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...eight... completely relaxed, and you can still hear my voice... almost completely asleep... nine... everything is completely relaxed... your face, your neck, your arms, your legs, your tail, everything is relaxed... close, almost completely asleep... and... ten. You are completely asleep. Can you still hear me, Duncan?

Yes.

You know who I am?

Yes, Jerold.

And where are you?

I am in your office.

Yes. You are completely safe in this place. Nothing can hurt you here. You can remember anything from your life, safely. You can be aware of emotions or feelings, even of physical sensations, but they are only phantoms, only memories. They are not happening now. They cannot hurt you here. Do you understand?

Yes.

Are you safe here?

Yes.

Good. You are calm. You are relaxed. You spoke to me earlier about something that you want to remember clearly. Do you remember our conversation?

Yes.

Do you remember what it is that you want to do here?

I want to face it. I want to remember but not feel it. I want the truth.

Very good, Duncan. That is what you told me. And that is what we will find, together. I will help you, I promise. We need to travel through time in your mind. Let us practice this first. I want you to think back to your thirtieth birthday. Can you remember that day?

It's Tuesday. My birthday is a Tuesday this year. Patrick isn't with me; he's still in Davis. I'm working a temp job. No one knows it's my birthday. My parents call me that night. I stay at home, mostly. I'm watching a British mystery series...

Very good. You remember it clearly. Let's go back a little further. It's your twenty-fifth birthday. Tell me what you remember.

Funny ... it's a Tuesday too. I'm living in that college town. I have friends. They turn against me later, but I had friends then. We have a party. I paid for it. I met Patrick that year. It seemed as if I'd found where I wanted to be. It was a good day. I landed my job there not long after. I got to stay past the summer lease I had.

Good. That's good, Duncan. Now we're going to go back just a little further. A matter of only a little more than three years further. Before your 22nd birthday. To the time that you wanted to review. Are you ready?

Afraid.

Nothing can hurt you. I am here. These are only memories, nothing more. They cannot hurt you or touch you. I am with you. You are safe here.

I am safe here.

Yes. Do you remember the place? Do you remember the day?

August 9. A Saturday. I knew it was a Saturday, just the date seemed to have... slipped my mind. It's the week before my birthday.

Tell me about the afternoon. What did you do that afternoon?

Went to the big indoor mall. It was still a favorite place then. I had lunch, walked around the shops for a while. I'm to start law school in another few weeks, but I have time to myself now. Hot. Too hot outside. Temperature in the low hundreds. Humid. Soak your fur in a heartbeat. Stay indoors.

You had plans for that evening.

Yes. Sebastian and I were going to a club he frequented. Leather bar. Not really his thing. The Gay Men's Chorus met there. Sebastian was a member. I'm not a singer; I'm a writer, can't carry a tune in a washtub. He said I could probably join if I knew how to hit the high notes...

I see you squirming, Duncan. It's all right. I'm going to touch your right shoulder, and when I touch your right shoulder, your emotions will quiet down, and you will relax again. There.

Yes. Okay.

Anytime I touch your right shoulder like that, your emotions will quiet down. You will step away from them in your mind, and you can remember whatever you wish to remember without having to feel it all again. Do you understand?

Yes.

Good. Let's talk about the bar. What do you remember?

Crowded. Mixed group. Lots of leather. Some people looked like they didn't belong there. I probably looked like that. I wore...

What were you wearing?

I used to wear khakis. I wore khakis that night. Elastic band, snug at the waist. Cotton shirt. Polo shirt. No pocket. Couldn't wear that now, need pockets. Keep things in my pockets. Always have something in my pockets.

Yes. I see the pockets in your shirt. That night, you wore a shirt with no pockets. And khakis. What else?

It was hot. No sense wearing more than you have to in that sort of heat.

I wasn't thinking of clothes. Were you wearing anything else?

...necklace.

I'm sorry, Duncan, I couldn't hear that. Did you say "necklace?"

Yes. I wore a necklace.

