Serval and Sheep (Chapter 33)
Nothing is the same anymore.
Ever since reading the feline behavior textbook, Desmond began to notice things about Hafsa he hadn't before. Like the way one realizes how many red things are in a room once they start looking for them.
Slowly, day by day, he secretly adds more knowledge to his ever growing compendium of feline facts. It became a game of "I spy". And although Hafsa certainly didn't make it easy for him, he became quite good at it.
Felines point their whiskers at their target of focus. It's only for a split second, but there is a very subtle twitch in the muzzle that can reveal what a cat is truly focused on. He noticed this when Hafsa was helping a very hysterical freshman through some locker troubles, while her whiskers were much more interested in the freshman's sandwich.
Female servals tend to have closer bonds with their mother. And in fact, whenever the word "mother" is mentioned in a conversation, her pupils dilate ever so slightly, as if she is vicariously remembering all the tender moments between her and her mama.
And like all cats with retractable claws, it's possible for one to push the nails out of their subcutaneous hiding spots by pressing at the base of the cuticles. He learned this one the hard way.
It was a cold night, one of the last cold ones of the season, as if the last traces of early-year chill decide to give one last parting serenade.
Desmond had just finished resolving an issue with the basketball team regarding the recently broken net, thanks to a particularly rowdy giraffe. The jocks had insisted on dragging him out to the gymnasium (outside of office hours, mind you) in order to prove how unusable it was. Desmond, unimpressed, gave the ambiguous solution of "bringing it up during the next student council meeting" in order to quell their nerves. Did they really have to abduct him straight out of ram fighting practice for such a trivial manner?
He stared out at the dark scenery of tree-shaped blobs and not much else. Having taken the back entrance, it wasn't the most scenic view. A quiet sigh escaped his lips, floating away like phantoms in the form of misty puffs.
Before he began to fear the lonely trek back to his dorm, his ears picked up a distressing sound. The undeniable sound of crying. He creeped nearer to the muffled weeping, careful not to make any sudden noises. Peeking around the corner, he spotted the source.
It was her.
Hafsa, in her cheerleading outfit, convulsed with each chocked sob, tightly curled into a ball. She hugged her knees, pressing them against her chest while her head was buried deep between either kneecap.
Despite the darkness hindering his eyesight, Desmond recognized her immediately. Part of him wanted to bolt off, another one wanted to run up to her to see what happened. They ended up in a draw, leaving the sheep frozen in spot.
Perhaps sensing the contraction of his muscles, the serval's ears swerved towards his direction in a flash, prompting the rest of her body to jolt up in shock. You really can't fool a serval's hearing.
"D-Desmond!" She exclaimed, voice still shaky. She whipped her face to the opposite direction, avoiding his gaze. Face concealed, she furiously wiped away at it while trying to regain some composure. After a few seconds, like a magic act, she returns to face him with a bright closed-mouthed smile. Despite traces of wetness on the fur near her eyes, it was practically impossible to tell she had been weeping only a few moments ago.
"Is it your turn to stalk me now?" She giggled.
The sheep suppressed a shiver at this instant change. "Hafsa, cut it out."
Slowly, her smile faded away, leaving only a hollow gaze. "Guess it's no use, huh?"
Hesitantly, Desmond pressed on. "A-are you okay? What's wrong?"
Hafsa's eyes widened, equal parts scared and surprised. "It's... I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't say it to a herbie."
Desmond approached her and took a knee, allowing them to be at eye level. It was a strange thing, lowering himself to speak to someone who normally towers over him. "We're way past that." Having said that, he shifted, moving to her side and sinking down to a lazy half cross-legged posture while resting his back against the cool building wall.
Though he couldn't see it, he heard Hafsa's tail beating wildly against the dirt. A sign of anxiety. He began to regret his boldness. However, to his surprise, she didn't move away. Instead, she returned her head to its original resting position atop her knees, facing him. "I guess you're right."
She sighed. A long, heavy, shaky sigh. "Well, I ended up hurting someone today. One of the other cheerleaders."
Desmond stayed quiet, allowing her to gather her thoughts.
"It was an accident, of course," she continued in a small voice. "I'm usually really careful during practice. But I messed up."
"What happened?"
"We were doing the pyramid. We'd done it a million times before, so I guess I wasn't thinking too hard about it. Kris and the twins as base, Mari and Kiki as mid, me on top, like always. But one of the twins must've slipped or pulled something, and the left part of the pyramid went down, along with everyone on it. I was falling and I don't know-- by instinct I had my claws out and--" She looked at her quivering fingertips, now devoid of claws. " I just swiped at the first thing I could reach. Which was Mari's face."
Desmond can't help but wince at the thought.
"I guess cats don't always land on their feet, huh?" She chuckled bitterly.
"Is the girl okay?" Desmond asked.
"I mean... I didn't hit anything big like an artery or an eye. B-but... She's got this huge scar on her face now. Like, y-you can see the claw marks and everything. The fur's gone--" Hafsa's voice stuck to her throat, her eyes welling up with a fresh set of tears. "And I d-don't know if it's gonna grow back right a-and--"
"Hey," The sheep cut her off. "Calm down. If she's not hurt, then it should be fine, right? Besides, it was an accident."
