FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

He's fallen asleep; another bottle of beer hits the floor. The sloshing of liquid inside is a sound all too familiar to him; in his reality, it's like the breeze on a hammock or the muffling of water in a dive. Comfortable. But outside of his world, the room isn't quite so pretty. A depressive slump is exhibited, growing like mould. The bottle rolls away, stopped by a dirty pile of clothes. 30 other bottles sit there too, and 5 cans, 6 empty pizza boxes, 3 soured cartons of milk, and crumbs of crisps in their packets. The smell of stale beer fills the room. The countertops are sticky and dusty. Cigarettes still smoulder, recently stubbed out on the overflowing ashtray. The smoke is highlighted by the little ray of light shining through the gap in the drawn curtains; otherwise, everything is dark. His head is dark.

He isn't so well. But, through the abyss of clothes and tatter, there lies a beacon of hope, a virtue of an older age where things were better than now. His bed is perfectly made; blankets tucked under pillows neatly, the edges pleated over to form a crisp corner. The pillows are plumped well and sit at a presentable angle, like an invitation to sleep. He works hard on it, every wrinkle that forms he smooths, and every bit of lint he removes. Instead of ruining it, he sleeps on the sofa, like he is now. The neck pain is harsh, but he must follow what he was taught.

He remembers his mother on a cold Sunday, on his old race car bed, frantically cleaning and spraying the mattress with chemical blends of who-knows-what and powders that smelt like lemons and sickly chlorine. He sat in his room, a teddy bear in hand. He didn't mean to spill the milk he always had before bedtime. It had just slipped from his clasp. His mother finished cleaning it and turned around. He stared at her eyes, his own watering. He knew what was next--a blink later and she landed a harsh slap along his backside. In his sleep, he winces. But somehow, those days of what was torture were his important life lessons--his foundations to build his morals. His room reminds him of the spilt milk. The way it had slipped from his hands? Quickly, silently, but slowly. Dramatically falling in front of him, his eyes welling, neck sweating, pupils darting, praying he could reverse time somehow. It reminded him of how he had slipped from a good year to the occasional good week, to a rare, good day, and then into this.

He was a young wolf when it began. Freshly graduated, scroll in hand, he had just secured a new apartment right in the middle of the city. Life was going well for him. His new job was innovative and exciting; every day was a new test to pass and grow, and every night he came home feeling content.

Open the front door. Step inside. Smell the fresh, clean air. Smile a little. Sit on the sofa and sigh a peaceful breath. Clean away the dust and wash away the stains. Dinner. Shower. Bed. The comfort of a routine was the wolf's livelihood. He was not the type to panic if he ever deviated from it but ensured a prompt return to normality.

You might expect a volta. You might expect a catastrophe--perhaps a loved one died, perhaps he got hurt. Yet the wolf's life continued as it had always done: work, home, sleep. He still enjoyed his job. He still loved his evenings. But something underneath was brewing. He found it more challenging to stay happy. A tightness brewed in his chest. If he sat in the bath with a glass of wine at night, he would pull the plug early. He would tip the wine away. He would simply return to bed early. It was unnoticeable if he slept it away.

One night, he sat in a bar, sipping his whisky with his hood pulled snuggly over his ears. His fur was a little shaggy; he had forgone the shower last night. He glumly stared into oblivion, his thoughts racing around his mind. He just couldn't quite place what went so wrong. He knew it had to be his fault, for nothing else had changed. Perhaps it was because he wasn't cleaning right; if his place was cluttered, so would his headspace. Perhaps he wasn't working out how he should--a healthy body is a healthy mind, after all. Perhaps he was just pathetic, incapable and burnt out. He let out a little grunt and sank deeper into the stool, shutting his eyes.

He remembered his mother on graduation day. Oh, how happy she was! He remembered her wide, toothy smile, her lipstick all smeared from the kisses she gave him. He remembered her humiliating, awkward attempts to ruffle his fur just right, to wipe away the dirt from his cheek. He smiled gently as he remembered his father's short little pep speech, the whole 'there's no use in crying over spilt milk' thing. He remembered his tie being straightened, pulled tight, flapped around, tucked in his shirt, slung in front of his robes. He needed to go back to being that happy wolf. But how?