What kind?

Simple chain. Fairly thick. Masculine, no doubt.

Just the chain.

No. Something on it.

What was on the chain?

Symbol. Pentacle. A five-pointed star inscribed in a circle.

Does it show, or do you wear it inside your shirt?

Here, inside. Not sure who's here. People don't always understand the pentacle.

What do you mean by that?

Some people think it's a sign of evil.

What does that symbol mean to you?

I think of it as the symbol that binds the species. Head, arms, legs... for many of us, at least, this is our regular form. We have this in common. Even for other species who are not made that way, it can be the unifying symbol of the self - the six senses.

Six?

The center of the pentacle is the heart, the soul, the center. The self reaches out through the senses, and the world - the circle - is our common ground. It's what we connect to, to connect to each other. We begin with our heart, we reach out, and we give to the rest of the universe. Love is our common ground.

...You haven't mentioned this to me before, Duncan. It's a very beautiful idea.

Yes.

It suits a writer such as yourself.

Yes.

You wore this symbol on that night. On August 9th, just before your 22nd birthday.

Yes.

You're there at the bar. Sebastian is there. What is he doing?

Talking. Mingling. He's very good in social situations. He has friends here. He meets people here sometimes. The choral group. People they know.

Are you talking with people?

Not much. I'm withdrawn.

Why are you withdrawn, Duncan?

Don't really belong here. Don't think I fit in. I'm not sure how to handle the noise of the crowd, the music. Scent is strong here - beer, alcohol, sweat, leather, sex...

You scent sex in the bar?

Males. Seeking sex. Maybe just having had sex somewhere. There's a back room in this bar. Usually something going on in there.

Do you go into the back room?

No. It's a rougher crowd here than I'm used to. I'm nervous about it. I keep to myself. Maybe leave early. Sebastian can stay; he can always find his way home.

You aren't comfortable here. Why did you come?

To meet Sebastian. We traded a few... a few books...

What books are these?

Fiction. I think. I don't remember...

I'm here, Duncan. Tell me about the books.

I don't remember...

Look at them. Tell me what they are.

Heinlein. Greg Bear. David Brin. Science fiction books. I've read one. Sebastian gave it back to me. The other two are new. Something new to read. Always good. Something new.

What time is it, Duncan?

Early, in bar time. Maybe ten or so. I want to go home.

Why don't you?

No reason. I could walk home from here, if need be. Maybe I should take a piss first.

Have you been drinking?

Soda. No alcohol. I don't drink, really, never did... just soda.

What are you drinking, Duncan?

Black Russian. Nervous. Thought it would calm me down or something.

Do you drink alcohol often?

Not really. Only drunk once in my life. College. Grad school. Fucking department head...

Do you drink a lot?

No. One or two drinks in an evening at most.

Is this your first Black Russian tonight?

Yes. I had soda before. Changed up about half an hour ago.

Why are you drinking, Duncan?

I don't know. I shouldn't be. I shouldn't drink in this place. It's not familiar to me. It's a strange place. Too loud. Too many smells. My paws keep feeling stuff on the floor of the place, makes me uncomfortable.

Why not leave?

I'm going to.

Why are you staying, Duncan?

I'm lonely. I keep wondering if I'll find someone. Just for tonight maybe. If I hadn't stayed... I should go home. I'm going home. I'm going to have a piss and go home. I don't want to be here anymore. I'm going to go home now. I'll have a piss and go home.

I'm going to touch your shoulder, Duncan. There.

Yes.

Are you all right?

Yes.

You're going to go home now.

Yes. I put the drink down. Not quite finished; don't want the rest. I push my way toward the back. Past the back room. Other direction. Toilets are down this way. At the back.

What is it, Duncan?

Someone pushing against me.

What is happening, Duncan?

This guy keeps getting in my way. Trying to get to the pisser. Big wolf keeps bumping into me, laughing. He just keeps laughing. Sorry about that, fox-boy, he says. I'm trying to get past him, and he keeps stepping in front of me. What the hell...

