FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I had lived a charmed life for a long time. My parents were - well, not in the picture, to be obtuse about it. From the age of eight, until my current age of fourteen, I had lived quite successfully without them. I used their disability checks to survive, and I took care of them. Well, I took care of them until I started to resent them, which was when I started to keep them alive. I used to talk to them, and sing to them and play music for them, but for three years I had kept them in the old study in the dark, with the news playing day and night. It was scary in my house, sometimes. I think that god or something was watching out for me, for a long time, because I was stupid when I was a little girl. I think I blew my cover that last, fatal time, which brought me here.

I am a wolf, and therefore have a bit of a dominant spirit. Because of this predator's spirit, I did not like being led around like I was a child. Especially not by a prey animal social worker. Her name was something stupid like Hope, or Faith, or something. I never paid much attention to her name. Anyway, Hope-Faith had somehow found out that my parents were both brain dead, despite the six years (six years five months and twelve days, actually, but who's counting?) of tax papers and paid bills that said the contrary. I did not like Love-Happiness very much.

"Good morning, Annette!" Generic-Good-Feeling said to me perkily.

"Hi. Since you're here, I guess that you have something you want?" I asked flatly, handing Happy-Joy a mug of coffee.

"Well, actually sweetie, there is." She said treacly sweetly.

"What?"

"Well... I found someone who would very much like to be your daddy." I did not fail to note the childish moniker, "And I came over to tell you to get ready to meet him, and wear something nice and get cleaned up." Cleaned up? I guess she meant to get formal, because I was freshly showered and I know she could smell my shampoo.

"You said 'him'. It's just one person?" I asked skeptically. I watched the news occasionally, child molesters got really bad press, and plenty of it.

"Well, sweetie, it is just one person. He has been run through a zillion interviews and checks, and the only bad thing he's ever done, seems to be a traffic ticket for not paying a parking meter. In fact, he checks out more credibly than several of our couples." Joyous-Joy said, all business now. " - Not that you don't get the final say who your new family will be - of course, you will get to meet him and talk to him, and stuff," I did not like her vagueness. "So, get dressed - would you like some help? - and I'll take you to meet him."

I didn't really know why she thought I would need help getting put together, but I declined just to be safe. I sauntered off to my room, which was actually the master bedroom, to put on some first impression clothes. I took a fairly short amount of time to get dressed, and did some makeup. Lined my lips in darker gray than my fur, put on some mascara, and came back to the kitchen.

Love-Good was standing at the front door, and gushed, "You look wonderful, Hun!" I did not like this mousey mouse woman. I did not respond to this, instead walking outside, Heartsie (so I will call her from now on) in tow, and locking up the house. I walked to her old sedan with the federal blue plates, and we drove off to the Child Protection Agency local office.

I hated the place. It was a squat, brown brick building with faded white cement facades on parts. We entered, and the receptionist woman waved us into the inner sanctum, as I'd come to call it. We had been here so many times, I knew my way straight to Heartsie's office, so I was hardly following her, by the time we had reached her door. Everything was exactly as I remembered it, upon entering.

Everything was exactly as I remembered it, except for the big snow leopard in the black slacks, shirt and vest with a silly red tie.

"Annette, dear, this is Trace." She said, unusually normally. "He would very much like to be your daddy, and I think you two would make a good father-daughter pair."

"Hello, Annette." Trace said. He had a very nice voice, and smile, and eyes. "I'm Trace, like Terry here said." Her name was Terry? Huh, I was off by a lot. "It's a real pleasure to finally meet you." He stuck out a hand, which I shook daintily.

"Hi, it's nice to meet you, too. I haven't... heard anything about you." I said a bit bashfully.

"Well, that's why we're here. So you can get to know me and decide if you want me to be your adoptive father or not. I really would like you to be my daughter. From what I've heard of you, you're quite the girl." I was?

"Oh, I - I don't know about that. What makes me special?" Parents parents parents! I think my mind shouted obviously.

"Well, from what Terry has told me, you have a lot more... experience running a household than most girls." That was a cute way to put it, I guess. It made me sound like a whore, if you thought about it a bit.

"Yeah I - "

"Annette has been living without parental care for - "

"I'm sure that Annette can tell me, thank you." Trace said, sounding like I tried not to, usually.

"Sorry. Go ahead, dear."

