Ohio
Hey, folks. This is a short story I wrote for a very inspiring person. I've gone through a lot of changes in the last year, one among them being my idea of sexuality. I'm still not entirely sure where I stand, but I think I've come to know the world a little better now.
This story is dedicated to Eldyran, who probably didn't know what he did for me in my bizarre time of need.
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When I was a kid, my sister and I would spend our afternoons down by the river. We'd put our feet in, and kick water at each other and watch as the river went from blue, to green, to orange, to red, and to silver as the moon rose, and tinted the whole band with brilliant metallic splinters of light. We'd skip stones, we'd swim, and on rainy days, we'd watch the water rise up along the bank. I remember growing up and letting my fur dry in the sun. I'd spend hours waiting, until that last spot on my back was warm and dry again, and my father would let me back into the house, reassured that I couldn't shake myself off and ruin the wallpaper.
One night, I got yanked out of bed by my mother. She took my paw and pulled me downstairs, and out the back door. I could see my father in the river, lashing around like some wild beast against roaring currents- they made mouths and claws and bellowed at him, crashing against his sturdy frame. There was a storm that night. Forks of lighting made his eyes flash, his drenched body tired from working in a field all day, now straining to free my sister. I could see her little black nose poking above the water, her muzzle gasping for air. She sunk, and he dove in again. I lost count of how many times he fought valiantly to get her above water, only for a few brief moments. The only sound was rain, a constant movement of water across the land. If there was thunder that night, I don't remember it any more.
My father pulled her out, and we took her to the hospital, which was in a town some ways away from us. We checked her in, and I watched the faces on my bewildered parents as the doctor explained the cardiovascular mechanism, and the way it broke down and failed my little sister. Water had caught on the bottom of her lungs, and though my father had managed to clear most of it, she had drowned on the inside before we could help her. My mother sobbed some choked response. "It's ok, honey." The doctor said, and let my father hold her paw, as firm and tight as a shield.
"It's just like goin' to sleep. Drowning ain't the worst that can happen in this world."
"Lord have mercy." The pastor said, the Sunday after. I'm sure he gave a memorable sermon- my parents stared stoically at the altar, and the whole church offered prayers in her name, reassured that she sat at the right hand of the lamb himself. All I recall was the sunlight shining through a stained glass window, which my Sunday school class had put together themselves. It was a picture of sheep drinking from a river, with Jesus behind them, watching with a crook. It was from that psalm. "I shall maketh thee to lie down in green pastures". The Jesus we used was a wolf. I heard a few churches think he's a lion, but I don't know.
I grew up by myself after that. We lived out in the country, and since I had mostly played with my sister, I didn't really have any other friends to play around with. I would go down to the river bank, and dip my feet in, laying back and listening to my mother's worried pleas. "Son," she kept telling me, every day after school. "You know that isn't safe."
I never actually swam in the river again. So far that I knew, a river was only for washed away sins, and suicides. I had daydreams of being at the bottom, hiding away from the rest of the world in a watery haze, looking up at all the sun rays, bent in the water. The thought of my father not knowing I was down there, yelling for air... it sent shivers down my spine. I could go up to the river, and I could skip stones or kick water at ducks that sometimes came to drink or swim around, but I could never get myself to go in more than halfway before I started to feel like my lungs were filling up with water. I'd scamper onto the bank as fast as my feet would carry me, and pant.
My mother had a lot of friends, who'd come over every now and then to play bridge. She began inviting them over less and less, choosing instead to tend to her flowers. She and my father started to spend Sundays at home, and I secretly relished the fact that Icould sleep in on the weekends. I remember when we used to pray at meals, and the grace would take forever. We'd fold our paws, and bow our heads so low that my muzzle would practically touch the mashed potatoes. I'd sit there for minutes on end, feeling the hunger rumbling in my gut, no one saying anything. Eventually, my father would say something cheap, like "We give the grace, almighty God". And then we'd eat. Every night, I'd get hungrier and hungrier.
Eventually, I started sneaking little bites. It'd take a little more, and a little more each night. By the time I was fourteen, I'd have half the steak gone before my father's lips had moved an inch, and I youthfully considered it a triumph when he'd look up, unaware that I was cheating God out of his steak-appreciation chant. One time they caught me. They stared at me like I was some kind of animal, but they didn't say anything. After that night, we just didn't pray unless it was thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter.
School was easy for me. I knew the answers to questions I hadn't studied; I took tests and passed like it was nothing to me. A few girls asked me out: a corgi named Sally and a hare named... I can't even remember. We "dated" the way school kids did back then- she held my paw, and we hugged in the hallways. And during a football game, Sally kissed me on the cheek. A week or two in, it would end without my knowledge. I'd see her walking in, holding some other guy's paw, and hugging him in the hallways. Smooching them at games.