What now?

Some big slab of lion behind me, collides into me, pushing me into the wolf. I drop the books. Apologies, seems drunk, laughing, just laughing. The wolf holds me upright as if I'm the one who's drunk. The lion pushes us both, still laughing. The books are on the floor somewhere. The wolf is backing up. I'm caught between them, being moved backward. There's a door to the back office or something, and there's another door, a delivery door, opens into the back alley behind... the back door. They're pushing me toward the back door. I can't see the books...

Keep going, Duncan. I'm here. This is only memory. Tell me what happens next.

I'm outside. The air is thick, hot, humid; smells of garbage, of stale beer and whiskey. It's dark. I hear street sounds from somewhere, but they're no match for the loud pounding beats from inside the bar. The wolf and the lion push me outside. I stumble over my own paws and land in the arms of another guy. He's big, hard-muscled. In the dim light, I realize that he's a young horse. I think I recognize him from earlier in the evening. He grabs me, helps me stand. I think he's trying to help me. I look up to thank him for catching me. I look into his eyes... his eyes...

Phantoms, Duncan. Only memory. Your feelings can be separate from yourself. As if you're watching a movie. Tell me what you're feeling.

Disbelief. I can't understand what's happening. I think I know what's happening, but it can't be happening, so I don't feel like it's happening. I look into the horse's eyes, and I know. I keep the idea away from me. But I know.

Go on, Duncan. Go through it. It can no longer hurt you. Detach. Look at it. Tell me what happens.

The horse has me. He's still for a moment. I smell alcohol on his breath. He spins me around suddenly, picks me up a few inches off the ground. He walks over to the garbage cans; my paws can't quite touch the ground, just flailing, can't control them. The stink is indescribable. He holds me with one arm wrapped around me, pulls a garbage can onto its side. The garbage spills everywhere. He grabs me again and throws me over the garbage can. It knocks the wind out of me. I can't catch my breath for a moment. I can't think. The smell. The movement. The pounding sounds from nearby, from a world away. I feel myself being lifted, shifted... someone rips my pants down toward my knees. I hear laughing. You first.

What?

You first. The horse says to someone. The wolf comes over to me. The horse has moved in front of me, pushing me down by the shoulders, pinning me so that I can't use my arms. The wolf has moved behind me and grabbed my tail, pulling up hard. I cry out. The horse slaps me. None of that. You stay quiet or we'll make you quiet. I feel the wolf behind me, using his other hand to spread my ass cheeks. He's rubbing my tailhole very hard. Dry boy. So wet him down.

I feel a hot stream boring into my fur, most of it aimed at my tailhole, spraying and dripping down my legs. I can smell the piss. I can smell the wolf scent. Something prodding me. The wolf pulls my tail upward, harder. Open up, boy. Make it easy. He pushes against me. I feel more piss. More pushing. He's inside. He's pushing against my tailhole and he's inside, pushing inside. My hole is on fire. The horse has one massive forepaw holding my muzzle shut. I'm trying to scream. It hurts. Oh gods, oh gods, it hurts...

I'm here, Duncan. Only memories. Only memories.

He's inside me. I'm split open. He pushes and pumps, finally letting go of my tail, holding my hips, pressing me against the garbage can, thrusting himself into me, over and over. It takes forever. It takes about a minute. He finally collapses onto me, exploding himself inside me. I can feeling him filling me. He doesn't knot me; that would take too long. They are quick. They know it has to be quick.

