Fur
By Chaon (https://inkbunny.net/Chaon)
Based on a Writer's Crossing Prompt:
Prompt 1 - Write a brief horror story that is caused by a stupid and minor detail.
Example: His victim's shirt, decorated with a green mushroom, claimed that the user had an extra life. The deranged killer would see if that was true
This is the Diary of Lorraine Small Sao Fei
I cringed writing that. What kind of parents name their daughter Lorraine? It's weird. Speaking of weird, whose parents leave a cub in a crate with sickos halfway around the world? Mine, that's who.
Ack - there's the beep. It's not one of the usual ones either but the other kind; the one that's always before a shot or a...yowch! Sunnava...
One sec. Back up. Low breaths. No sudden moments. It's not your first rodeo. Slowly - in...out. In...out... There we go.
Alright, where were we? Right - recap: I'm Lorraine; Lori for short. I turn ten in five weeks, but before that happens I'm a shoo-in to win the AAT: that's the Afghan Acrobatics Tournament for those of you who've been living under a rock the past few years. Yes, I'm THAT Lori: the one who's got her snout on Kabul Times' top ten-under-ten cub sports issue. The one the punters're calling Flower of Kabul; that everyone from the highest mullah to the lowliest Hazara will be rooting for.
Now here's the part where you're gonna say you wish you were in my shoes; a national cub athlete with her own endorsement deals, documentaries and ice-cream flavour - travelling from city state to city state in limos that normally only that Taliban get to use. Normally, you'd be right. But being a competitive gymnast isn't all it's cracked up to be, and you better believe I'd take you up on that trade in an instant.
At least I would, if I actually had any shoes right now. Or saris. Or bloody clothes, for that matter. You heard me: naked - stripped to the fur, shaved for lice then stuck flat on my back with an entire foot of pipe rammed up my butt in this damned box that shocks you if you so much as breathe too hard, let alone toss and turn in sleep. Still wanna trade? Yeah, didn't think so...
What really annoys me is how this was entirely last minute. Where I'm really supposed to BE right now is with my parents and my Jeddo (grandpa) in their burrow, with Baba and Travis coming to support me in the competitions. Then because of some coup or other they're locking down and not letting any flights through. Semester break in Kabul? Hah - more like five weeks of intensity training under Uncle Amir and Aunt Elsa in between competitions because Kaka-Amir is so dead set on me getting that trophy before I `age-up-and-no-longer-qualify' for the 9-year-old category. His words, not mine.
As it turns out, I'm pretty pissed about how nobody asked what I wanted before sending me to Kaka Amir for the holidays. Pissed enough; in fact, to bother with stubbornly scratching all this down with a claw onto the inner lid of my crate while the sensors are looking the other way. Five weeks is not NEARLY enough time to relax before returning to the Kennel next year, and it looks like I won't be getting even that - not if Amir-agha has his way. I'll probably catch it if Amir ever notices what I'm up to, but that alone makes it worthwhile.
They put me on the phone with Baba after tryouts this morning, which is when I first heard the news. There I was with Dylan in the lobby, both of us wearing our everyday clothes and waiting for our parents to fetch us. Then before I know it, they have me out of civvies and shoved back in my cradle in the middle of the day while everyone tries to work out what's going on and what to do next. And of course, Dylan's dad comes late, meaning they get to see it all happen to me too. For someone so eager to leave moments ago, he does take his sweet time. Not that I blame him, since I would've done the same in Dylan's place. It's much funnier from the other side of the glass.
Ngggh! Here comes the tranquilizer, right on schedule. Damnit, that stings! Will write more later.
It is my first night in Kabul. Aunt Elsa tells me roughly six days (?!) have passed since I was first crated and shipped to Afghanistan. Time enough for my fur to start growing back in anyway, though it seemed longer. It always does.