"Well, when I was eight, my mother got sick. I think she had bacterial meningitis, which didn't kill her, for some stupid, medical-miracle reason or another. She was brain dead, and left unambiguous orders to not be killed. Because of this, she collected medical disability, or something, which was good, I guess, 'cause it made Dad have to work less.

"Of course, my father worked construction. Of course there had been an increase of work related accidents, and of course my father became another statistic very quickly. I guess severe trauma made his brain swell up in the frontal lobe... yeah, lobe is right, I think. And he lost higher thought function. So, he was brain dead, also. Same wishes, though I doubt he thought he would ever have them fulfilled." I said pretty evenly. It had been six years. I had cried enough, and it didn't bother me anymore.

"That's... awful, Annette...." Trace said. I think he wanted to pet my hand or something, because he lifted his fingers like fathers sometimes do. "But how did you manage to live like that for so long? If your parents were nothing, then... it seems so far-fetched."

"It is pretty amazing, I guess. I filed all the taxes pretty simply. I mean, it's just math. I rode the bus to the grocery store, and a school bus to school. I registered myself for classes and all of that. I paid bills and fed my mom and dad. I dunno what else there is to say, really. I got bored sometimes, so I started to watch old movies, and then I started to like the theatre, so I saved up money and went to see plays, occasionally. I rode a taxi for that, though. I didn't have a lot of friends, because they were a liability. Otherwise, I was a normal girl." I was not a normal girl. I was depressed a lot, and angry all the time for my stupid parents leaving me to fend for myself.

"Wow." Trace said. This time he did touch me. On the hand. His were soft.

"I've told you all about me, now I want to hear about you." I said, in a way that I thought was a bit pouty.

"Of course, Annette." Trace said obligingly. "I am probably the youngest person you'll ever see adopting a child, and the youngest to have a shot at actually getting this far in the process. I am boring, really. I... don't know what you want to know?" He said, glancing at Terry.

I think Terry was unimpressed by our conversation, or maybe she was unimpressed that I was not acting like a scared little girl. Or maybe she was unimpressed by Trace's hand touching mine. It annoyed me. I did not like that woman. I did, however, like this man, and I knew within a few minutes he was going to be my New Daddy. I wondered if that was maybe not the best way to decide if I wanted him or not. I mean, I didn't even ask for his tax records or anything. I also probably should have talked more with him, but I thought that the sooner I was out of the care of this strange bureaucrat, the sooner I could get on with my life.

"Well, sweetie, what did you think of Trace?" Heartsie asked me (always has been and always will be, to me.) "He is one of our better candidates. There are still a few good couples who our agency has also cleared, in case you wanted to talk to a few more families?"

"I - miss Terry? - " I started like a little girl, hoping it would make things easier. "When can I be Trace's daughter? I want to have a daddy real bad." I wondered if she would notice that I was acting.

"Well, Hun, it shouldn't take too long. Most of the legal stuff can be cleared today." I really wanted to ask what specific legal stuff, to be safe, but didn't want to break my act. "I think you could go home with him today, if you don't mind staying here for a while, and if he has the time to get some things in order."

"I would really like it if we could...." I squeaked, what I hoped sounded joyously.

"Sure sweetie!" Heartsie gushed, "Let me just see if he's got the time today to get everything done, and you'll be his daughter."

I was happy with Heartsie's work for the first time ever. More than that, though, I was actually happy that I wouldn't be alone any longer. I would have - dare I say it? - a Daddy. I spent the next seven hours sitting in that cramped office answering questions and watching Trace sign papers and get a slightly uncomfortable interrogation. It was weird, but I was really happy he wanted me. He said he wanted me, even.

"Well, Trace, Annette..." Heartsie began, "everything appears to be in order. I guess this is goodbye, sweetie." She continued, staring right at me. "I'm going to miss you, but I hope you have a great life with Trace. And Trace, she's your daughter now. Congratulations on the adoption, I hope you're satisfied with Annette." I did not like her tone when she said that, but I kept quiet. I was still in First Impression Mode.

We walked out of the adoption agency hand in hand, and Trace guided me to his car. It was nice. Older, I think, but still really nice. I also couldn't shake the feeling that we were on a date, or something, because he opened the door for me. As we were walking out, I got a better look at him, and I liked everything I saw. He was a lot taller than I was, and he had what looked like a lot of muscle. He had really thick fur, then again, he was a snow leopard, so I don't know if he really did have thick fur, or if it was just a characteristic of the species.