The wolf pulls out of me. I feel cum dripping out of my tailhole. He pisses some more, some of it on me, some toward the wall of the alley. The air is thick with the smell of his sex and his piss. My turn. My turn. The lion. The lion is behind me quickly. He pushes himself against my already abused tailhole. He's the size of the wolf at least. He finds his way into me in one thrust. I try again to cry out, more in reaction than anything else. The fear has taken away my ability to fight, to scream for help; the only sounds I can make are from the pain. The lion knows something about pain. He uses me like the wolf did, thrusting himself deep inside me. I can feel the barbs on his feline cock. Surely I must be bleeding. I hear him cursing. It's as if he is angry, as if he hates me, hates what he's doing. He tries to last longer. He knows it has to be quick. He wants it. He doesn't. He lasts about as long as the wolf. As he cums, his claws extend from his forepaws; he rips my shirt, scratches my back. I feel tears on my muzzle. I can't stop them. It hurts so bad...

Phantoms, Duncan. Only memories. They can't--

I know. I'm all right. I'm not all right. I understand.

Take it through, Duncan. Go right through it.

The lion pulls out of me. He doesn't piss on me like the wolf did. I think he left. He didn't stay. I couldn't hear him anymore. I don't know. I can barely focus on myself, on being alive. I'm shaking. Holding my body like that, hunched over, my leg muscles aching, my tailhole aching, my shoulders, my muscles are straining, quivering. I'm shaking all over. The horse yanks my muzzle. You keep quiet boy. My turn. You stay quiet. He releases my muzzle. I could have shouted. I could have tried to fight back. He only had his forepaw on me, in the middle of my back, pressing me down hard against the trash can. I could have fought back, shifted, tried to move, tried to do something. Why didn't I fight back. Why didn't I do something.

Shock. Pain. Fear. So much noise in the bar; no one would hear you. If you'd tried to fight back, they might have hit you, broken bones, maybe even slashed open an artery and let you bleed to death. You were right not to fight back.

Was I.

You survived. Whatever else, you survived. Go through it, Duncan. You have to go through it to end it.

The horse. The horse was last. He moved behind me. He... he shoved himself inside me. He was huge. It felt like a baseball bat. I shrieked. He tried to grab hold of my neck. Maybe my shirt. He found the necklace. He grabbed the chain and pulled hard. My head came up fast, my arms flailing, my back wrenched in pain. I couldn't breathe. I was choking. I tried to grab the chain. I tried to fight for air. The horse seemed to like it. He yanked the chain back to match his thrusting. I gasped for air each time he pulled himself nearly all the way out of me, then choked again as he yanked the chain up hard, pounding his full length against me. The rhythm was all that kept me able to breathe at all. I fought the chain and couldn't win. Fought the strangulation. Fought for air. Fought not to die.

The horse yanked up hard one more time. I felt something snap. Thought it was my neck. I felt something falling on either side of my neck as the horse bucked his gallon of seed into me with a wicked sound like a laugh and a cry and a shout of victory. He pulled himself out of me and pushed me back down against the trash can. I sprawled across it, vibrating in pain and terror. I felt something falling from my neck. It was the chain. It had broken at the back, but it didn't fall right away; it had buried itself slightly into the flesh of my neck. The blood had held it there for a moment before it finally fell completely to the ground. I saw drops of blood on the ground. My mind was screaming, but no sound escaped my lips. I reeked of piss and cum and the garbage all around me.

I don't know how long I lay there across the garbage can. It felt like hours. It could only have been a very short time, perhaps only two minutes. My muscles wouldn't obey my mental commands. My tail shook violently; my tailhole dripped the accumulation of male seed between my legs, onto my pants. I tried to move. It was like trying to send signals through a remote control that had a dying battery. ...it was you.

What?

Someone at the back door of the bar. Someone speaking to me. I turn my head to look at him, my eyes still wide in terror. I thought someone else was coming to use me, to hurt me, to laugh at me. He didn't laugh. He was a ferret. Slim, wearing very little, the uniform of the bartenders. I recognized him. He wore a thick leather collar at his neck, some other leather gear. He was someone's slave. He just looked at me. Oh, it was you this week.

What did you think that meant?

