales deep. After a moment he exhales slow and something close to calm comes over him.

"This could be the last time I see you," he states, his voice having reached relative equilibrium. His tone conveys little other than a sense of dismal resignation.

Ryan false starts a sentence, his muzzle opening and closing uselessly. He wants to comfort Marty, but doesn't want to lie to him.

"I'll call you," he says.

"But this could be the last time I see you," Marty presses.

Ryan frowns. "It could be."

"I can't live with that."

"Marty, I-"

"No, Ryan, I get it. I fucked up. You want to move on. You should move on, I'm no good. I- I just don't want what might be the last time I see you, the last time I'm in the same room as you to be like this, to be so bitter and sad. I wish - now I know this has to end - that this could end on a good note. I wish my last memory of spending time with you could comfort me instead of torturing me. I can't live knowing you hate me how you do, even if you care for me too. I don't know how to carry on knowing we parted ways so full of despair and rage, so hopelessly estranged. When I think about that a huge part of me just wants to die, but I know that would hurt you. I don't want to hurt you, not again. I love you. I need you, and I want to go on but I- I- Not like this."

"Then tell me how."

"I need to know that- I- I need to know that I didn't fuck everything up, that there is something good and pure between us, that at least one fucking thing went right on the day I had to say goodbye to you."

"Marty. We're stressed and this is a lot, for both of us, but, if it would help," he's hesitant. He doesn't want to say what he's saying but he feels like he has to. "I suppose I can stay up here and we can talk as we wait for Kale to come to his senses. Maybe then we can part ways without all this," He waves his paws in the air. "Static. Without all this - you know - tension between us." He offers a hopeful half-smile. He looks utterly exhausted, but he's giving this his all. "Maybe we'll both end up feeling a little less awful when it's time to say goodbye."

"I appreciate that Ryan, but if we talk and do our best to make things less awful, that still leaves them awful."

"Then help me help you, please. I'm trying Marty, I really am, but I'm running out of ideas. Just tell me what you need."

"What I need, Ryan, is you."

"I'm not yours, you know that, and I'm not going to be."

"I know. I know."

"Then what do you mean?"

"I don't know. I have no fucking clue I just- I- I need you."

"You're not making any sense."

"I want the impossible Ryan, okay? I want you, need you. All of you. Your love, your body, your mind. If you go away today and I never see you again I- I- I need closure. If I'm ever going to get over you, if I'm ever going to pick myself up and move on, I need closure. I need to have you one last time."

"Marty I-"

"I know, it's a selfish thing to say - it's selfish even to think of - but I love you, and I need you. Physically. Mentally. I need you. I want to move on. I want to let time heal me. I don't want to feel this death, this unending pain, but without real closure I don't know how. Without feeling you again I don't know how." He begins crying once again, his tears falling more quietly than could be suspected, but not in total silence. Truthfully, it's a miracle his body still has tears left to produce. "I love you Ryan. I need you. I need you."

His proposition doesn't make sense to me. It seems a self-serving fabrication buoyed only by high-emotions and obfuscation.

I want to feel for him, to be empathetic, but it's a struggle. At this point how can I trust a word he says, a thing he does, a tear he sheds? How can anyone?

"I- I-" Ryan's body tenses up. He's unsure, confused, suspicious but vulnerable, a crushing weight of accumulated history resting heavy on him. How could he be thinking straight? "What exactly do you want from me?"

He's not.

"I need you." Marty repeats as though that explains everything.

This-

This is- It's-

It's not right. I-

I-

"In what way? What do you want me to do?"

"I need closure. I need to share a moment of bliss with you, to feel that same connection we once had. To love and be loved and know that I can be happy and that at some point in time - at this point in time - I could make you happy too."

"You want me to treat you like I did when we were together?"

"Yes and..."

"And to be intimate with me."

"Yes." Marty's eyes are wide and focused.

Ryan looks right at the camera. Searches the viewer for a sign of... of what?

He finds nothing.

He puts on a wonky, weary half-smile. He's sick of the charades, of second guessing himself and everyone around him.

"You want to fuck, right?"

I-

No.

I-

This-

This is awful, right? Am I the only one who can see that?

Marty's using the threat of self harm to get Ryan to do exactly what he wants. He did that to m-

He did that to Kale too. Not to this extreme but...

I want to jump up and scream at Ryan to get the hell out of here but I-

Shut up and watch the damn show.

You are nothing.

You are nowhere.

Nothing.

Nowhere.

That's all this is. That's all anything is.

Marty finds a quiet chuckle. "Always so direct," he says. "But, yeah."

"Marty..." Ryan rubs his temples as he prepares his next words, his eyes shut tight. "That's not a good idea. In fact, it's a fucking terrible one."

Thank fucking god.

"It's a-?" Marty starts and stops. He didn't expect that. He shakes his head. Shifts gears. "I- I just- I'm sorry for even- Oh god Ryan, I- I just don't know what to do." He pumps up the waterworks and throws out a few sobs.

Ryan grimaces. "Hold out until tomorrow okay? I'll call you, just like I said I would."