From what I understand, the suddenness of it all explained why things were delayed. Lockdown meant Baba couldn't come in person, so he sent Uncle Amir to do so instead. I remember squinting up at a blurry figure against the midday light after the darkness that was the crate. Little pinpricks as the tubes and needles inside me detached to slither away. And then blinding camera flashes from overhead, gloved paws holding and exposing me to the lens. ``So this is the riadiin (athlete)? Hmpf. I am not impressed,''
``She'll need feeding up. Six days in storage - it's amazing Lori can move at all,''
When I need your opinion, I'll ask for it. Up,'' He hauls me upright and I feel the familiar chill of training shackles around both wrists. They yank until I'm on my feet in one of the usual stances.She can't go in the tank without a bath,''
In the end it is Aunt Elsa who does that for me; carefully lathering soap and unpicking the snarls in my sweat-soaked fur. She's not my real aunt any more than Kaka-Amir is my uncle; we aren't even the same species. Elsa is an aardwolf with striped fur, granny spectacles and one of those solemn faces that makes it hard to tell what she's thinking. She is my aleiraba (godmother) from birth and one of my mum's old schoolfriends. Baba said Aunt Elsa had been the one to persuade Uncle Amir to rent all the equipment that I was used to in the Kennel.
Kaka-Amir is another kind of person entirely. He is a hard handler and expects only the best, so it is funny how he ended up marrying Elsa with how much her habits annoy him. The competition and sponsorship was Amir-agha's idea, and he'll stop at nothing to make sure I win as usual. Like many Afghan Hounds, he can be very vain about his fur and spends hours fussing about the way we wear ours. It bothers him to see even a hair out of place and he'll spend longer than other handlers at checkup running his paws through our bare pelts to get it looking just the way he wants it. Or maybe he's just a perv like Dylan says he is. A lot of them are. It's honestly hard to tell.
But for someone who spends so much time primping his fur, he really doesn't look his best. Unlike other Afghan Hounds, Uncle Amir's fur tends to always hang in limp strands and come out in clumps. The hairbrush he doesn't allow anyone else to touch has hairs tangled in it with what might be dandruff. It follows him in clouds, and it looks like it's snowing whenever he shakes his head. I think he knows it, which is why he tries so hard and spends all the prize money I win on different powders for hair, but none of them ever seem to work so far. He's also very touchy about the topic. The last cub to mention it to his face got an extra hour on the scrubber and hasn't walked the old way since.
Outside his collection of fur powders, Amir-agha is a total cheapskate. The incubator tank and crate where I sleep are old models that he rented out at bargain prices. Half of their needles are blunt and the ones that aren't are rusted, making even the simplest routine take twice as long and hurt three times as much as it should. He can easily buy newer models with the money I make off contests and shows, but he won't. Hardship builds character, apparently. At least that's what he says when I tell him the Kennel has upgraded their equipment; right before setting it to level 4 for cheek. Level 4! After the crate I'm more out-of-practice than I thought and can hardly keep up with the exercises. Uncle Amir isn't happy. I think if I don't win he stands to lose a lot of money. Sucks to be him.
Have I told you how Kaka-Amir is a cheapskate? Turns out that I was wrong. Uncle Amir isn't merely a cheapskate. He's the High Pasha of cheapskates. The Master Mullah of misers. Here's what I mean:
First, there's the incubator tank - my tank; the one that's supposed to undo what 6 days in the crate did to me? Turns out it's not even a tank at all; just Kaka-Amir's old shower rigged for that purpose. The best part? He still uses it for washing and shuts me back in the crate where I'm writing this at night. Wouldn't matter as much if he weren't also a total slob, never once cleaning out crate or tank like he's supposed to before shutting me in it. The waste pipes always get clogged with big hairballs once Uncle Amir's done with it, and when that happens I can't take a dump when the system tells me to. To hear Kaka-Amir complain about the state of the waste cup after I'm done with it, the whole thing is all my fault supposedly. He then makes me clean it bare-clawed - scooping the soggy scat up in smelly handfuls before shoving my snout in it like some misbehaving puppy. ``Maybe that'll teach you to hold it in, eh princess? Thought you kennel kids always come toilet-trained?''
Hold it in - ha! As if he doesn't know it shocks you for trying to do that. He ought to, seeing how he's the one who built the damn thing. Best not to argue though; if I did he'd probably make me eat it.