I didn't understand. I was trying to get myself to move, to pull up my pants, that was a priority for some reason, to pull up my pants and cover myself. It was as if I could protect myself from this happening again if I could only get dressed. I just had to get dressed. Oh, it was you this week. That's what he said. I tried to understand. He looked at me. He wasn't laughing, he wasn't smiling. He was just looking at me. You want a drink, he asked. On the house. I tried to say something. I think I actually said a few words, I don't know what they were, it's as if I had no mind to connect to. They do this all the time. I guess it was you this week. You want a drink. Come on back inside if you want a drink. And he left me there. I was alone in the alley.

...Duncan? Where are you?

I'm at home.

How did you get home, Duncan?

Walked, I think. I don't remember walking. I think I remember moving down the alley. Going to the street. People walking around. No one looked at me. Some looked at me, looked away. No one saw me. No one saw me. No one knew me.

What are you doing?

I'm home. I've ripped off the clothes. I put them into the trash. I threw them into the trash cans outside my back door. Back door. Dark. Inside. Go inside. I'm in the shower. I don't feel the temperature. I think it's hot. I don't know. I'm in the shower. I'm taking a very long shower. I use soap. A lot of soap. I have bath gel. Blue bath gel. It smells of ocean breezes somehow. I think about being on the beach. I think about swimming in the ocean in some near-tropical place. I'm so sweaty. I'm stinking with sweat. I must have walked all the way here. Long walk, hot night, humid, very humid.

I wash myself. Scents of lavender, of verbena and sage. And hyacinth. Hyacinth is the special herb for gay males. The scent is supposed to bring good luck and love to gay males. I wash myself thoroughly. More than once. It seems that I just can't quite get that scent of sweat off of me. It has to be sweat. I wash my back carefully. I seem to have cut myself. Around my neck. Very sore. My throat is sore, and my neck is sore. I think I cut myself there too. My muzzle feels sore. I think my cheek is swollen. I wash myself, every inch, every tuft of my fur. I wash my tail especially. Clean. Make my tail clean, bring back the shine in my fur.

As you are washing yourself, what do you remember?

...I remember that it happened, and at the same time, I block it. It's as if I know that it happened, yet I am carefully not letting anything about it come to the surface. I could tell someone that I was raped, I could call the police and make a report, I could recount the details completely, even describe who it was. I could. I won't. It's as if my mind is telling me, yes, you can do that, but not now. Right now, you're going to let it go completely. And that "right now" is going to remain for a while.

Did you tell anyone?

No.

...Where are you, Duncan?

I'm drying myself off. I feel sore. I feel very tired. I feel like something is broken in myself, not in my body necessarily, just in myself. I want to go to bed. I want to sleep now.

Yes, Duncan. Sleep. Good sleep. You sleep through that night and wake up on Sunday. When did you wake up on that Sunday?

Late. Eleven or so. Not like me. I didn't have anything to drink, after all, so I can't think why I slept so long. And I feel so sore. I know there's a reason for it. I just don't think about it. I have some things to do around the house. I need to organize some bookshelves. I should get my Heinlein back from Sebastian sometime. I'll ask him about it later. He probably got home late from the bar last night.

Duncan, I want you to let that day go for now. I want you to move forward in time. I want you to tell me when you first fully realized, consciously, that you had been raped. Do you know when that is?

I think... Picture. I see a picture of a pentacle. I see a pentacle symbol on a necklace. I wondered whatever had become of mine. And I remembered. I remembered that night. Or part of it. I knew what had happened, yet I didn't really remember.

Duncan, you are coming back into the present day. You are still asleep, and you can still hear my voice. You remember all that we have talked about here. You remember what day it is, when Now is. You remember our conversation before you went under. This is a threshold, Duncan. You can choose to remember everything that we've gone through here, or you can let yourself forget it. What do you want to do?

It happened.

It doesn't have to have happened.

It happened. I remember it. I remember the books. I remember the pentacle. I remember the wolf, the lion, the horse. I remember everything.

You don't have to remember.

It has been part of me. Forgetting won't help. I need to remember it, to know that I survived. To draw strength from knowing that I was able to overcome even that.

