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"Edge Walking"

By: Cauldron O Boyfur

Notes n' Warnings: By law, you should only be reading this story if you're 18 or over, though I could hardly give a crap. It just needs to be said. This story contains the mentioning of a show entitled "Cold Case Files." The show is narrated by Bill Kurtis and airs regularly on the A&E channel. The story also mentions Trix cereal. This is manufactured by General Mills, in Minneapolis MN, USA. This chapter also deals with drug usage, so reader beware.

Chapter 5: White Angels, and White Rock

Characters:

Jamie: 16 year old bunny. Male.

Carwyn: 22 year old fox. Male.

Dewey: Jamie's teddy bear, given to him by Sheila

Waking up, it was "Where am I?," perpetuating a montage of the previous day running in mach motion through Jamie's memory. The job, the house, the new faces. How he could even be nestled in a bed. How he came to be holding the teddy bear, like a drunkard waking up wondering "OK, who the heck is this woman next to me?"

Dewey. That was the teddy bear's name. That calico girl gave it to him. Sheila. That was her name. It was coming back.

There were two things that Jamie needed. The time, and a good piss. It was the urge to pee that opened his heavy anviled eyelids. He was still groggy, his dirty, weary, broken-down bunny body said "sleep." It was his mind, too excited to spend time with the two new house mates he'd met the past night, which jumped up and down like a squadron of pom-pom wielding cheerleaders, clapping to the cadence, "Get up, get up. Let start a brand new day, oh yay! Come on, come on. We're gonna have some fun, hurray!"

Rolling out of bed with the kinesthetics of jello in a plastic bag, Jamie forced himself off the floor, into standing position. It felt like he'd just been through a streetfight, although that wouldn't be totally misleading. The past few weeks, he'd not only been fighting on the streets, but with it and against it. Yesterday's homeless runaway, rolling out of a clean bed today. What a revolutionary turn of events.

About to walk out of his new bedroom, a downwards glance told Jamie that everything wasn't decent, most noteworthy, himself. T-shirt and bikini briefs. Where were his pants? His socks? His necklace!? He'd never failed to circumcise his neckline with David's Star before letting his circumcised (being Jewish and all) penis let out the morning waterworks. It was more essential to beginning the day than the opening of his eyes. More important to his morning than even a sunrise. The sun was important to him, but the most crucial star in Jamie's life was six-pointed.

Nothing mattered to him more than God, his love for God, and God's love for him. The first two were real. The last... well, how could God ever love a bunny? Or a homosexual, for that matter. It defied all reason, and Jamie listened to logic all too often, feeling as if God had created him to be treated a roll of toilet paper for other creatures of Phurrydelphian society.

But then there was Jamie's heart. Something deep inside which, like having belief in God to begin with, defied reason and logic, telling him that God had love (and only love) for him. Something inside, telling Jamie that not only was God with him, but so was an angel It had sent specifically to console the teenager's long-eared, long hearted soul. Jamie felt a guardian angel, a female (as Jamie was always comforted more by women than men) who loved the white furred bunny unconditionally, and watched him unabridged through life with total empathy.

She cried a lot for him, Jamie knew it. Each self-induced scar was whitened in the shade of her dried tears. Each time his own little bunny paws were wedged with shame into the back to his throat (after a self-proclaimed catastrophe of eating too much), a shard, not unlike a porcupine quill, skewered Jamie's chest, telling him that she, again, was crying. Telling the timid boy that she and God wished for him to love himself, as he had been born to love, and to be loved. But then, that self-damning burden of logic would slink through. God could never love either a bunny or a homosexual. A combination of the two was instant abomination. And so, self-punishment (bred from self-hatred) went on unhampered. Bulimia, cutting, crack, and amphetamine. Bereft of validation for anything more in life than misery, Jamie woefully accepted the demonic quadruplets as being the only companionship he deserved.

It was laying right next to the bed on the beat up olive green carpeting (carpeting which was no doubt old, probably from the 1970's when olive green had it's short-lived popularity in house decorating). Like a halo that couldn't stay afloat, Jamie first placed the silver circle through his floppy ears before letting it drop down from over his head. As was custom, he tucked the semitic pendant under his shirt, which allowed the star unobstructed contacted with his fur. Jamie still didn't see his pants, even after sifting through his bookbag. In fact, all the secondary clothes he had brought were missing from the bag's belly. They took it, there was no doubt about that.

After a relaxing pee, Jamie, still only in his t-shirt and blue underwear, descended the staircase, where he could spot Carwyn sitting on the floral patterned sofa. There was something in the fox's mouth, tube shaped, small, and dangling down like an unlit shiny cigarette. Something black was in one paw, clearly a plastic lighter. The giveaway was in Carwyn's other paw. It too was shiny, but also flat, and broad, like a sheet of aluminum foil. Not odd, considering it was exactly that, a base of aluminum, the malleable metal which was also was used to make the straw-like tooter nestled in the fox's lips.