Which brings us to the other thing - food. The gloppy gruel they give us in the Kennels won't win awards anytime soon, but it's enough at least to get through the day. I know they sent Kaka-Amir sacks of the stuff in powder form when he and Aunt Elsa agreed to watch me, and it's simple enough to add water till it becomes a bitter porridge. But he won't do even that, because I'm costing him a lot in wasted hours apparently - hours that I should be spending training to get him the trophy he's already made space for on the mantel. Nevermind that it'll take a few more days before I can stand without the water supporting me, let alone do the moves for acrobats. While I'm here I've to earn my keep, which basically means being a performing seal in my tank for any idiot willing to pay Uncle Amir enough money to see a naked pup cooped in a water tank. It's 500 afghanis for a visit and an extra two thousand each if anyone wants to reach in to pet or feed me, which a surprising number are willing to do. Either I'm more famous than I think I am or Kaka-Amir is a really good businessman because the lines wind halfway across the soux and it's become so bad he had to cut private performances to ten minutes so everyone can have a turn. Say what you want about Uncle Amir; but he's really smart if he puts his mind to it - doing things this way means he doesn't have to tend me himself; not when there's so many paying customers willing to do his job for him. It does get boring doing the same tricks and poses for each new visitor, though. I always end up stiff and sore from the workout when its over.
Shouldn't complain, I guess. At least I'm getting pipe fed in the tank, even if it's the usual gruel with rough belly-rubs to follow. That's more than Aunt Elsa can say, since Amir-agha controls the cash. She has smaller meals than mine, usually just a bowl of plain oatmeal with a dash of termites for flavouring; which Uncle allows her as a rare treat. I've never seen her eat anything else, though she sometimes snacks on pawfuls of mites when Uncle isn't looking. She has a hidden store of them that Kaka-Amir doesn't know about; I've seen her at it a few times while in my tank. It's our little secret.
Speaking of secrets, I've learnt a fair share from hours stuck in this tank. There's the one about Uncle Amir spending more money than he should on fur powders for example - money he can't afford. His daily routine that involves stripping to the fur and rubbing on several coats of each powder so his fur stays silky-smooth... Aunt Elsa sneakily emptying out half the bottles and making up the balance with what I think is sawdust so it lasts him longer... There're many things you can learn when people start thinking of you as little more than furniture. Good thing the tank's less soundproof than he thinks.
Newsflash: I have nits.
It's a pretty serious case; there's lice and mites nestled everywhere in my fur, and I do mean everywhere. Kaka-Amir nearly hit the roof when he found out and cancelled today's performances till after I'm fully shaved. Aunt Elsa says it's really his fault and there's nobody to blame, since Uncle Amir's fur clogged the waste pipes in the first place.
Normally, Kaka-Amir is the handler in charge of me. But after this lice thing he's so scared of getting it as well that he's put Aunt Elsa in charge of my baths and injections. Can't say I mind, since she's way less gropey than Uncle Amir normally is. It's a nice change when your handler isn't taking their time as an excuse to ogle your body, or putting up with paws visiting the same areas over and over.
Aunt Elsa's way of doing things is a little different from Uncle Amir's. The days now start with her unhooking me from my crate for a sponge-bath; holding a stance while she scrubs away at me with a dry flannel to get at the sweat, nits and grime of the night before. She is very thorough, paying the most attention to most likely sites including my privates. When that's over she wets a sponge and comes at me again, takes my measurements and finally finishes up with injections she says are vitamin supplements to the feeding I get in the tank. There're more shots than is usual, though that's not unusual after the lice thing. I don't mind practicing my stances for her before she hooks up the waste pipe and seals me in the tank, especially with the pawful of termites she offers as a reward.
The tank part is mostly the same as before; except with me not only naked but also shaved bald into the bargain. This doesn't seem to matter much - if anything, business is twice as good as ever. Long lines of visitors keep me busy with nonstop stretches and stance practice, with occasional petting and feedings in between. The gawkers aren't a big deal since the most they'll do is demand to see poses or whatever. It's the feeders and strokers I really have an issue with. Because they're paying thousands of afghanis each for the privilege, they think they need to get their money's worth by pinching or squeezing hard enough to leave a bruise. At least it isn't as bad as it used to be, back when I was still a mess from the crate. Back then Uncle Amir used to fill my tank full; submerging me completely. Now that I can nearly stand on my own, Aunt Elsa has started lowering the water level of my tank little by little each day so I can get used to moving and stances without the water's added support. Today the water only reaches to my waist and tomorrow it will dip further still. Already I'm noticing the change and how much harder it's becoming to practice and hold stances without water surrounding me. Having air and water both together around me also makes everything stuffy, so I'm sweating much more after a day in the tank. The water left behind quickly warms to my temperature and not even squatting low and splashing my upper body with clumsy pawfuls does much to cool me down. What it DOES do is attract more of a crowd, which is more money in Uncle's pocket. Aunt Elsa may have started the water-lowering, but the whole thing has Kaka-Amir's pervy pawprints on it. He still hangs around to collect the money but has started staring in my direction as the day drags on and lathers me in sweat. I can tell he wants nothing more than to hump me, and would've done so already if he weren't so afraid of catching a case of lice.