That sounds very brave to me, Duncan. How do you feel about that?

I'm at peace with it now. It was many years ago. Far too long ago to do anything about it. There's no sense in seeking justice, if that's what you're worried about.

What do you mean, Duncan?

Justice is just vengeance wearing a publicly acceptable mask. Restitution, when proper, is a good thing, but there's nothing to restore here. I have no interest in turning you in.

What?

You remembered that I'm a writer. You forgot that I was an actor.

* * * * *

Duncan opened his eyes and turned his head to look at the lion sitting next to him in his red leather chair. He smiled at the therapist's expression. "That look alone was worth the cost of this visit."

The lion sat frozen to the spot. "You were under," he said, disbelieving. "I would swear to it!"

"I had to practice with a friend before I could act the part without actually being hypnotized." The fox sat up on the couch and stretched carefully. "You're really very good, Jerold."

For a long moment, the lion couldn't speak. He set down the pad and pen that he had been using to take notes and sighed heavily. He shook his head. "You can prove nothing."

"I probably could," Duncan said evenly. "Although I don't know if that's what I really want out of this. I was still unsure when I lay down on this couch half an hour ago. I knew one thing I wanted was to make you feel it. The fear. The uncertainty. I wanted to make sure that you knew just what the hell you'd done to me."

"I could only imagine," the therapist whispered.

"I don't want you to imagine," the fox spat. "I want you to know. You broke me. You and your little friends. You didn't just hurt me; you didn't just fuck me. You shredded me. You ripped my soul apart. You took my spirit, my Self, and utterly destroyed it. I was supposed to go to law school that fall. I couldn't get out of my apartment for more than two weeks after it happened, and at the orientation for new students, I became terrified that I couldn't compete with everyone else there. I lost whatever courage it takes to try something new, to try something that was supposed to be my future. I drifted from job to job, doing nothing, keeping myself away from everyone for months. You took my Self away from me. You took away my spirit. You fucked the life out of me!"

The lion put his head into his forepaws. No sound came from him.

"It took me years to feel anything close to normal," Duncan said. "Do you want to hear the litany of my horrors? Nightmares that had no source. Feeling that walking outside of my house was an exercise in terror. Lack of trust. No sense of loving or being loved. Not daring to have an opinion about something in case it might upset someone, like a boss, or a policeman. Feeling guilt. I felt guilt, Jerold, unfathomable guilt, never-ending and incomprehensible guilt. I felt that I was always the one who was wrong, that I didn't deserve anything, not consideration, not kindness, and especially not affection. I gave up all that, and I never, never understood why. Even after I allowed myself to remember the rape fully, completely, I never understood why I felt that I was the guilty one, that I was to blame."

Slowly, painfully, the lion nodded once. He sighed heavily, put his forepaws in his lap. "That's probably the most common reaction to rape. Victim's Guilt. I've seen it so many..." The lion's voice caught; he seemed to be fighting to control his emotions. "May I ask how you found me?"

"I found out about you perhaps six months ago. A fairly recent photo of you seemed familiar. I did some Internet research, found a name. At first, I was livid. The rage that I had built walls against came flooding like pus from a gangrenous cyst. Oh, violence was a first thought, believe me; I could have shown you holes in my living room wall to prove it, along with my nearly-broken forepaw that needed a few weeks in a cast. Vengeance. So many scenarios. Visions of attacking you, raping you myself, perhaps with a real baseball bat, studded with razor wire or acid-drenched barbs."

Duncan forced himself to breathe evenly. "But you see, that wouldn't have done any good. It would only mean that I had destroyed myself in trying to destroy you. All that I had worked through, all that I had regained, would be stripped from me again. So my rage had to be cooled. What other vengeance? I thought about the law, but the statute of limitations is long gone. And I thought about ruining your reputation, getting your license revoked, ruining your life."

The lion held his gaze steady, despite the slight trembling of his eyes. "You've come for revenge? Or justice, or whatever word you wish to use?"