"They said that too. Mari promised she wasn't mad and Penny apologized for slipping. They all said it wasn't my fault. B-But--" Her pupils began to panic, narrowing into thin trembling lacerations.
"Y-you didn't see how they looked at me, when it happened," Hafsa gasped, struggling to not burst out crying again. "Th-their eyes were full of f-fear and... disgust. Even coach. The other carnies w-wouldn't even look at me. They thought it was all my fault. And they're right, it's always my fault, no matter how hard I try."
"That's not true!" Desmond bleated, jerking towards her. "It was a freak accident! This is the first time this ever happened, ri--!"
"No, it's not!" Hafsa wailed. She slammed her head on her kneecaps and shook it violently, creating a horrible bristling noise. "No, it's not, no it's not! This happened with you, and with Brian, and with Ronnie! It happens everywhere I go, no matter what I do! I always fuck up and I always end up hurting someone! I hate it! After all these years, I'm still the goddamn crazy kitty killer! I'm still a goddamn carnivore!"
She heaved into herself, bawling, trembling in pain and in cold. Desmond never knew servals could make such a heartbreaking howl. It made every strand of hair stand on end. It made him want to cry right along with her. It was the most upsetting sound he'd ever heard.
And suddenly, nothing else mattered.
He grabbed her hands that were wrapped around her legs and took them into his. He clutched them, like if he held on tight enough, she'd understand everything he wanted to say.
It was the first time he'd ever held the hands of a carnivore. Even the hands of a female serval were larger than his. It was also clear that she made a great effort to keep them in fantastic condition. She may be a cheerleader, but there was not a trace of blisters or roughness to her palms. Yet, it lacked the softness of an ewe's. Under her moisturized skin hid the bones of a hunter. Sleek, powerful bones, peeking over fur and flesh, long and cruel. Every joint bulging, every muscle toughened. These were the beautiful hands of a killer.
When one holds hands with the grim reaper, one must make a decision. To retreat back into the world of the living, back to the females with featureless, short-nailed hands, or grip even tighter, accepting what may be.
For Desmond, the choice was all too easy.
He let his greedy hands inspect every inch of hers, from fingertips to wrist. In the absence of light, they served as his eyes. Through his hands, his warmth slowly sank into her freezing flesh. Surprised, Hafsa jerked her head up from her knees. Mouth agape, she said nothing, but made no attempt to break free of his grip.
"Cry all you want." He said finally, in a somewhat blunt tone. "You're right. You are a goddamn carnivore. A meat-eater."
He took the tip of her index finger and pressed down at the base of the cuticle, forcing a long, curved claw to shyly peek out of her fur. It was a pearly white, contrasting against his dull black nails. Hafsa gasped at this sudden unsheathing, but stayed paralyzed.
"But you're no killer. And that's coming from the guy you pinned up against the wall by the horns. I've dealt with bad carnies before. But you're not like that."
Hafsa snatched one of her hands back. "You don't know what I'm like!" She hissed. "You don't know anything about me! In fact, you probably had a better idea of who I am when we first met!"
Desmond squeezed her remaining hand, leaning closer so he can look her dead in the eyes with an intense expression.
"Then tell me."
"H-huh?"
"If I don't know anything about you, then tell me. If I'm wrong, correct me. I wanna see you for the carnivore you really are."
All Hafsa could do is stare. Stare at this strange little ram who demanded her honesty from the moment they met, and demanded it now. He was immune to her tricks, immune to her fake smiles, immune to the only side of her she's ever thought acceptable to reveal.
He'd seen her eat, yawn, laugh, sigh, and now cry. He'd seen what it's like to nearly be eaten by her. He'd seen her real smile, her real jokes, her real opinions, her real everything. He got the honesty he demanded. And he still gave her energy bars. He's still here.
Without thinking, she squeezed his hands back. What precious things, they are. A herbivore's hand. No, she's held plenty of those before. These are Desmond's hands. These are valuable. Small, yet sturdy from grappling horns. Solid but not rough, and supple, lacking the grotesque osseous lumps a carnivore has. Fuzzy with wool, tipped with nails the color of his horns, and warm. So warm.
Something shifted inside her. Though she didn't know it then, this shift was permanent. She could never return to the serval she was before this split moment. Now, she was the serval who fell in love with a sheep.
Of course, she didn't know it was love. And she won't for a while. Though she didn't understand this sudden cosmic rearrangement when it suddenly churned, stabbed, seethed, hiccuped, flaunted, exploded, smoldered, and pirouetted inside her for the first time, she did know that it was something fundamentally different from anything she had ever experienced before.
She wanted to say something. Something to verbalize the unholy concoction of emotions that welled up inside her. A statement that expressed the horrific, monstrous, soul-destroying gratitude and affection that erupted from her salty carnivorous heart.
None manifested itself. She was still reeling from the shift. So she cried some more into Desmond's precious hands.