I'm not sure lice would even make his condition worse, actually. Despite everything he's doing with the powders and stuff his fur looks the same as ever: stringy and patchy, starting to bald in places. Seems he's really scared since he's been keeping his distance, rarely touching me at all except with gloves. Just today I overheard him telling Aunt Elsa she'd take over nursing duties from now on so he can focus' on the training stuff. This means that he's started sessions with Elsa and me late into the night toput us through our paces', leaving barely enough time for the prep needed to seal me into my crate for bed. These days she's taken to directly transferring me from one to the other without bothering with a bath in between, tucking me sweat-slick and still soiled from the bust pipe for the rest of the night. Body heat filling that cramped space makes the whole crate a Dutch oven and it's always a relief to see Aunt Elsa's face first thing in the morning for my only bath of the day. She's more attentive now at it than before, if anything. Maybe to make up for skipping all those nights. Besides the dry rub-down and sponge bath, I also get a full coat of what Aunt Elsa says is a special heat sink in place of water to stop me overheating from tank exercise during the day. It doesn't seem to be working all that well, honestly. The lotion feels cool enough at first but starts to itch and burn soon after, often it just makes the tank worse than before. I try not to say anything since I'm sure Aunt Elsa means well, but it doesn't do much to stop me panting in my crate like a bitch in heat.
No more tanks. Uncle Amir says I'm fully recovered and ready to resume training - and not a moment too soon; with only a week to go before the heats. Their home gym still looks the same as before: rubber matting, rings and ladders. Lights flicker from the ceiling; big ones. They blink on and off in a way Amir-agha says is supposed to copy camera flashes. Says I have to learn how to handle them or they'll be a distraction during the match. There's also a radio somewhere blaring what sounds like K-pop at full blast. That's supposed to be a thing to prepare for also, I guess. He's very prepared; Kaka-Amir. All the coaching books advise him to do this - provide the conditions of the arena as closely as possible so training will just be like the real thing. All I know is that after the quiet of crate and tank, the loud noise and bright lights are giving me a headache.
Doing the regular routine on an empty stomach doesn't help matters either. I think Uncle has forgotten after getting used to the visitors doing my feeds, but now isn't the time to remind him. He's looking pretty bad. More than usual, I mean. Kaka-Amir has ALWAYS looked bad, don't get me wrong. His fur is all greasy and stringy on a good day, but today its duller and dustier with what must be Aunt Elsa's sawdust. Aunt was right to dilute his powders, I think. If he's this dusty he MUST be using too many. They cost a lot too, so maybe she's trying to get him to cut back? With everything he's doing it's no wonder he's pissed that nothing's working. I'd be pissed too.
Everyone's on edge with the competition approaching. If Uncle makes me redo the set one more time I swear I'm gonna scream. And I'm not the only one - Aunt and Uncle get into a really loud argument today, the type that makes you forget where you are or who might be listening. What's surprising is that it's sort of about me, really - or my fur; if you want to be specific. Kaka-Amir's yelling at her for `going behind his back' and wasting his precious powder on me. He won't listen to how it's the only way to get my pelt back to normal after the lice thing. His needs are greater than mine, apparently. The funny thing is I sort of agree. So THAT's what's been in the ointments and oils Aunt Elsa's been using on me before the tank. Won't be sorry to skip those, so I'm not too bothered.
Seems I spoke too soon: it's back to the tank for me and I'm still getting the lotions no matter what Uncle Amir says. Aunt Elsa says what Uncle doesn't know won't harm him, and that it'll be our little secret. I guess she means well, but I really can't stand the stupid stuff. It makes me itch terribly all over and burns when I work up a sweat. Now that I'm switching between the gym and tanks this means I get a fresh coating several times a day together with the usual injections. It's not getting any less irritating, that's for sure.