"No, Ryan please-"

"Don't, Marty." Ryan says. There's a fresh firmness to his tone. He's found his resolve. Thank fuck. "I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt but what you're doing right now is not okay."

Relief flood through me. Ryan sees through Marty; he's done being toyed with.

"What I'm doing? I'm hurting, Ryan. What the hell do you mean?" He spits out more sobs, really laces his words with them.

"I'm not letting you use your sadness as a weapon. I'm not giving in to that manipulative shit anymore Marty. I truly hope it wasn't your intention, that you weren't doing this on purpose, but think about what you just tried to get me to do. Think about the context. I'm not gonna fuck you just because you told me you might kill yourself."

"Thats not what I- That's-" He launches into a more forceful bout of tears.

"I don't want you to hurt yourself Marty, I really don't, but I'm not your fucking plaything anymore. What you just asked of me is way over the fucking line, can't you see that?"

"I was just- I- I said it was selfish, I-"

"You said it was selfish, but you still asked. And Marty, it was worse than selfish. It was pretty awful actually. I'm emotional, so are you. You're high, we've been arguing, I'm moving out, you know I don't have the highest opinion of you right now but still I'm trying to help and yet you're not budging an inch. Then you go an imply you're gonna fucking kill yourself unless I touch your dick?" As he works through the scenario out loud and hears himself he becomes more and more disgusted. "You know what? Fuck this."

"Ryan please-"

"Enough of your damn 'Ryan please'. Enough of your shit." He grunts and exhales harshly, then attempts to take a more balanced tone. "Look, Marty, I'm going to believe it was an honest emotional, drug-fueled mistake and move on, but I'm leaving. I'm taking Kale too. I'll call you tomorrow, but that's the best I can do. Please, please don't hurt yourself."

"I want to fucking die Ryan! And when you say shit like that to me it only makes me want to die that little bit more!"

Ryan bristles and snarls in Marty's face. The otter shrinks back, shuddering. "Don't you dare say that! Listen to me because this is the last goddamn thing I'm going to say to you if you don't pick up your phone tomorrow. I don't want you to hurt yourself, I don't want you to die. I want you to live and find a way to be a better you, but your life is not in my fucking paws and I won't let you place it there. If I leave this place and you end your own life then that is a tragedy Marty, it really is, but it's your tragedy, your mistake, not mine. Start taking some fucking responsibility for your own actions and well being. I will call you tomorrow Marty. It's your choice whether you pick up or whether you're even alive to do so. I hope you are." He wipes the corners of his eyes where droplets had begun to form. "That's all I've got." He turns to the camera and in a quieter, more gentle voice he asks: "You think you can walk?"

"That's it, isn't it? That's how much you care about me." Marty's words are accusations delivered in an unstable whine. "You tell me you care then you turn and leave. My life is just words to you. If I die you'll carry on like nothing happened, won't you?"

Ryan does all he can to avoid showing any reaction.

"If- If you help. Maybe."

It's that third voice, that perspective voice. It's back. I thought it was gone for good.

"I'm gonna lift you up and put my arm around you and you're gonna walk, okay?" Ryan asks, his focus entirely on the audience.

"Okay," says the third voice.

"You're not even going to respond? You're going to act like I'm not even here? I know I messed up Ryan, I made mistakes, but I'm in hell right now and you're only pushing me further down. This is killing me," Marty says. His voice is harsh and strained as though his vocal chords aren't far from giving out.

Ryan bares his teeth at m-

At the camera, struggling not to show his emotions, but doing what he can not to show them to Marty.

"Let's get you dressed," he says, resetting his features to neutral. He turns, walks to the pile of Kale's clothes, picks them up, brings them over and puts them down on the bed. His motions are precise, robotic.

"My life is in ruins and you don't care!" Marty yells the words in what is left of his shredded voice, teary eyed.

I almost feel sorry for him.

Ryan shakes his head. It looks as though he's going to keep his cool as he picks up Kale's tee, but his teeth come back out. This times he can't resist. He turns to Marty. "Pull your fucking head out. Look around you. Think for fucking once in your life. You got yourself into this mess so could you please stop blaming other people for your own damn fuck ups! I'm sick of it, and I'm sick of you. You feel like dying? I'm sorry, truly. But go to therapy, talk to a professional, fuck it, I don't know, but don't come to me like I'm the answer to all your fucking problems. That's not my fucking job. That's not what I signed up for. I'm leaving."

He turns back to m-

To-

He takes hold of my-

He takes hold of my paw and-

And passes me the tee...

I-

Wait. Wait. Wait.

I

slowly

sluggishly

maneuver myself to a sitting position and-

What is happening?

I pull the shirt over my head.

I-

This isn't right.

Wait.

Marty's all but lost it. He's muttering to himself in a feverish rasp.

"No. No no no. No."

He says.

"You can't leave."

He says.

"Not like this.

"You can't go like this.

"No. No no no.

"Ryan.

"You can't go."

He goes on and on.

Ryan ignores him.

Ryan slides my-

My-

M-

I can't-

I really can't-

I-

I start switching off.

Everything melts and blurs into itself. Meaning is caught only in moments.

This isn't-

Huh?

Nothing.

Nowhere.

Nothing.

Nowhere.

