Vincent
A fox copes with traversing the new post-Armageddon world while scenes from his bitter past play out in his head.
I remember this story being an experiment in A) scene transition and B) exploring dark pasts. I can't recall how this story came to be or what inspired it, but having reread it I've become quite fond of it. It's touching if a bit dark.
I also remember nobody reading this story for a full week after it being posted.
Vincent
Vincent screamed. It was the only natural thing to do as he felt the tiger's shaft enter him. He gripped the edge of the desk tighter, his claws digging into the wood and leaving deep furrows. The heat and the distinctive smell of male musk made his head swim unpleasantly, making him feel as though he were wading through air that consisted of sticky cotton. His waist was repeatedly forced into the sharp edge of the desk, immediately forming blotchy blue bruise under his white naval fur. The fox felt the tiger's powerful arms embrace him in a rib-cracking bear-hug, hauling him upward, forcing himself deeper into Vincent's rear.
There were no words spoken. There was only the ragged panting of the tiger behind him, Vincent's helpless (and completely vain) cries of protest, and the pain that lanced from his rear to his head. Strangely, the pain was muffling out the sounds around him, but not the incomprehensible words he made that sounded explosively loud in his ears.
He tried to breathe and calm down, to relax his muscles and let it happen. But when he took a deep breath, another smell made itself evident. It was a bitter, sweet, eye-watering smell that he knew only too well, and it made the all-encompassing smell of the tiger's sex seem like a Glade plug-in. It was the green smell of absinthe, and as Vincent turned his head he saw that it was wafting out of the tiger's mouth and nostrils in a pale smoke that glittered impishly in the dim light. The tiger's eyes were green (they always had been), but now they were filled with the color (the shells were green, the yolks were green, even the whites), drowned in pale yellowish-green and swirled in ways that made the fox think of smoke or water.
He knew what was coming next, but the suddenness evaporated any chance he had of preparing himself for it. The tiger sank his teeth into the fox's shoulder, and Vincent's arm suddenly went into a numb convulsion as his shoulder became slick with the tiger's saliva and his own blood. Tears fell down his face, and at the far end of his little room the door opened and--
He screamed. His voice echoed off the face of the rock wall, pushing out to the frigid lake beyond. Vincent threw off the tattered blankets and shuffled awkwardly until he was standing. His toes curled into the wet sand and a cold wind blew his dirty brown hair, but he felt hot, sick even. Sweat was falling through the fur on his forehead and collecting in the recess of his eyes.
Vincent coughed. It hurt his chest but not as much as it used to. Suddenly he began to laugh, which definitely did hurt but he didn't care. Ever since people finally destroyed each other with those fucking bombs, you'd expect everything to change. Yet his goddamn hay fever still stayed with him like a needy pet. He laughed for a few minutes more until his sides burned. Finally he cleared his eyes and looked out over the lake.
It was a beautiful sight, regardless of the tip of a bomber's wing sticking up out of the water like a rusty shark's fin. Hell, maybe that was what made it so beautiful. Lily pads dotted the fringe where the water met the land, touched lightly by passing dragonflies. Of all the creatures of the world that survived the final war, the insects and the fish were the ones that went about their lives as though nothing had changed.
He turned back to his little camp and packed up his things. A couple blankets and some pots and pans were all he had, but they were something. He grabbed his club, formerly a wooden baseball bat that had been fitted with nails, and began his long trek north. He hadn't been to the homeland for a long time. Probably been only a few years, but it felt like centuries--it was funny how time seemed to be frozen and the sun and moon continued to chase each other in the sky.
After the sun had reached its pinnacle in the clear blue sky (another sign of high fortuity that had been spawned after the war; because there were hardly any people around to work the factories, the sky was as clean and pure as a newborn baby), Vincent began regretting having worn the tattered black clothes he had stolen from a merchant in Texas. Beads of sweat shown on the ends of his fur like fresh morning dew. His pink tongue lolled out of his mouth, and the fox was glad to not have that rubbery, leather-like muscle scraping up against his palate like a dry turkey sandwich. He imagined he could see smoke pouring out of his mouth, like they did in the old cartoons.
The land that stretched out before him was baked to a light golden brown, dotted with sparse regions of shrubs and wicked looking flowers. He wasn't sure where he was, though he was sure that Kansas was too far gone by now.