'Hey, are you okay?'

There it was. The volta. The turning point. As the wolf stood caught at the crossroads of his journey, he looked around, and his gaze fell upon the fox standing just by him. He was a stumpy little thing, hardly breaking 5'5. He was like an avalanche--emanating an aura of power and strength, yet discreet. He wore his clothes loosely, dressed in muted reds and greys, his attire a mystery hinting at hidden depths. He had beautiful, frosty fur. It was white like he had just escaped from a blizzard, a cold storm painting his pelt with little ice crystals that sparkled like diamonds in the warm light of the bar. His snout was a kind, gentle smile, a dusting of dark fur mixed along the smoky silvers and whites as it swooped around his nose. However, it was his eyes that truly captured the wolf's heart. They were so easy to get lost in. In their depths, the wolf saw a promise of a refuge full of solace; they were as mighty as a glacier yet as inviting as a warm blanket and a cup of cocoa, as welcoming as a cosy fire on a wintry night, like salvation from a howling storm.

'Huh? Oh, I'm fine,' said the wolf.

'Really? Because you don't look fine,' replied the fox. He sat on the adjacent stool and turned to look at the wolf.

'I mean it. I'm just tired.'

'We're all tired, wolf,' sighed the fox. 'But most of us can sleep away the days and start afresh. You look like weeks hang over you.'

'Do you mind? I'm just trying to have a drink.'

'Sure, we can have a drink together. I'll get you another whisky. I'm more of a cognac man myself.'

The wolf growled; his displeasure was obvious. But the fox was persistent--he admitted that much. Reluctantly, the wolf pulled down his hood and feigned a smile to mask what he truly felt.

'So, if you're staying, tell me about yourself,' grumbled the wolf.

'Aha, so this is an interview now? Do I get a prize if I win?' jested the fox as he called the bartender over.

'You can have a peanut if you'd tell me already.'

'Fine, grouchy. My name's Fibonacci, but I go by Fib. I am a mathematician, but I do art in my free time. Guess drawing angles isn't so different to drawing us animals, hm?'

'I'm not really sure I see the connection between lines and equations and fur and ears,' said the wolf with a gentle smile.

'I suppose you're right. But I'm sure I could find a link somewhere. Extrapolation is a useful skill, you know.'

'I failed calculus.'

'Hah, it has a steep learning curve, if you can work it out,' smirked Fib with a teasing smile, 'but you are interesting. What's your name, wolf?'

'Stop going off on a tangent. My name is--'

The wolf was cut off as Fib ordered himself a smooth brandy and the wolf a strong whisky. The bartender, a tall German shepherd, smiled as he brought over the pair's drinks and gave them a wink. 'It's on the house,' he said.

'Thanks,' said Fib with a grin. He turned back to the wolf as he took a sip of his drink and smiled gently. 'So, tell me, are you okay, really?'

'Would you just shut up already?' snapped the wolf, his patience worn thin. He gave Fib an angry stare. His eyebrows were furrowed as he shot daggers at the fox. But as he looked at that amiable face and that sweet smile, his ears fell flat, and he gave out a long sigh. His entire demeanour fell flat as he gave out a soft growl. 'Yes. No. I don't know.'

'Do you want to talk about it?' asked Fib with a gentle countenance.

'I don't know how,' replied the wolf. He gave a soft stare, his eyebrows sunk deep. He just couldn't formulate the right words. There were no combinations of sentences he could piece together to say what he truly felt. 'I feel guilty, I suppose.'

'Guilty? How?'

'I feel like I'm just... making it up. I feel fine at work, I still laugh. But I don't know, I just can't make it last anymore,' said the wolf sadly.

'I understand,' replied Fib, and he put his paw on the wolf's, giving it a little squeeze as he looked at those sad eyes, full of remorse. 'It's a hard thing, hard to ask for help when you don't know what's wrong.'