Uncle Amir is in a better mood, surprisingly. It's probably because he's happy at how smart he is for having the tank visitors feed me, or with how his fur's improving lately. Yeah, you heard me. Kaka-Amir is looking the best he's ever been in years. His hair's actually getting some life in it and you can hardly see the dust. He looks years younger and this puts him in a good mood. He even let Aunt Elsa buy a new sack of termites, and got me a grilled squid. Says he'll buy me another if I win the event on Thursday.
We're spending more time together practicing than before now that Uncle's sure I've no longer got lice. He used to watch and shout from a safe distance at first, but it's back to how we usually do it - with his sour breath on my neck and his paws correcting me every step of the way. With only days left to go he's also started me on his special diet. It's as salty and bad as I remember, no change there. Wouldn't have minded as much if he'd only wash beforehand down there, though.
Oh well, nothing I can't handle
--
Uncle's luck has worn out. Should've known it was too good to be true. His hair's started falling out again and now he's the same as ever. Or even a little worse, actually. He's got claw marks all over so we know he's been scratching; so violently that he's started to pull out clumps of that fur he's so proud of by the roots. It makes him look patchy all over, like some kind of giant poodle. Aunt Elsa says it's probably something in the powder he's been using it and that he shouldn't do it anymore, but Uncle Amir refuses to listen. He's convinced it made an improvement not long back, and that it's all Auntie's fault for making him cut down on it. They argue about it again, this time right in front of the paying customers come to watch me in my tank. I think a lot of them agreed with Auntie too, with the way Uncle Amir's been looking lately. But nobody really wants to say anything.
The arguments are happening nearly every day now, and because of them I'm getting less visitors than before. Nobody wants to spend good afghanis listening to married couples shout at each other, not even with a naked cub in the picture. Uncle blames Aunt Elsa for this, which makes them fight more than ever.
Kaka-Amir says he's not wasting good gruel if I'm not earning my keep, so there's only one option until customers start coming back again. It's sour and gross enough to almost make me wish to be back in the tank; in a way even worse this time round because of how bad Uncle looks. His shedding is worse, and his sheath's started crusting over with scabs. Best get used to the taste though; since Uncle's always been a hound of his word.
Auntie's taken to slipping me little treats when Uncle isn't looking - a bit of stew here; a brace of termites there...but otherwise it's mostly Uncle's juice and usually by the time he offers I'm happy enough to have it no matter where it comes from. Must be why he waits for when exercises are done. After hours on the ropes and balance beams almost anything seems sweet.
At contest time Uncle Amir is nowhere to be found. Aunt Elsa is the one who takes me to the gym instead when he didn't show up.
He's really gone off the deep end now. Just before he disappeared, Uncle Amir started using my tank - actually soaking in it; instead of a shower like he normally does. Guess he thought he might as well, since audiences aren't coming to see me anymore. Not after he scared them all away.
We arrive early before any other participants. People are starting to come in and take their places. The other cubs arrive. Then the judges. We are all ready to start when Kaka-Amir finally turns up. One thing I gotta say about him is that he's always had style.
Had, not has - because the thing we see walking through the doors doesn't look anything like Amir-agha any more. It is a shambling horror covered in bleeding sores and claw marks over patchy bald skin. There's not much of the long silky fur that Kaka-Amir was so proud of; what's left hangs in dry wispy strands like straw - weak enough to snap from a small breeze. Without his fur his head looks small and shrivelled, his eyes huge in the sunken sockets. He leaves a wet trail behind him; one that my nose can tell is blood. Everyone steps away from the thing-that-is-Amir in horror, and for a moment it looks like his very skin is crawling; wriggling - as though alive with millions of creatures underneath.
``Salaam Aleikum,'' says the thing, moments before collapsing facedown on the floor.
That's when the screams began
The contests were cancelled, of course. After seeing something like that, nobody would be in the mood to continue anyway. I don't remember much of what happens next. Everything is a blur of voices, crying and sirens.
I do remember somehow ending up at Auntie's home again being bathed and prepped for another session in the tank, while scary looking people in white step in and out supervising us and setting bright tape around our house. The tape has one word printed on it over and over: Quarantine.