Using his club like a hiking stick, he pushed himself farther along the hilly terrain. The head of the baseball bat often got stuck in dry cracks or naturally made holes in the ground, making Vincent trip and collapse into the dirt. He always managed to get himself up again, but after the fourth time his energy had finally been spent. His head struck the rocky ground, and even though it added to the pain he welcomed it as a pillow nonetheless. His pack seemed to have taken on several tons over the course of the half day's walk, and his burning muscles screamed at him to shrug off the bothersome weight. It was just dead weight, after all.
Just dead weight...just--
"...Just dead weight, Vince. In this profession, you have to learn to cut your losses quick or be hurled into an ocean of regret that you'll never find a way out of. That prick you hang around with is just bad news, dead weight, and he'll only keep dragging you down, Vince."
The fox casually slipped out of his white silk shorts (an article of clothing that truly lived up to its namesake) and turned to face the bigger cheetah. He knew it was against policy to expose himself to a member of the club staff, but technically it wasn't exactly exposure because of the black tank top he wore. The cat was a good head and a half taller than him, but that little height discrepancy did not curry the authority as it used to in the days when the cheetah's word was rule, and the final insult to his dying throne, the grain of salt in his gaping wound; Vince had learned to stand his ground.
"You know what, Jerry? Ever since you got me to take this job, you've been strutting your shit around here like you're a god, like you can piss rose water and shit daffodils. At first it was amusing, but then you turned out to be a real douchebag. You persuaded all the people who worked for you with offers of kindness and friendship. In the end, you're just another asshole looking for somebody else to shit on while you collect on their suffering. So you know what? Go fuck yourself."
Vincent could see the rage beginning to flare up in the cheetah's icy blue eyes, making them harden, almost crack with stone-like firmness. He could see the paw begin to rise, ready to strike out. It wouldn't be his face, Jerry couldn't deal with having the fox's face bruised; it would ruin both of their careers. No, it would be his chest or maybe his stomach.
The cheetah unsheathed his claws, and for a moment Vincent thought that he really would go for his face. They glittered in the dark light like little candles. The fox wanted to flinch, to jump back, close his eyes, hold up his hands in front of him--anything to make sure that the feline's claws wouldn't touch him. But he stood his ground and waited--watching the shining claws that hung suspended in the air.
Then something washed over Jerry's face, and the snarl of rage suddenly cooled over into a look of placid complacency. A chill slithered down the fox's back--he had seen that happen before, and he knew that the people who were capable of that turned out to be some of the most dangerous kind of people. The kind of people you'd expect to see on America's Most Wanted.
Jerry grinned a chilly smile and leaned forward. He slid his muscular arm around Vincent's shoulders--the fox tried to twist out of the embrace, but the cat put pressure on his neck, keeping him close. "You know why I don't fuck myself, Vince?" he said with a cold delight. Vincent only glared at him, trying not to appear intimidated, because that, above all else, was really what Jerry was after. He hardened his eyes like the cheetah's to make sure that he still wasn't going to be pushed around. But the cat's goddamn smile! It was so disgusting and frightening as hell, and when the cat spoke he leaned in a bit further so Vincent could see the yellowed teeth.
"It's because I've got you to do it for me," Jerry whispered in Vincent's ear, and swiftly--swift would be too slow of a word to describe it--cupped the fox's balls in one large paw and squeezed. A blue burning agony shot up into the fox's stomach, spreading upward to his head, making his eyes water from the pain.
"You do what I say," the cheetah growled in Vincent's ear. He emphasized the "I" by tugging on Vincent's sack, sending a pulse of blue agony up into his stomach. "Or you don't do FUCK ALL! Do you fuckin' hear me, you lazy-ass cunt?"
The fox could see the room slightly spinning through a distorted teary haze. Slowly he nodded his head, gasping when the cheetah tugged on him, harder this time. The room spun and spun, blurring into an almost psychedelic amalgam of colors until he felt something hot and hard pressing up against his stomach, and then he--
He woke up with a bitter, coppery taste in his dry mouth. It wasn't blood, but it was sure close to it. Slowly, he opened his eyes and took a deep breath. His lips were obviously cracked and his eyes hurt at the white light, but after a few moments they eventually adjusted.
He was lying on his back, staring up at a dozen strange faces that were staring down at him. They had scared looks in their eyes. Some were confused, but most were scared. When he tried to move, they turned to each other and whispered in low voices. In a weird way, the fox thought of that one book he had to read in high school. Something about some traveler visiting a bunch of different races, like giants and little people, something like that. He felt like that traveler now, with all these Lilliputians staring down at him, muttering in low voices.