I didn't like to play sports, and none of the clubs had anything fun to do, so after making the walk home from school, I would go and settle by the riverside. I'd stare up at the clouds, letting the water wash my feet, letting my brain release. My mother had stopped warning me about the dangers of the river long ago, and mostly stayed inside stitching or knitting or doing something with her paws.
It was a bright, sunny day when he finally came along. A slender guy, a mountain lion, with bright gold eyes and a very charismatic smile. I stared at him like a snake stares at a flute when it's being charmed- expressionless. "Hey!" he said. "I'm Jack."
"Are you from the city?" I said, because he was wearing a t-shirt, and all the city kids wore t-shirts. I wore a flannel shirt. "You look like you're from the city."
"Not anymore. My parents moved in about two miles from here. I was just seein' what-all there was to do around here."
"Well," I said. "There's always the river."
Jack would come over from time to time at first. Every now and then, he'd get bored watching TV, and come over to my house, and we'd talk about the day. He'd see me in school, and I'd throw up a paw and wave. Eventually, we got to eating lunch together. And then dinner, too. My father was glad that I finally found a friend- Jack was good at sports. He had that feline grace that us dogs lacked, but good instincts- not like some of the smaller cats. I learned that he liked exploring, and there were days when we'd walk all up and down the river, padding over sand and mud and talking about things. One time, we went fishing.
He caught this big old salmon with his dad's rod. I didn't have a fishing rod, but I found a twig and used some twine and a paper clip to make some sort of makeshift rod. He caught a salmon, but I caught, of all things, this little fish. I don't know what it was, but it was little, and it was golden. Goldfish don't live in rivers- we speculated that maybe someone was keeping pets, and decided to get rid of it in the river. I ran home and got a plastic baggie while Jack held the fish just under the water with his paws. I came back, filled the bag with water, and we carried the fish home. I bought a big glass bowl, filled it with little green rocks, and named the fish Angela, like my sister.
Angela was beautiful. She had bright golden scales, and on the days that Jack didn't come over, I would take her out to the river in her bowl, and we'd sit and let the sun settle into the heavenly arc, quietly sinking just behind the tree line. Her scales glimmered like fire in the rosy evening sun. Those days were when I was just about sixteen. We would talk, and talk, and sometimes laugh. Never once did I wonder if any other kid in the world talked to his pet fish. Before I really came to appreciate her, she was gone.
I had Angela for about a month and a half before I overfed her before school one day. I came home to an empty bowl, and my mother told me what had happened. There wasn't much more to do besides go down to the river, and pour out all the water. I sat quietly with my empty bowl in my lap for a few hours before Jack came. He saw the empty bowl and the look on my face. We sat by the river together, in silence, and he held my paw.
Jack came every day after that. Sometimes we'd talk. Sometimes, we'd take a walk, and sometimes we'd just be silent, skipping stones or going to try our luck fishing again. One summer day, just before the autumn wind came in and darkened all the leaves in the tree line, he asked if I would go with him to special place. I walked with him a few miles up into the wilderness, hopping along the riverbank as usual. We walked and walked and walked, until the sun was just about ready to set. He was very quiet, and very nervous, and it was making my feet cold with anticipation. I absentmindedly thumbed my pocket, and he tugged on the collar of his t-shirt.
Jack explained that I meant a lot to him. We were best friends, and when he came here, he never expected to find someone quite like me. Who was I to say we weren't? He came, and held my paws- I was too nervous to say anything. I felt very sleepy, very cowed. The next things I remember were only soft images, feelings and sounds. I remember him undoing my belt, and nervously pecking at the corners of my lips. The feel of grass on my bare fur, the warmth between his legs, and under his tail. The smell of his sweat on my lips, the feel of his tongue on my neck. We made quiet, amateur love while the river flowed on, endless.
I said nothing when I put my clothes back on. The next day at school, we didn't talk or eat lunch together, and Jack didn't come to my house afterwards. A few months passed by before I really saw him again. It was raining outside, and I was getting to the point where a jacket wouldn't be enough. I needed sweaters, undershirts, coats. The cold was devastating. He passed me just as we walked outside, and I caught his eyes. For a long moment we stared, and eventually... he looked away. "I'm sorry." He said.
I was quiet. The sound of the driving rain was the only thing I remember hearing- if I said anything or not, he didn't react. I walked home in the rain, and thought about my sister, and my fish. Christmas passed. And then Easter. I prayed twice before I saw Jack one final time.
It was summer. I was eighteen, and just about to leave high school. I was walking home, and a flash of gold caught my eyes- I turned to see him, wading into the river with his clothes on, across the bank. Something animal in the back of my brain barked at me, and I stumbled over to the rushing water. He looked at me as his head went under, and sank. I hadn't felt wetness that complete since the day before my sister passed. Nothing compares to a river. Not a shower, not rain, not sunlight, not sex. Nothing.
I reached out to him under the water. I felt his paw clench around mine.
It pulled us under, and we yelled for air.
And we woke together, away from there.