“Premonition” - The Day Of
A herbivore wakes up from paralysis in a condo above the city's freshest meat market, unsure how long he'll last under care of a carnivore with a weekly diet.
Younger, shorter hoofed and horned protagonist, he / him, of age.
Older, taller, large feline partner, probably a snow leopard, she / her.
Set in a society loosely based on Paru Itagaki's BEASTARS.
Some bloodshed, be warned.
"Premonition" - The Day Of
He leans back in the office chair, tilting it off its feet, idly peering toward the entrance across the room. Warm, cheap incandescence and the steady humming of a CRT greet the night air coming through the sliding balcony door to his left. Craning his neck and lifting his ears, he listens, his free arm up against the table for balance. The slow drone of a distant airplane covers up any background noise, but the pressure in the condo is still...off. He looks at the doorknob, then back to the glass. A vibration in the concrete or a flicker in his eye? He looks back to the entrance. Still, stock-still, the chair creaks in revolt. A vibration. He scrambles forward, bumps into the desk and begins typing immediately.
"Day, month, thank you for your time..."
...a clash and squeak of metal from the hallway.
"Sincerely..."
...sincerely? There's nothing sincere about this.
"Tnk you fr youre time..."
... no!
"Sincerely,"
... a brush against carpet. He checks the doorknob again as he moves to grab the mouse.
"Sincerely, comma, name...send."
Slumping against the back of the chair, he stares up to the sky, fanning himself from the last of the heat built up through the evening. Footsteps from the hallway, footsteps out of time from each other. A hum and a snicker, a thump and a stumble. Over his shoulder, through the reflection in the glass, attention undivided on the doorknob once more while he flicks his fingers off the skin of his thumbs. The condo is quiet and the entrance is closed. He was told to remain inside, to keep it cool, occupied and unlocked.
She barges through the entrance holding a drunk date balanced as it teeters and sputters nonsense. Flashing a toothy grin, she stops briefly to tease before pulling a latch up and shoving tonight's course into the bedroom. He turns from the seat and barks up at her. A job prospect and good blood test results, for once, he adds, he stares, he squints. Without reply, she tosses a knowing glance in retreat, closing the door behind her. He cracks the glass a bit more, crouches his feet up and puts in some earphones, expecting the night to heat up again soon.
A slam, a roar and a confused yelp of agony are barely held back by plaster and sheet metal. He chews on his lip. The harmony between carnivores and herbivores always felt like a lofty platitude, but he never expected to come so close to the reality. He continues eating some noodles prepared earlier. "Prepared" he pictures in massive sarcasm quotes given the accessibility of that awful gruel the hospital has him on. A struggle and a bone snap is heard over the chaos as a corn wedge splits between his chopsticks. Fresh waves in the soup and fresh cries from the victim, newly discovered vocals he didn't think any species could sing.
Despite what little he knew about her carnivorous mind, he always wondered why cuts from a local shop were never enough. Is it planned? Organized? Or just thrilling? How many more nights until she gets bored? He's lightened up a bit since he first woke up but their playful banter can't ease the nagging tension building and building to the end of each week. As if living in the canopy of the most populated meat market in the city wasn't enough to worry about, he had to respect her killings lest he tick her off someday. Escape was fruitless, but no fruits for him aside, he knew it wasn't his place to complain. Any conversation about his residence would be a dangerous one, so he learned to bicker, insult and dance to survive.
A handle rattles furiously as muffled sobs and a sliding friction are held against the door to the bedroom. A brief moment of silence, too quickly he notes, curly noodles hanging halfway out his mouth, he wonders, he waits, he chokes.
Liquids blast forward, spitting on the monitor, all over the desk and keyboard. Off the chair now, he's down on his knees, coughing to the trash bin beside him. Ears swivel back for the bedroom door creaks ajar and the last of a rasping tapers off in a squeak. He tries to stop shaking, tries to steady his breathing, but he horks up a vegetable and just vomits.