The fox considered the therapist carefully. "Perhaps, in the beginning. When I discovered that you'd become a therapist, a hypnotist, and an MD, specializing in rape cases... I was certain that you were some horrifying demon that fed off souls twice. I thought that you were a fraud, perpetrating a cruel hoax. I could imagine you gloating over your victims' stories."

The lion hung his head.

"I was wrong. The therapist who helped me, Dr. Pappandrea - he's been president of a professional organization that you belong to, and he told me that you were one of the finest therapists for rape victims that he had ever known. You have an amazing reputation; you've done a lot of good for a lot of people. In a way, you've even helped me. How many rape victims can take their rapists through the mental processes of the attack?"

"I hope you enjoyed it," the lion mumbled flatly.

"I did not." Duncan considered. "Despite all I felt about you up to this point, what I feel most now is that I want to understand. I want to understand what you went through. I want you to tell me."

Jerold looked at Duncan as if he hadn't seen him before. "I don't think I can do that."

"You've never confronted those memories? Every rape victim who has passed through your doors has had to face those memories, those thoughts. It's the only way to get past them. To get power over them."

"I've never done that." Jerold rose from his chair, moved to the window and looked out. "I've carried them with me for all these years - every single act that I committed. Every time it happened. I can count them. You weren't the first. You were very nearly the last."

"Why?"

The lion snorted a half-laugh. "That's always the question, isn't it? Why does any of us do anything? It's the 'why' that eludes us so much. That's what I learned in college, from my freshman psych classes through my dissertation." He looked back at Sebastian. "I drove myself to get that doctorate. I behaved like a lion possessed. I was. By demons. By those memories that I could never forgive myself for."

Duncan absorbed this information slowly. "Do you know why you raped?"

"Because I hated myself," the therapist said simply. "Because I hated every male who could accept himself as being gay. Because I wanted to destroy anyone who was stronger than I was."

"And the other two?"

"Sadists." The lion spat the word. "Their pleasure was in the victim's fear. They were all but impotent without that rush of domination, of control, of taking by violence what they couldn't take when it was offered freely. That was the start of it, or at least I think so. Claudio - that was the horse's name. It was sex games with him at first, until it wasn't enough. He nearly killed one of the young bartenders at the club. He couldn't reach climax, so the story goes, and he lashed out at the poor young marmoset who couldn't understand what he had done wrong. Claudio beat that poor boy bloody, and in doing so gave himself the most powerful climax he'd ever had."

Duncan watched as the therapist moved to the chair behind his desk and sat down. "The wolf was Lyman, a friend of Claudio. I never knew his story. He just preferred to stalk and take down prey, perhaps. Nothing very glamorous for a paper in the psychiatric journals." He looked at the fox, pain creasing his brow. "Your memory is exact. I remember cursing when I..."

Duncan nodded slowly. "Say it."

"...when I raped you. All I felt was rage. I thought it was against you. I guess I thought that debasing you, hating you, was what made me climax. I almost didn't. By that time, I realized that the rage was turning inward. You were right when you said that I left the other two alone. I walked back into the bar, went straight for the front door and went home. I didn't see the other two for days. The next Saturday - that would have been your birthday - we did it again. And I couldn't cum. I couldn't make my body tip over and climax. I faked it. I faked an orgasm, because I didn't want the other two to know that I couldn't do it."

The lion looked at the fox again. "There was one more attempt after that. I helped them get another guy, but I didn't participate in the rest. I ran from the alley. I ran home. I ran back to my home and tried to kill myself."

Duncan shuddered as the therapist pulled back the long sleeve of his expensive dress shirt and showed the silver-white fur running in vertical streaks on his left arm. "I made four before the pain was too much even for my crazed brain. Long, but not deep enough. I passed out, but the blood clotted eventually, just enough to keep me from dying." The lion looked at his arm. "Fur always grows back in a different color for cuts like this. No one really knows why."

The fox paused before asking, "What happened, Jerold?"