He still was funny looking. I probably should have thought of something better to say, but we were both being silent, and I needed to break the silence. "You look like a vampire in that suit." I said, hoping I did not sound bitchy.

"It was free, dear. I don't complain, and it's technically in style." Trace said gently. "How come you were so sure you wanted me to be your father? You didn't exactly interview me, or anything."

"Would you be offended if I said that I was tired of being chased around by that woman?" Annette asked.

"Heh, not really. I just hope our personalities are similar enough that everything works out okay."

"I'm sure it'll be fine. As long as you're not freaky religious or something."

"Nope. Why's that bother you?"

"You expect me to believe in any god after... you know?"

"If you put it like that, no." Trace said a bit embarrassedly.

"So, what do you do?" I asked, a bit curiously. I knew I should have asked about this stuff while I was still in state custody.

"I am a model." Trace said primly. That was a weird thing to say.

"You what?" I asked ever so eloquently.

"I am a model. People pay me to look all pretty and be incredibly gay - though last time I checked I'm not." He said, then backpedaled in the typical straight-male fashion that is so common.

"Do you like it?" This also seemed like a stupid thing to say. I guess my speech file had been corrupted by Heartsie's constant dither.

"Well, yeah. I get money to stand in front of a green screen and be sexy. Plus I end up with tons of 'out of style' clothes that some of my fastidious coworkers cast off. Or some of the stuff that some of the girls ruin with their constant tinkering. Also, it's not hard work, for me, being male, at least. The hours are good, and my coworkers are really great."

"Any idea what you'll do when you get older?" I asked. I tried not to sound too snarky. I don't know if I succeeded.

"Well, if my family's any good indication, I'll just start modeling suits instead of tank tops and speedos. If that doesn't pan out, I don't know, I've got an associate of both arts and of sciences, so I could do anything, potentially. Why do you ask?"

"I think I grew up too fast." I said with a bit of a tease in my voice. He did not pick up on this.

"I know, sweetie." He soothed, and I almost retched and demanded Heartsie step out of the sexy cat costume and get back to work. "But now you don't have to be a grownup anymore. At least not for a few more years."

I wondered where the casualty in the air had gone, and why he had to be so apologetic. "So anyway," he bridged with poise, "what kind of plays do you like? Classical stuff, or musicals with glitter and glitz?"

"Oh," I said eloquently, again. "I really like the classics, but there are quite a few modern shows I like. What about you, do you like the arts?"

"Well sure. I'm more for music and ballet, though, than plays. Non-verbal communication is a big deal for me, though." It took me a few moments to understand that. Model. Right.

"We shall have to compromise with opera, then." I pouted dramatically. Trace laughed.

"How horrible." He agreed, a smirk playing over his muzzle. "You know, the local theatre is supposed to be big enough for some of those grandiose productions like Zie Valkyr and the like."

"I know." I gushed, "I've never had the money on hand, or found out in time to see any of the Pendant cycle. I wanted to so bad."

"Well, if you want, next time there's a production made of it, I could take you." Trace offered, managing to sound utterly cool about it.

"That would be great," fell out of my mouth before I did something embarrassing like squeal wordless appreciation. That would probably get us killed, anyway. Things descended into a more comfortable silence after that, and we soon arrived at his - my - our house. I vaguely wondered what would happen to my house now. I've never read up on it. Heartsie really seemed too incompetent to actually find me someone to be my legal guardian. Though thinking of that, I guess all of my stuff will be Trace's until I reach majority. Weird. To be... servile.... Maybe that's not a good word for it.

All of this raced through my mind before we had parked in his driveway. When he killed the engine, he looked expectantly at me. I smiled nervously at him, and opened my door. He did the same, and led me up to the house's front door. He unlocked the bolt deftly, and ushered me in. The place was smaller than my house, which was to be expected, I guess. He was only a single income, and had less need for space than my erstwhile family of three did. Even so, it was still spacious enough for two people. Cozy, I guess. All of the furnishings were modern; pleather overstuffed couch, fairly large flat screen television, a video game system with a lazy pile of games scattered around it was also visible. The living room floor was wood parquet, and felt and smelled freshly cleaned and polished. It was obvious this was where he spent most of his time by how put together the room looked.