Nothing.

Nowhere.

It's not me. It's Kale. He dissociated, but part of him has come to. Ryan is helping him get dressed and-

And I can feel it and-

And it feels like I'm doing it because-

Because-

Because.

Just because.

Kale continues to clothe himself with help from Ryan. He's weary, unfocused. His movements are slow and imprecise as though he's a marionette being controlled by something other, something that is like him, but not him.

Marty is crying, of course, rubbing the sides of his head, rambling. His tail is lashing. His aura is cycling through colors faster than I can name them. Everything is vibrating at an ever accelerated rate. It looks like reality itself is about to come apart.

I'm scared.

My-

Kale's-

My? Kale's? I-

Our-

My heart is thumping fast.

I'm losing focus.

I'm missing parts of the scene.

The scene?

Is this a scene?

What is this?

Things are happening before I can comprehend them.

I'm-

Kale is getting up with much help and support from Ryan.

So why can I feel his arm around me?

Why can I feel Ryan's arm?

I-

Nothing.

Nowhere.

Nothing.

Nowhere.

Nothing.

Nowhere.

I-

It's not working.

I can't-

I can't focus.

We're moving.

Someone is shouting.

Ryan? Marty? Both?

What are they saying? What-? There's so much pain in that voice, I can't help but shudder.

"Steady now," Ryan says.

He's talking to me. He's-

No. No. That's not right.

It's-

I hate this.

I can't be-

No.

This is wrong. Very wrong.

I need to stop watching.

I need to...

Yes.

I need to stop.

I try not to see what's happening on the screen.

I try not to take it in.

I try to dissociate, just as Kale did, to push myself

further

and

further

from

point

of

context.

There is no me.

There is nothing.

There is nowhere.

There is a show that plays unending.

That is all.

It plays in low-detail fragments.

Parts distorted. Parts missing.

It doesn't matter anyway, it's just actions and reactions.

It's endless.

Boring.

Unimportant.

Nonexistent.

The husky helps the wolf walk out the room and toward the apartment's exit.

It's very slow going.

The wolf has his eyes closed most of the time and struggles with every step.

The otter rambles and raves as he watches them, follows them.

He mumbles, he begs, pleads, yells, shrieks, screams.

He says so much, but it's all unimportant. All nonsense. All fake.

Don't care.

The husky loses his nerve. Yells back.

Don't care.

They're at the door.

Before the husky can grab the handle, the otter's paws are over it.

Don't leave. Don't leave. Oh god don't leave.

He says. Or something like that.

Don't care.

Reality shakes. Colors are exploding and imploding. Everything is vibrant. Everything is ultra-real. Nothing makes sense at all.

Get the fuck out of the way and let us out.

The husky says. Or something like that.

Don't go. Don't go. Says the otter.

Don't care.

Move. Yells the husky.

The otter won't move.

Move! Yells the husky.

The otter still won't move.

The husky snarls. The otter doesn't budge.

Fuck you. Yells the husky.

He pushes the otter away from the door, hard.

The otter falls back, surprised. He lands on his ass with a thud and stares up at the husky in shock, muzzle open.

Don't ca-

Don't-

The husky looks down at him. Hesitates.

You fucking- You fucking cunt! Comes the otter's raspy response.

You've ruined me. You've fucking ruined me! He says.

The husky hesitates.

Oh god why does he hesitate?

The otter stands.

The husky reaches for the door.

The otter gets in the way, shoves him hard away from it.

The husky stumbles, begins to lose balance, can't keep hold of the wolf.

The wolf falls back, half limp, does nothing to ease his fa-

Fuck!

Fuck.

That fucking hurts.

There's...

Huh?

It's-

Fuck.

In and out of nothingness.

Pain, and black, and the view from the floor.

Pain.

Black.

The view from the floor.

Sounds?

Not many. Not enough.

Fuck fuck fuck.

R-

Ryan?

Ryan?

What's happened to Ryan?

The otter's - Marty's - bare feet move into line of sight. His aura is glowing red.

I can't quite.

Keep.

Can't quite keep.

Keep track.

Time?

How much?

Time.

It goes black.

For how long?

How fucking long?

There's Ryan. God, there's Ryan.

Keep missing moments, maybe minutes.

Ryan's-

Ryan's laying on his front, on the floor.

Fuck.

Don't want to see.

Don't want to know.

It goes black.

Marty's over him.

Back. Forth. Back. Forth.

Grinding.

No.

Don't want to exist.

Don't want to be.

Ryan's lower half is bare, uncovered other than for the otter that's on top of it.

Ryan's staring-

He's staring right at-

Right at m-

At the camera.

Don't want to think.

Don't want to acknowledge the mistakes that-

That I have-

Otter's aura is red. Deep red, like a corona of blood

"Kale?" Ryan's voice. A whisper. A plea.

But Kale's not here.

There's nothing here.

There's...

Kale's not-

Kale's-

He's-

No.

No.

I can't be, because if I was-

If I was just lying here watching this I would-

That would be-

This would-

And I-

It can't be like that.

It just can't.

But...

Oh.

Oh god.

"Ryan," I say.

It's a whisper.

A plea.