"I woke up with blood all over everything, still alive, weak as a kitten, and wishing it had actually worked. I damned the gods for not letting me die." He smiled a little. "The rest is cliché. I thought about turning myself in to the police, and attempting suicide again, and even trying to get myself raped, as if that would somehow atone for it all. That last would have been easy; one trip to visit Lyman and especially Claudio, telling them, or threatening to turn them in..."

"Do you know what happened to them?"

Jerold held Duncan's eyes steadily. "Is it important to you to know what happened to them?"

The fox considered for a long moment. "In this moment, I'm not at all sure. I don't suppose that it makes much difference, in one sense; in another, perhaps it's... well, closure."

The therapist nodded. "Good. You really were paying attention in your sessions." He smiled wanly, then his face became grave once again. "I went through my own process of rage. Part of it was blaming them for what I had done, but I was too... well, as strange as it sounds, I was too proud to let it be that easy. I did what I did; I had to take responsibility for that. I could not take responsibility for their actions. I considered turning them in; I'd turn state's evidence, make a deal, just like those law shows." He snorted an angry rumble of disgust. "I wasn't proud enough to take that much responsibility."

"What did you do?"

"I went to Claudio's apartment. I wasn't sure what I was going to do." The pause was long. Duncan waited. "No one answered my knock. I had a key to the place and used it." Jerold closed his eyes. "There had been one hellish struggle in that room. Furniture, coffee table, television, everything looked smashed. To one side, I saw Lyman, naked, unmoving, clutching a thick pillow in his claws. Seed dripped thickly from his tailhole, as blood poured from his neck. Claudio had taken his ultimate thrill - slit the wolf's throat at the point of climax."

The fox forced his gorge to stay down.

"I found Claudio in his bed in the next room. He was only semi-conscious, his eyes glazed over, blood still on his forepaws. The works lay on the table beside him, alongside the plate with the rest of the powder on it. He looked over at me. Best ever. That's what he said. Best ever." The lion paused, breathed slowly. "It's surprising how much strength one can find in oneself. It was nothing for me to hold him down and shovel the rest of the powder into Claudio's mouth, then clamp his muzzle shut until it had all dissolved. I left the apartment, locked the door behind me, and never looked back. Newspaper stories told me that the police let the scene tell them the obvious; no one cared much about those two. I just added it to my list of sins that would no doubt condemn me to hell when I finally got my suicide attempt right.

"But I never made another attempt. I just kept going, surviving. Something in me had turned, shifted. I started volunteering to help people in convalescent homes. The staff doctors liked what I did, and one offered to help me get into college and medical school. It was then that I found my magnificent obsession. I don't know why I didn't think about getting help for myself; all I could think was how to help other people who had been victims. I couldn't find the ones I had attacked; I could remember each event, but not each person, because there was no person. You described it yourself. Destroy the sentience, destroy the spirit, use the body and discard it. I had no way to know who they were."

"And that's why you didn't recognize me," Duncan said.

"Yes." The lion looked at the fox. "My past has truly caught up to me. You have found the villain responsible for your horrors."

The fox shook his head. "No. I've found a therapist who has helped me truly to face what happened that night."

"Are you going to report me?"

"Why would I take action against someone who has helped me? Why would I want to prevent others from being able to get help from someone who really knows what rape is about? You have relived your experiences every time you helped a person through their own. That's more punishment than even a victim could expect to exact upon an attacker. You have to fight your own ghosts, just to help other people recover. That takes a lot of courage."

"Or guilt."

"Not from me." Duncan walked to the desk, reached out and took the lion's forepaws in his own. "I forgive you, Jerold."

"And just how," the therapist asked through his tears, "am I supposed to forgive myself?"

"The same way every victim does." Duncan looked at the lion carefully. "They get help."

The lion's eyes asked; the fox's eyes answered. They squeezed each other's forepaws gently.

"Okay," Jerold said. "Time to go through it."

Duncan nodded. "Right through to the end."