He guided me away from the living room to the kitchen, which was also fairly modern. It contained a stove which boasted the word "INDUCTION" on its heating surface and a connected oven, a steel-colored refrigerator and a small, round table with four chairs. The floor in here was rough fake slate in a mottled gray-green color that matched nothing about the rest of the room. He seemed not to occupy this space much. Though it did smell of cooked food, instead of frozen dinners and microwaveable pizza. That was a big plus.

After that, he walked me through the living room, while I stared at the very white walls. He showed me his room, all shiny trinkets and piled clothing around a bed done up in black and blue covers. It smelled powerfully of him in there, from where I was standing, and it made me feel safer here, alone with him, than I ever had with Heartsie (the exchange of money had a lot to do with that. She was paid to love me. He paid for the opportunity to love me). Beneath his scent was the smell of hair styling products and fur treatments. Aside from the mess, his room looked a lot like the living room, except with oatmeal colored carpet that looked like it would be very fun to wriggle your toes through.

Finally, with a passing mention about the bathrooms (there were two) and the various storage spaces (there were three), we reached my room. It was plain. There were military style sheets and covers on my immaculate and reasonably large bed (I was used to a king sized bed, but I would not get my hopes up for that), and a plain glass and black steel desk which looked sad without a computer or stack of books to occupy it. I felt strangely uncared for at the sight of this drabness.

"We can go shopping for some new bedthings if you want? This used to be a guest room, but I thought it would be better served for a permanent resident. Is it okay?" He asked, rubbing his hand up and down my shoulder. That made me feel a lot better.

"Well, that would be nice. We probably also need to go back to my house this week so I can pick some things up." I was also very curious about my parents' fate in a morbid sort of way.

"Sure, sure. Do you want to do that tonight? All of your clothes are still at your house, right?"

"Yeah." I said, strangely bashfully. I was glad it was a weekend, because I did not want to have school tomorrow on top of this whole set of changes. "That would be great." As soon as I said that, I started a list of things to pick up from my former home. Clothes, books and scripts and the like, CDs, and the fancy, underpowered computer from the living room. There were some posters in my room about which I was uncertain, and a few things from my extended family which I was given when I was a little girl. I didn't know about that, either. They would probably not be too pleased with the idea that I had lied to them for over six years. They would be thrown away.

I slouched around my room for a few minutes while Trace made a call to the CPA to get precise (at least better than I could give) directions to my house. Shortly after he hung up we were again in his car, and again there was an awkward silence. I did not have an idea for breaking this silence.

Trace did, apparently. "What was it like?" He asked me gently.

"Lonely." I answered automatically.

"Yeah?" He asked. It was a genuine question, not like when the myriad psychiatrists and psychologists asked me that. Which struck me as odd.

"Yeah. Have you ever been extremely bored? For a long stretch? It was like that all the time."

"Didn't you ever get depressed?"

I stopped. Lie, or tell the truth? Such decisions. "Ah, yeah. It happened on and off. Usually during my summers off, when I couldn't act or sing."

"Are you a good actress?" He asked lightly.

"I guess. As good as can be expected for a teenager." I said bashfully. I thought I was a good actress, but I didn't actually want to be the standard teenage overinflated ego-bound headcase, so I refrained.

"Have a favorite performance to do?"

"It's always a real thrill to do some of the classic comedies. Especially some of the more improvised ones."

"So do you like A Fool's Ransom, then?" He asked mildly.

"That's such an amazing play. Especially the more modern productions." I gushed, though I cut it short as we reached what was the familiar sight of my front yard.

To say this was surreal would be an understatement. I was practically dumbstruck by the difference of the feeling of my home, from just ten or fewer hours ago. The difference that I noted almost immediately was the quiet sound of Trace's footsteps following behind me to the front door. Then the alien feel of the house, having someone else here with me. We wandered through the house, looking around like an estate auction or some such nonsense.

I was again reminded that this was not a move, nor a combination of resources. This was a takeover. I was not looking for a box to pack my dishes and silverware, I was barely even thinking about things to take home. The only thing that stuck in my mind was my stack of scripts and my clothes. I knew I had thought of something earlier, but I could scarcely remember what. We passed the computer in the living room, which I barely registered as a necessity (at least, I was not going to push my luck by asking Trace for a computer only a few hours after his coming into legal possession of me).