It's for our own good,'' says Aunt Elsa.They don't know what kind of illness your Uncle Amir got, so this is the best we can do,''
Half of Kabul is in quarantine, supposedly. The event was a big one, attracting people from all over. Those who were unlucky enough to be there like us were being quarantined to their homes for a week. As for me, it's back to my tank: Aunt Elsa isn't one to take chances. I end up staying there two weeks instead of one for observation, though it's really not all that bad. There's no long lines of paying visitors to stare or make me do tricks this time, and instead of Uncle's juice I get the normal Kennel gruel for food. Auntie doesn't seem to know what to do with me other than adjust settings to make sure I'm watered and exercised. Sometimes she fusses over me in my tank, petting and stroking my belly after each feed like Uncle's visitors used to do. At other times she doesn't seem to notice me entirely.
It's during those times that I can watch her; when she totally forgets I'm there. A week is a long time, and there's not much else to do besides sleep and eat between exercises. As bad as they are; I'm almost starting to miss the paying visitors. At least the long lines gave me something to look at and the voices ordering me about was something new to listen to. With them gone and the house empty that leaves Aunt Elsa. I watch where she goes, what she does - and for some reason feel a chill down my spine that's got nothing to do with the rusting tube attachments; an endless heaving in my gut that has nearly nothing to do with the vibrating scrubber rammed all the way up my snatch...
I see her busy herself at the countertop, gathering bottle after bottle of Kaka-Amir's many many forbidden powders. I see her open each one, pouring what's inside into another familiar jar in front of her - a jar that she keeps in the pantry, that she uses to store all the termite eggs that she loves. Most of all, I see how all the different powders she's pouring look suspiciously similar, almost like...
--eggs. Termite eggs.
Eggs belonging to insects normally harmless to furs...unless you somehow happened to be a handler with the knowledge to bio-engineer mutant hybrids from the original; or else were married to one. An unlikely thing still...one made more unlikely by the fact that they'd need to breed many generations of the pests before finally stumbling on the deadly version required - which would be impossible without the right habitat for germination: A living host; such as...
--such as the sweat-sodden flesh of a nine-year-old cub.
Those injections, those ointments and lotions that were `supposed' to cool me down - what if...?
...what if indeed?
Auntie finishes what she's doing, tosses the bottles in the trash and returns her termite jar to its usual place in the cupboard before turning around... Quickly, I pretend to be sleeping, letting out a stage yawn in a string of bubbles. Will she buy it? Would she think I'm sleeping, or does she suspect what I've seen? Does she know?
I'm asleep, Auntie. I didn't see a thing. Go back to what you're doing. It's not time for a feed yet, come back later. Go away--
If she suspects...if she knows...what will she do? A lady who'd kill her husband might do anything. Anything at all...
``Lori?''
The tank's loudspeaker screeches my name in a crackle of static that makes me flinch - a flinch that's too sudden, too alert for somebody being woken from sleep. She must know this as well, since a moment later I feel gloved paws encircling my waist, stroking up and down my torso insistently.
Crap. She knows. She knows!
``Wake up, Lori,''
Maybe she does, maybe she doesn't. Either way I can't pretend any longer; doing that would only make Aunt Elsa even more suspicious. I yawn, open my eyes. Do the official attention stance for the aardwolf, even though she's never before requested it; even though she's only my godmother and not my real Handler. But I do it anyway; show respect, arch my back and thrust my underbelly forward in submission, holding the pose though every instinct screams to run; to let go.
When you're in a tank, where CAN you go?
``Let's play a game, Lori. Would you like to?'' her paws tickle my chest, tracing a line all the way to the bellybutton. They linger to squeeze, then drift away.
I used to like Auntie's games. She feeds me before and after each one. We've played them as a way to pass the time in the tank for as long as I can remember: truth or dare, peek-a-boo, follow-my-handler. I wonder if I'll enjoy this one the same way. I look into Aunt Elsa's eyes but they're unreadable. Her paws are moving, in a line straight enough for me to see the general direction - a path well within reach of two things: the overhead feeder pipe trigger, as well as...the self-destruct
Her paws linger between the two, as though uncertain. I close my eyes. Imagine the satisfying feel of cold juice or warm milk trickling down my throat as Auntie's gentle paws massage my belly. Or else the sharp sudden prick of a tube needle to that same location; pumping in poisons that would cause a slow, untraceable death. Which is it going to be: heaven or hell? Pain or pleasure?
I close my eyes. And hope.