He was freebasing. Carwyn was an addict. But an addict of what?

Jamie (although hating his drug addiction) was relieved by the scene. Not only was he now unburdened of having to use crack in secret, but perhaps he'd now have a hookup. That was, if the mystery substance Carwyn roasted on the foil was indeed crack. Jamie's hunch was that it wasn't, for the reason that the pointy eared fox hadn't noticed the sound of his footsteps. True, bunnies have small bodies, and big feet which disperse what little weight they have over a bigger area (thus creating less of a creaking while they walk), but a crackhead is prone to getting startled by the sound of a caterpillar peeing on a leaf.

Jamie was noticed before making the bottom of the stairs. Carwyn reacted like a kid, whose mom just walked in on him during the act of cutting his own fur before school picture day. He looked panicked and confused, throwing the tooter and base in the footlong sofa-wall gap behind the backrest, before making a rash attempt of shadowing the mirror, exacto knife, and drug with a fluffy pillow. He still had the entire roll of foil laying on the cushion right next to him, and the lighter in his hand. Nonetheless, a quick smile was slapped onto his face, saying sarcastically, "Well, well, look who's finally up. You must've had a good long slumber, sleeping beauty. You do realize it's 4 o'clock in the afternoon." That answered the question of time. "And how are we doing this morning?"

As Jamie came closer to the pumpkin-orange furred foxy, his nostrils caught the scent of what the lifelong clean and sober, would mistake for being burning plastic. A smell akin to one putting a lighter's flame under the inner ink tube of a cheap Bic pen. It was a familiar odor to the bunny's nose, one which had stood next to iron-rich blood and acidic vomit as the olfactory anthem of Jamie's teenage years. The smell of an unfulfilled promise to touch euphoria, with euphoria teasing and always remaining an arms length and an inch away, no matter how much is used. Smell of not learning the lessons from past sessions when saying "I'm almost there, just one more hit" but of course, never getting there. The smell of a white rock's gaseous ghost. His hunch was wrong. Carwyn was indeed smoking crack.

"I'm OK," Jamie smiled. "I just, ah, well I can't find my pants. Or anything but what I'm wearing." Jamie looked at the television while speaking. Carwyn was watching Cold Case Files, a program documenting real recently solved cold cases, which were molding for years prior in the "unsolved" shelf. Nearly every episode Jamie had come across were accounts of female bunnies murdered by another species. This was no exception, as the narrator went on explaining the accounts of a third bunny girl raped and strangled by a sexually-sadistic otter.

Carwyn provided answer to Jamie. "Yes, your clothing. Very stinky, even for someone as cute as you. They're probably still nice n' toasty in the drier. Sheila washed em for you. She's out at the mall right now, gettin you a new wardrobe." Jamie grinned. New clothing. He always thought that cologne companies would strike gold if they could find a way to synthesize the nostril potion of clothing right off the department store racks, still ornamented with tags of price and designer.

Carwyn went on, gently insulting the runaway's hygiene, "You should take a shower. Like, ASAP. Don't take offense, please, but anyone would be a little, ah, ripe spending dozens of days on the streets. Get what I'm gettin at?"

Above all else, Jamie was hungry. Breakfast was a meal he couldn't and/or wouldn't miss. Even if a skunk had climbed through his window while the bunny slept and sprayed him like a nasal alarm clock, he'd eat a grapefruit before bathing in tomato juice. "I gotta go eat something first."

Still frazzled, probably from being caught, Carwyn gibbered, "Sure, just look around the kitchen. You'll find stuff. Unless you need me to cook you up something. After all, it's dinner time."

"I'm in a cereal mood, but thanks for the offer." Jamie went on through the living room, then took the dining room to where it had a window looking out onto the back driveway, used by the entire street. A left brought him into the kitchen. Thin, as was the upstairs hallway. Two furs passing in the kitchen would probably have to slink around each other to avoid bumping. As with the upstairs hallway, the bunny made a U-turn to get access to the room. Where he'd come in was a white, semi-circular table jutting out from the wall. Near him on the right side was a stove and cooking range. Gas fueled. Nice. He hated electric cooking ranges. Still on the right, a few feet down, was a dishwasher, then a sink. On the sink's opposite side (Jamie's left) was a refrigerator. Past all of them was the staircase leading to the basement. As Jamie went to grab milk from the icebox, he peered down. Nothing much in the basement, but at the far end was an open door, leading into another very cloistered room. Not a closet, but presence of a toilet proclaiming it to be another bathroom. Probably seldom used. Jamie made mental note of it.

Skim milk and Trix cereal. It took a few seconds for the boy to realize the humor in the correlation between his future job as a gay prostitute, and his choice of fruity cereal. Funny, but well appropriate.