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Warm Up - 17 | Gut Feeling

"There was a whisper, the dying of the flame. Oh hushed voices speak no more, oh their cold fingers reach me not. Only poison remains." Ricky whispered to himself. Snow piling up in the decrepit home he decided to camp in on that day.

He let out a loud exhale, hot air frosting just outside his muzzle. Inside this home was a roof that had a massive hole towards the dining table, snow pouring and covering the debris underneath. Apart from the tv set, the kitchen sink and cabinets, and a few mirrors, were the racks of hanged clothes that hugged the walls leading to the bedroom and its adjacent bathroom. The dox narrated his thought of trying these articles of clothing, most of which were exotic.

He pulled one from the rack and peeled off its cloth-cover, revealing a leather jacket made of Alpha Human skin. It was appalling, seeing a caricature of multiple skins sewn into one jacket too small for him. Even its wrinkles were visible and he decided to hide it in the trash bin in the kitchen cabinet. As ruthless as Alpha Humans were, he didn't believe in their immense desecration.

Ricky wondered if the last occupant had been a collector, a butcher, or both. He checked the rest of the cabinets for any indication but all he found were rusting and dusted utensils that were too small for skinning. But he didn't bother looking too long as he simply perused the other kinds of clothing, far better in design, and aesthetically pleasing. One had the patterns of stars in space that twirled around wherever he swung. Another was a pair of jeans with runes that lit up wherever his fingers hovered over. And the last that intrigued him the most was a fabric that changed based on his fur, surprising him when the tiger pelt had become one of a Dox with matching color.

Imagining wearing his own pelt was half as disgusting as the human jacket, but he put it back and moved on into the bedroom where he sat down and sighed. The prose lingered in his mind, recalling the Great Flash right after someone had left something on his back. In the present day, it ached near his spine, something sharp incised between his muscles. He reached over to try and pull it out, like he always did, but all he felt was the surface of his jacket, yet the absence of a slit.

"Right, I can't." He removed his jacket and laid down against the cold and hollowed mattress. As it always did, the cold and the ache were distinct from each other, and the former's sensation only pushed the latter closer to the other side. Lifting himself up and smacked himself down after, imagining that whatever it was would go through the other side. But it didn't.

Ricky went from sighing to a shudder but not because of the cold. He sat up as the echoes of that event echoed around the room. The cheering, laughter, followed by his own growls, his ominous bellow. Taller than the silhouettes in the darkened room, eyeing a tiger for he envied him. A joy he could never have, that sweet sweet poison without a cure. This melodramatic distraction which, at the thought, made his hands tremble not just out of fear. Out of the power he had.

His breathing hastened, the urge to scream coming from his lungs but refusing to leave. Alas he controlled himself, now jacketed and bumping around the wood and paper walls of the room, cracking them from the pressure he exerted. Hyperventilating with each step, eyes tearing up as his sight darted around at an attempt to calm himself. The bed reminded of a lover, the mirror a companion, and the window a promise he would never have.

Ricky crashed himself through the door, the laughter of what was following him. His surroundings distorted, transforming itself to the same restaurant except it only had tables and chairs littering its endless floors. He bumped and stumbled between them, where there were two chairs affixed to a table, he saw himself and the silhouette of someone he once loved. A hushed part of him still did.

He forced all the tables and chairs down, as many as he could and as far as this infinite room took him. That joyous laughter followed, and he could hear his mind echo, "Please, stop it! Stop it! Stop it!" On repeat, growing louder with each fallen furniture.

But after minutes of this changeless nature, he sat down on a chair, exhausted. Sweating, tired, his muscles burnt despite the invisible cold of the house he was still apparently in. "Please," Ricky whimpered. "I just want it to stop." Ricky begged. "I'll never have him again." Ricky admitted.

The dox sat down on one side of the dining table, meant for two. His chair creaked, almost as if it would break if he hadn't stood up immediately and leaned over the table. He looked the opposite of where he sat, trying to imagine who it was but his mind slowly could not make the face anymore. Only the white fur and the slim body, no more than that. And the longer he did, the ache in his chest throbbed as a reminder that it was still there.

"I loved you," Ricky said to the empty space.

He who once was, absent, and missing, had no answer.

There never could be anymore. They could never be anymore. Another ache, a sensation that felt righteous inside his stomach. A gut feeling one would say. He exhaled, letting his mind relax and taking in the cold wind blowing through the hole.

Ricky turned to see that the clothing racks had been turned over, seeing all these priceless fabrics soiled on the frozen floor. He felt guilty, almost urged himself to sort it all out but the last occupant had been long gone. Side-eyed out of the windows and he saw the other houses beside the snowy roads that had been abandoned and occupied by himself too. The one across he liked because they had a lot of heavy blankets, enough to be turned to a bed, and ten pillows that surrounded him as he slept on the second floor bedroom. Had a good view of the other, more affluent, houses that he had also slept in prior.

And he thought back to himself, the right side of his head twitching as a new thought lingered. Responsibility and progress, that of which his last breakdown had served as a distraction from it. In his panic, he trampled over the clothes on his way to the bedroom and mimicked the actions he did earlier. However, his ache did not throb, and he did not hallucinate like he did anymore. The more he forced himself to think about who he lost, the fuzzier it became. From a white silhouette to a ball of white fur, tried to imagine his voice but he could not remember either anymore. Overshadowed by his own growl instead.

Ricky took a deep breath, relieved that it was just himself then. Another chill through his body at the thought, but his mind awoke and warmed itself to the thought of responsibilities. Another surge, matched to that when he escaped an obscure Reality, which was his prison. His head tilted side to side, muzzle frantically pointing around as his eyes darted in their direction. It felt great to let go of something that seemed large yet, in the grandest scheme of things, was but a crumpled footnote. He looked to the ceiling, staring at the gray snowy skies behind it, and he screamed so loud he felt the past's desire leaving his lungs too. This cry lasted for twelve seconds, equated to the years he spent trapped, clinging on false hope.

Ricky's present form had a shadow, that of which saw what had been causing those aches. A simple kitchen knife. But alas he ordered the shadow to keep it, still. This served as a reminder and a caution of things to come. The phantom melded itself back into his physique, caressing the wound, its tingle alarming him for what followed.

He left that decrepit home and followed the road down south, brisk walking and dragging the snow under his feet simply for fun. Cold winds did not bother him, even if it howled over his shoulder. He howled along too. And again. And he howled again that he screamed, snarled. Lastly, he calmed his breath, and the hot air froze in front of his muzzle.