'Yeah,' said the wolf simply. He could not think of anything else to say. Inside his heart was a faint sparkle, like a firework, bursting in a multitude of sad and remorseful colours. It was a whole palette: there were reds for the anger he had earned throughout life, for the ones who betrayed him, who changed him forever in the most rage-inducing, lip-curling ways. There were blues, brilliant, bright blues, for the sadness, the sadness that filled him like a bucket never emptied, only slowly fading into blacks, whites, reds, or perhaps greens. The blacks were simply voids, for the times when feeling was just a construct, a myth, existing only on the other sides of the universe, as untouchable as gold, as unrealistic as a summer's day in December. Sometimes there were whites, for hope, a hint of joy, for there were joys. But they never lasted. There were greens and yellows, blended, like a small, faint smile of someone fatally ill; a harsh, sickening sight only ever to be thought of as a moment with meaning once it had passed.

The night drew on, final orders were called. The fox took the wolf's phone. He added his number in the contacts. He gave the wolf a final smile, 'call me, okay? If not, I'll call you," he said. He left reluctantly, but he knew that somehow, he may have been the saviour for the wolf. He hoped he was.

***

The wolf wakes up from his sleep on the sofa. His neck is sore, and he rubs it with his paw as he groggily crawls over to the bathroom. He splashes his face with water, but none of the vast oceans could hide the heavy eyebags beneath his weary sockets. He looks at himself in the mirror and frowns. It had been a few weeks since he had seen the fox. He hoped he would've called. But now it was too far in the past, and the fox was just another obsolete memory. Something to add to his tired mind lugging his bag of bones around. The end is here. What volta could possibly break his cycle anymore? His old routine had long since been forgotten; his new one was the only thing that dragged him through the misery of life. Work, sleep, work, sleep...

Upon arrival at work, nothing much had changed. The office was still clammy, the game was still the same. He got to his desk and stared out the open window, a surreal cold breeze wafting in as the shutters billowed back and forth. He took in a deep breath of the air and felt it crush his soul. Hopelessness replaced his blood as dread rushed in his veins, and each breath he took was the seed of his despair. He was not catching viruses. He was catching his death. And, he could not think of one possible reason that the cost of everything that had led him here was worth it. He sighed and slumped back in his chair.

The day passed quickly. Time was not an issue to him anymore; the rays of the sun segregated into marks on a clock were an abstract concept. He ran on his own time now, letting the world revolve around him as he wallowed on. He stood outside the office, his tie a little askew, and stared out at the road beneath him.

He remembers a time when the road scared him. 'Do not go near the curb,' said his mother. 'You wait for Dad, okay?" said his father. There was something so terrifying about that mere concrete boundary stopping him from death. He remembers the first time he crossed by himself after school, and he felt strangely proud for such a simple feat. He remembers the first time he drove his car over the curb and realised he now was the harbourer of such power. Yet now, he fears the curb no longer. Now, he wants to step into the road and let himself slip into the peaceful slumber, where he was no longer a nuisance.

He took a step.

He sighed. He let out a little whimper. How pathetic.

He accepted it. He let the cold brush over his fur. He let the heat from the sun try to fight it. He shut his eyes. He prayed the next time would be better.

'Winston!' cried a voice. He immediately snapped around and saw the stumpy white fox dashing over to him. 'Winston, what are you doing?"

Fib pulled Winston back to the curb and held him tightly against his fur, his embrace comforting and warm. Winston let out a mighty cry, howling out all his frustrations, letting the void of nothingness inside of him spew out, and he felt his limbs grow weak as he let himself free.

He was on a beach, the waves quietly rippling beneath his paws. The crisp salty air felt calm against his lungs, and the warm summer sunset warmed his soul. The water glimmered in a myriad of iridescent colours and his heart let out a wail as peace stretched into his limbs. He can't quite put it into words.

'It will be okay,' uttered Fib.

The spilt milk on the bed was forgotten. The slap ceased to exist. Right here, right now, Fibonacci was the hand to resist the pain.

And Winston smiled.