Vincent struggled to get up, but he was weighted down with fishing line and rocks. The faces jittered and whispered, and one of them sounded like they were laughing. Vincent could only look at them, and they looked back.
Faces staring at him. He remembered thinking that he would have killed to have this many people staring at him, back when he had been doing what he did best, what he had always done best.
Then someone leaned in close and poured something into his dusty mouth. It was wet and tasted like...water. Crystal-clear water, roses in the desert, clear gold, poured over his lips and he welcomed the taste. It hurt a little at first, but he soon warmed up to it.
He tried to say his thanks, but either he wanted the water too badly or he couldn't allow his mind to focus on the words. He just let the water wash out the dust that had been stuck inside of him for how long. Later, after Vincent had had his fill of water, the strangers brought him to a small rocky alcove. Crude but elaborate paintings dotted the high walls. One of the creatures (they looked predominantly like squirrels, though most appeared to be cross-breeds of other species) came up to him and asked him his name in a dry, aged voice. Vincent told the creature his name, and he asked where he was. The elderly creature gave a strange, all-knowing smile that all old people seem to have, and then walked away.
Vincent tried to follow him, but he was stopped by a wall of the strange animals. They herded him in and gave him more of their strange looks. He felt confused and angry, and his irritation seemed to make the strangers around him nervous. The turned their heads to each other and whispered in frantic voices. Vincent didn't know what to make of it, any of it, so he just turned on the heel of his purloined boot and stomped to a little recess in a rock wall that the creatures to want him to go near. He slumped against a wall and sat down. He hit his back on a protruding rock, but the pain was acceptable.
As he waited for what seemed like some sort of group assessment, he watched the creatures as they scuffled up and down a rock ladder. They wore dirty earth-colored robes that made them blend in almost perfectly into the rock face. Their features were skewed and distorted, and their voices showed that something was wrong with their vocal chords.
After what seemed like a century, the old creature came back, his dark brown coat billowing around his legs like smoke. Vincent stood up, feeling the stiffness in his knees. He winced and gritted his teeth as he begged his left leg to wake up. The elderly stranger walked up to him--Vincent could smell dirt and herbs coming off his coat--and grabbed the fox's hand, pumping it up and down with a smile on his face. "Congratulations!" this little creature exclaimed in a high voice.
The robed creatures behind him immediately set a raucous cheer. Vincent only looked at them, a confused expression hanging diligently on his face as the little creature continued to shake his hand like he had won something.
"Um, excuse me, but what's going on?"
The creatures couldn't hear him, they were too busy being happy. The patted each other on the back, shook hands in a congratulatory fashion, hugged and kissed, and some actually wept out of their joy. The elderly one stopped shaking his hand, but he still held it in a firm grip like the smile on his face. Vincent felt a chill when a shadow of déjà vu slipped over him. He remembered seeing a smile like that before.
Vincent's stay in the canyon--he soon discovered that it was a canyon--was long and strangely euphoric. The hybrid creatures were kind, and their methods of growing food in such a hellish climate were clever. His stomach grew several inches, hardly noticeable if he was wearing a shirt. They had fixed him a "room," which was basically a hollow comb carved out of the rock wall. It was only just a bed of what appeared to be sheets stuffed with bird feathers. Nothing much, but it beat the hell out of hard ground mattresses and granite pillows.
It soon became apparent to the fox that the creatures didn't just enjoy his company, they thrived on it. Wherever he went there was always a small group of people there to shake his hand or to give him their thanks, or to just give him general compliments. It was strange, but it felt good. Vincent wasn't used to so many positive comments, and he welcomed them just like the water that he desperately needed.
One night, the elder that had greeted him came to his room. His eyes were bright and alive, and his robe was less dustier than usual. "Come along now," he said in his high voice, and Vincent, who had become friends with most of the inhabitants of the canyon, gladly went with him. They went past the stone kitchen that he had spent so much time in during the mornings and evenings, and they past the mural room, of which Vincent had himself contributed a number of horrendous paintings that seemed to fit well with the overall crudeness of the other murals.
Soon, they started going down corridors that Vince was unfamiliar with. It started to get hot, with a wet, cottonmouth heat that glazed your mind like a Christmas ham. It smelled dank and damp, the smell of years gone by in total and absolute quiet. Vincent felt that familiar cold crawl up his back and clench at his stomach and balls. It was very subtle, but Vincent could tell in that way the floor sloped that they were going down. There was a light sheen on the rock walls here, and a dead scorpion lay a few feet in front of him.
