FSE

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I had always longed to go to school. I realise that's quite abnormal, but the whole idea of being with other teens all going through their crises of life, being pinned against lockers and robbed blind, and drinking milk in the cafeteria all appealed to me. Of course, those are only stereotypes. I had no idea what real school would've been like. I don't think anyone would talk to me--my father would probably pay them to avoid me at all costs. Either that or my own reputation would precede me and I would be the prime victim of lunch-money-theft. It was a humorous thought.

Of course, I was home-schooled, but I thought of it more as personal propaganda or torture, my sweet father trying to indoctrinate me with his own beliefs. I was taught in a room in the cellar, just off where all the wiring and boiler pipes were, adjacent to the servant's quarters. It was always melting down there, and the tiny room I had to sit in whilst expensive tutors and famed professors tried to teach me made me feel claustrophobic. The walls were adorned with formulae, scribbles, and quotations that overlapped each other. There was a small window on the left side of the room, but it was superficial; no air would ever stop the stuffiness that thickened in there. There was a large desk for the teacher and a smaller one for me. Apart from that, it was barren and lifeless. There were always shouts and loud chatter from all the dormitories and every step or creak of the floorboards was reverberated loudly by the cold stone--the perfect distraction to ensure I never did any work.

When I did actually attend, my father personally led me down there and locked me in for the day, so I had no choice but to sit there and learn about what an amazing fox he was. Karl Furfaro, king of kings. Look on his works and despair. I knew I would never be good enough. More commonly, I would skip away to the library and hide in a little book trolley towards the back. I would cover myself in Pride and Prejudice and_Crime and Punishment_ and The Art of War before I would pry open my trusty favourites and devour the words hungrily. I loved books. They were my way of escaping, of connecting to the reality I knew I would never have, but most of all, they taught me the things I would never be taught.

Regardless of how much I read, I was practically uneducated. So, when my father was on a rampage after all his assets plummeted, I couldn't understand what was going on. All I knew was that things were bad, and somehow I had started it all.

It was a warm afternoon, and I was lying in the bath with soapy bubbles right up to my ears. I loved sinking deep into the water and keeping only my muzzle above it, like a crocodile. I would lazily fill my lungs and hold them; I wanted to be as lifeless as possible. The water always felt so comforting, like a warm blanket or fluffy hug. I shut my eyes and sighed happily as the shards of light refracted through the frosted glass window, painting the walls in delicate rainbows and shades of orange I would never see again. Impermanence was daunting.

Muffled by the water and brick walls, I could hear my father pacing in the study next door. I heard the little spring chiming as he dialled a number on the phone and then his shouts filled the air. I almost felt proud and giggled at how our moods were the antithesis of the other. My stressed father and me happily lounging in the bath. I guess that's why they say karma's a bitch.

"I swear Johnathan, liquidate the offshore accounts! I cannot just let my treasures fall away from me... think of the houses! The servants! What would they do without me?" he yelled, and I could visualise his bright red ears steaming. "Rearrange the funds, invest them all in the stock list I gave you last quarter."

As he rambled on and on, I slowly tuned out his droning and let my mind take me away.

I saw the wolf standing in front of me. It was that night at the pool again, but something was different. There was no tension, no anger. The sun was high in the sky and everything had a rosy pink glow to it, bathing everything in a beautiful fuchsia tint. The clouds in the sky looked hand-painted, with the sides closer to the sun glowing a gentle orange that faded into pink and red. I could see the stars out already, my favourites watching over me lovingly. There are Hercules and Draco, my good friends. I waited all year to see them smiling down at me in the summer. I looked back towards the wolf, and there he was waiting for me, his paw outstretched invitingly. He had a bright smile on his jaw, and I felt my thoughts racing as I took in his beauteous features; a sharp jawline, a dimple on his left cheek alone as he grinned, a shadow under his eyes as they glistened like the sun over an ocean, all beckoning me closer, calling me to dive into his love and never breathe again. My soul screamed out, and I felt a desperation I had never experienced before as my whole body tingled and became weightless, a slave to this passion, to this wolf and his fucking teasing. His godliness. He was like a prize, an unattainable goal, like the end of a rainbow. I stretched my paw out, and drew closer to his muzzle, beaming brightly and jovially as our lips began to touch...

"Haha! Fritz, you really have stooped to a new low, gayass. Stop snogging the duck, son, and get out of the bath. We must go," said Karl's voice as it snapped me out of my trance. Shocked, I looked down at my paws and realised I was indeed kissing the little rubber duck. Oh, how the bar at the end of time has ruined me.

I hopped out of the bath and hastily dried myself in the heater. I clumsily combed down my fur, but it was no use, and it fluffed up more and more as I got dressed. I put on some slacks and slung my suspenders over my shoulders with a thwack. I always loved that sound. I wrapped a jacket around myself and walked through the house.

The corridors were very minimalistic, just an ornamental carpet sprawling along the floor and the occasional photo of my father. There were many doorways, each leading off into some sort of kitchen or study. There were some I never even used--the house was designed for a horror movie.

The main entrance, however, was very grand. The tall ceiling was decorated with little porcelain trimmings around the edges, and it was textured with stripes and swirls. In the middle hung a large chandelier that illuminated the whole room, leaving long shadows through the barriers of the stairs and behind the cupboards. There was a picture of my mother standing on a side table, and I kissed her goodbye every time I left the house. I would imagine my father did the same in his head.

"Ah good, so he's stopped kissing his duckie boyfriend. Come, my boy, we are going to the office," said Karl as he put his paw over my shoulder and pulled me along with him, into the car.

"Shut up," I said bluntly as I climbed into the back seat.

"Not sitting in the front with your Papa?" he asked as the engine rolled over, "I am not your chauffeur, I hope you know that!"

"Why are you driving? Why aren't we taking the limo?"

"You ask too many questions, child. Your father is... in a rush. There was no time to ask for the limo," he said grumpily as he pulled out of the garage and began reversing down the driveway. The pebbles cracked under the tires and made a pleasant rumbling noise. We turned onto the road and suddenly, my father began speeding down it, the roar of the pistons screeching out.

"Jesus Christ Dad, slow down!" I said as I leaned forward into the gap and looked at him fearfully.

"Well, at least you're calling me Dad again. Good boy," he replied nonchalantly.

"You're going to get us killed!"

"No, you're getting yourself killed. Put your seatbelt on boy, don't be silly."

We continued to race along the roads, and things only got worse as we reached the city, where the streets became sharper and more twisted. His driving became more reckless as we barely cut through changing lights and a few red ones, the pedestrians at crossings diving out of the way as he sped on and on, lurching forward in his seat crazily like a madman, as though he were purposely trying to get us killed. Left, right, right, around the roundabout, through the tunnel, skidding the concrete as he slid around corners--it was thrilling.

We stopped abruptly outside a rather tall office, my head thumping into the seat in front of me.

My father turned around to look at me, and for the first time in all my life, he looked fearful. "Son, we are going to go into that office and get our things," he said with a gulp, "because I--you have messed everything up. And I don't think we're getting it back."

I stared at him wide-eyed. So, this was it: the beginning of the end.