We went upstairs and I was unsure if I was very slowly blacking out, or if Trace was just being extra quiet going up the stairs. I took the strange feeling of listing to the right to be the former, though I was still standing. We (at least I) crested the stairs and stared awestruck at the closed door which contained both my parents, and some of the books which I did not want ever to leave my possession. Now that I thought of it, I was an idiot.

I didn't know how much of this whole story Trace knew, but he wrapped an arm around my shoulders and held me close, and guided me down the hall to the only open door in the house. My room was consistently clean, and consistently organized to an almost paranoid degree. It was, therefore, easy for me to grab three overnight bags and load up the bare essentials of my wardrobe. This was about a dozen shirts of various color, material and dressiness; an equal amount of pants and skirts in the same variety, color and quality as the shirts and several dozen sets of underwear, many of which I did not want Trace to accidentally see. This was mostly because their sole purpose was the inflammation of desire (and the quality of raising a certain orphan girl's self esteem, and making her look damned fine, at that), and I did not want to find out that my adoptive father was a closet rapist/pedophile because of an unfortunately glimpsed thong or silky teddy, or other sundry slutty underthings.

I dug through my closet and pulled out a Little Black Dress on a plastic coat hanger, and laid it out carefully on my bed. I asked Trace to take it out to the car since my hands would be full, and he obediently trotted out the door and down the stairs. I heard the front door thump shut distantly, and artfully arranged my sluttiest of slutty things on the bottom of the underwear bag. Though that was not really my main intention, just convenience. I felt more at ease in my home without Trace's presence, which seems unflattering, but things felt normal now. Aside from the fact that I was gathering up my possessions like a political criminal fleeing my country.

I did not hear Trace come back, I think because I got caught in a fit of reminiscence. He put his hand on my shoulder and scared me almost out of my fur, but I got a reign on it and got back to stacking books and scripts next to the bed. My CDs were already neatly piled on the bed, mostly classics and plays on disc, with a bit of rock thrown in (also two or three CDs of very angry, violent music for when I needed nothing more than to scream and thrash and tear at the sky).

I gathered up my courage while he was gone to ask for his help getting some of my most precious, though not often read, books. "Trace...?" I forced out, "will you come help me get some books out of our 'study'?" I asked, complete with air quotes.

"Sure." He said, noncommittally. I guess he didn't know too much of the story.

We left the piles of things on my bed, and I led him back down the hall to the closed door of the study. I pushed open, and the warm smell of fur and the stink of life flooded my nose. For the first time in my life I wanted to throw up from the smell. Trace obviously noticed because I felt his hand on my shoulder. It felt like he was somewhere between disapproval and comforting. I desperately wanted him not to disapprove.

I flicked on the light switch, and entered as casually as I always did, Trace close behind me. He did not gasp. He did not make any noise, or retch or faint. He just grunted like he was unfazed and looked at the bookshelves. For the first time in four years I wanted to cry about the contents of this room. I pulled myself together and pointed out his share of books to carry. We took three stacks of very old, very expensive, or very good books from the study and deposited them in the bedroom.

I silently started to gather the bags containing my clothes, slinging all three over my shoulder and picking up my small stack of CDs in my free hand. Trace took almost half of the books and we went down to his car. I threw the bags in the back seat, and set the CDs on top of them, while Trace popped the trunk and placed the books in there. We promptly went back upstairs in silence, collected the rest of the things from the bedroom and left the house. We both stood in the front doorway for a long time after having made sure the lights were all off throughout the house. I was so embarrassed by what he had seen. My parents in all of their disgusting reality, comatose and vegetative and large as life reclined in wheelchairs in the middle of the room.

"You kept looking at the computer," Trace said awkwardly, "should we go back and get it?"

I was torn between not having it, and having to go back in the house, but as usual, my sensibility won out and I answered to affirmatively.

I shall spare the details of the computer detachment and transport. When we locked the front door with an ominous and very final clack!, Trace looked at me almost sadly, and hugged me like I was the one who looked upset. He almost lifted me off my feet and crushed my ribs with the grip he had on me, but it felt better than anything I can remember. I had not been hugged in six years. Before I really knew what had happened, we were heading back home, and Trace had his hand on mine, and I was crying, and I felt horrible and my head was still buzzing and ringing and felt dull.