Vincent stopped the old one and asked him where they were going. The hybrid creature continued on his way, but Vince grabbed from behind and turned him around. He fixed the creature a hateful leer, but what he got back was a silly, almost drunken grin. He was told to keep on following, and Vincent let the little guy go. He didn't know what was going on, but all he could do was hope for the best.
Eventually they came to a large stone grotto that stretched up into a turquoise infinity, a large black gaping hole inviting them in. They walked in, and Vincent felt his stomach rise up as the shadows crawled over him.
After a few moments, he felt like he really would be sick; it was like he was smelling what the epitome of a disease should be. They walked for another few minutes, passing massive walls of stone until the old one stopped him. "Finally," he said. "We've found the hero we should have been looking for over all these years. I'm so glad that you've come, in our darkest hour. Thank you so much."
Vincent could only stare at him open-mouthed. He had been catered to, fed, and been thanked for so long, and it was, what? A big personal ad? Or was it their version of money?
It was happening all over again. The world had ended, but the world Vincent knew was still happening. He was a whore again. It didn't matter if the outcome was different, the base principle was what stayed the same, and the underlying detail never changed; he was still a whore.
In the span of a single thought, feelings of anger and confusion coalesced into a thick stew that washed over his brain drowned out everything else. He grabbed the old, smiling bastard and threw him into rock wall roughly. He crumpled and fell into a dusty heap at the bottom. All Vincent could do was look at the little creature and scream anxiety-ridden insults that couldn't make sense.
A whore. Just another whore all over again, and demand for whores were high.
"Demand for whores are high, Vince. You're not going anywhere."
"The fuck I'm not! I'm getting the hell_out_ of here and you're not going to say shit about it, you hear me?"
"I don't know what reality you come from, fox, but your ass is stuck on the club dance floor out there, and it's not going anywhere."
"No, I'm not..."
"And just where do you think you're going to get a job in this bug-shit city, huh? What job pays as much as the one you're in now? Vince, you're twenty one years old, and your resume is a sheet of blank paper. You have no referrals, no credentials, nothing. They got you stuck--"
"Alright, Mr. High-fucking-Mighty know-it-all! Tell me how to get out! I await your advice, grand exalted master of wisdom!"
"Vince, stop it..."
"What the fuck am I doing? I want to get out of here, Rick. I don't want to do this shit anymore. Just...please tell me how to get out."
"I don't know, Vincent. You shouldn't have started it in the first place."
"...That's your advice? Telling me that I shouldn't have started it? What...Goddamit, Rick! You are absolutely useless! I don't know why the hell I wanted to be with you anyway."
"Further your career, who knows. I don't care."
"Fuck you!"
"Why should I when you can do it for twenty bucks?"
Vince grabbed a broken bar stool leg and swung it at the grey fox. It connected with his face and sent him reeling down to the floor of Vincent's apartment with a rough grunt.
Vincent stood there, holding the stool leg, watching with shocked awe as Rick got up--he was holding his hand to his jaw; a bit of skin had torn loose and blood was quickly dripping down to the floor. The grey fox looked at him, anger and pain filling his eyes.
"Ricky..." Vincent muttered, desperately trying to think of something to say. But nothing came to mind; it was just a clear-slate blank. Rick immediately started grabbing the few things he had in Vincent's apartment, and Vincent watched him with his mouth still held open in astonishment. By the time Rick was heading for the door, the red fox quickly found his tongue and leapt in front of his boyfriend.
"Ricky, please don't go," he said, but the grey fox brushed by him roughly. Vincent grabbed onto his arm, tugging on him to keep away from the door. "Ricky, I'm sorry! Don't...please, you're the only person I know here! Please don't leave me--"
But Rick had the door open already, trying to push through while keeping the other fox away with his free hand. All the time remaining silent, as though the blow had knocked something loose in the old voice box. With a final, forceful push, the grey fox broke through Vincent's grip and crossed the threshold with angry, single-minded determination, swinging the door shut behind him.
Vincent was about to follow him when the door caught him on the nose, bringing up a white flash and a sharp stinging pain that rattled his skull. For one hazy moment he lost consciousness, but he held up his hands to the door to keep himself from falling. He waited for the pain to subside, which wouldn't happen for a long five minutes. Slowly, he walked through his crummy apartment and walked toward his bedroom. He needed to sleep; he was exhausted.