When we finally got home and me unpacked into my room, Trace offered to take me to the store for bedding, about which I had completely forgotten. I agreed, and washed my face of tears and smeared mascara and eyeliner, and we went to a chain department store where I picked out a white-on-white-on-white bed set which reminded me pleasantly of a painting I once saw (it too was white-on-white-on-white).

That night over dinner, which we had very late because of the various errands, Trace did not really say much, which surprised me. I thought he would be appalled by what he had seen. Or maybe he was appalled by what he had seen, but he was just not saying anything. When we finished our dinner, he got up and took our plates over to the sink. I thought that he would just end our night like that, in awkward silence, when he turned toward me.

"Annette...?" Trace asked, sounding exactly like I thought he would when he broke this subject.

"Yeah?" I answered sweetly. No need to make it obvious I had been agonizing over this all day.

"Those were... your parents, weren't they?" Trace asked delicately.

"Yes."

"And you kept them there for... - " His voice failed him.

"Six years." I supplied.

"Annette..." Trace said, sounding disappointed and apologetic and soothing, and like I had physically hurt him. He closed on me and hugged me like I was the one who was freaking out, and nibbled my ear a little bit. It may sound strange, but it was a nice feeling, the ear nibbling, that is. The hug was really nice too, but I don't know what it was for. I mean, intellectually I knew what it was for, I was a ghoulish little girl who had lived with two living corpses of the two people in the world who I was almost obliged to love, but emotionally, I don't know what good it did me. At least not with the parents problem. It felt nice to be hugged, though - for the second time today, even.

He did not let go of me for hours or days or months, and I was starting to wonder if he was a pervert, like I had been on and off all day, when he squeezed me and held me out at arm's length. He looked at me with eyes that said he was sorry for my whole life, and he would do anything to make it better, and he hoped that everything would work out well between us, because he really liked me. He had pretty expressive eyes, even for a model, I guess. I wondered, after that, if there was some wrong that one of us had committed that got him into his cuddly mood, or if it was just my constant sin of keeping my vegetative parents in my house for all that long time.

"You're so brave, Annette. I couldn't imagine being in that position." Trace cooed soothingly and admiringly. And with that exultation I wanted to scream at him. Brave? Absolutely not. I was the most cowardly girl I knew, keeping hold of the husks of my mom and dad as if they could help me. Hiding from the government services which I knew would take me away from my familiar home and put me in the care of a stranger, an idea with which I had not quite come to terms, even despite the long days with Heartsie and the fact that I was currently snuggled up against a man I had met just today, and who had swept me up like he was a knight and I a lost waif girl (which I was, but that's not the point). It was all very poetic, and, I daresay, would make a decent faux-Classical tragedy.

I don't know what I did during my internal monologue, because I was for some reason still in Trace's arms and he was Looking at me like he had done something wrong and he was in physical pain because of it, or something. It made me feel kind of bad, too. We both kind of hid our eyes from one another for a few minutes, until Trace buried his nose in my hair, near my ear, and whispered "I love you, Annette." very quietly.

I was shocked and appalled and reviled for all of three seconds, when I remembered it was now his job to love me. So I stopped being reviled and got all warm in my chest. I could not bring myself to say it back just yet. I did love him, I suspected. I would know no other word to describe the feelings he fostered in me for adopting me, but I just could not say it. I had not heard those words in so long, anyway, that they sounded strange even being directed at me. I did hug him though, mostly so he couldn't see me fighting back tears and smiling with a quivery lower lip. I felt like - I feel foolish for even thinking such - a child.

He petted me softly on the forehead and disengaged himself from our hug. I thought that I might easily get addicted to hugs and affection and the like, especially from Trace, because he was so big and tall and fluffy. And My Daddy. He let me go shortly thereafter, and I disappeared to my room. I had noticed, vaguely, that Trace's bedroom had a connected bathroom, so the main one was mine. I went there to find a brush to groom myself before bed, and retreated back to my room.

After a thorough brushing with a fancy hair dryer-friendly brush (so it boasted on the handle), I snuggled into my freshly bought sheets in my new bed in my new home in my new life. I worried idly for a long time before I finally fell asleep. This was definitely going to take some getting used to.

This story is completely implausible, kind of dumb, and probably soon-to-be too dramatic... in a completely unimportant way. That said, I hope you enjoy it. I'm not dead, I just don't hang out here too much. Please comment and rate.