He would have made it to his bed if it hadn't been for the chance bit of light that reflected off the little drops of blood. Vincent looked at them for a long time, and then he began to cry. He was--
Alone again. He had been running through the dark halls of ancient rock. Wherever it was the creature had brought him, it was damn difficult to get out, and that diseased smell was making his lungs feel like they were made of cast iron. Each way he came to was intersected by more paths, which in turn led to small antechambers that branches outward...leading to more paths.
He ran and ran, trying to find the way out. He knew he had to relax, but it was tough trying to calm down while searching for a way out of an endless maze of twisting tunnels and darkness, and after a couple minutes he became aware of something else.
He didn't know what it was, but he was sure that something was following him. As a test, he ran for a few more steps and then stopped suddenly. He heard something, probably an echo of his own footfalls, but there was more weight, more force in the echo. Vincent thought it was a good idea to keep moving.
Things just go wrong. He knew that, had known that for years. But why did things have to go wrong in a dark passageway in the middle of nowhere, with your heart pounding loudly in your ears and the feeling in the back of your head that something was following you, waiting for you to burn out and fall down?
Eventually, he had to stop, gasping for air. He breathed in that poisonous atmosphere, but it was better than nothing...though not by much. He clutched at his chest, willing the burning needles that stuck in his sides to stop and his rabbit-thumping heart to cool off. As he gave a wheezy cough, he heard something behind him. Not too far away, but close enough to make him jump.
He pushed on, his lungs burning with the need for more air. He couldn't stop, knowing with absolute certainty that there was something behind him. His legs went on for another few yards until he had to stop; his body couldn't take any more. He doubled over and retched for about a minute, then tried to keep on moving. His heart pounded in his ears, desperate for oxygen. His vision blacked out for a little bit, and he felt himself falling--
It felt like he was falling down a dark hole in the ground, and there wouldn't be any bottom to hit. He'd just go right through the earth and out into the deep reaches of space. Maybe if he was lucky, the pressure would kill him before he ever had the chance to think.
The pain in his rear was ebbing away, very slowly. Every now and then his muscles would clench and a fresh batch of fire would flare up inside of him. The tiger had been rough, a lot rougher than most were, but he wasn't bleeding or anything as far as he could tell. He had been pushing his hands against the bathroom sink in his apartment for the past twenty minutes, waiting for the pain to fade away. He had already washed himself, and now he was staring into the mirror, seeing the eye shadow he had put on some hours ago falling down his cheeks. Slut's Misery, five dollars retail at your nearest alley.
How long could he keep doing this? Just now he started to ask himself that. It was like he was coming off of a night of drunken partying with his friends--not friends, business colleagues--and he was finally thinking clearly and rationally, but where was it getting him? If anything it made him feel worse. Knowing where he was, and knowing that he had already gone in too far to get out, gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
After the tiger, he knew that he couldn't take any more like that. There would be more like him, and who's to say that they wouldn't be rougher, meaner, angrier, or drunker? It was a rude wake up call, but it was a call nevertheless, and Vincent wanted to take it. But how could he get out? They had him, figuratively and literally, by the balls.
He looked at himself in the mirror, noticing for the first time the scars he had taken by his tougher clients. He had them covered by makeup, but it wasn't enough; some scars were too deep for the makeup to cover, and they showed like terrible little blemishes through the fur. Like shame itself wanted to be known, and the best way for them to meet was through his own skin. He didn't want it anymore, none of it, no matter what the pay was. He felt like calling Rick, tell him to come over, help him sort out some problems. Hopefully he could help, because without that fox Vincent had no idea what he'd do.
He went out of the bathroom and headed for the phone. Just then, pain shot up from his butt to his stomach, and he gasped as his hand reached out to steady himself against the wall. In his mind's eye he saw with vivid clarity his internal organs neatly reorganized.
He had to get out.
He had to get out. If he could only find the way, but there were so many goddamn paths that there was no possible way he could find the right one. And that thing, whatever the hell it was, was still keeping up pace behind him. He could hear it now, footsteps pounding the sandy floor, and a baritone growl sifted through the rock walls, low and menacing as it sought the fox.
His body was burning for oxygen. He had already discarded his shirt and pants, throwing them away and leaving them behind for fear that they would make him overheat. Sweat was pouring through his orange and white fur, and even though he didn't want to, he had to clutch his stomach and crawl on the ground. The snarling was growing louder, and Vincent knew that if he gave the thing another minute, it would be on him, and then? No more Lone Wolf McVincent.
He struggled to get up, but the stitches in his sides felt like white-hot daggers sticking his ribs. He tried to talk to himself, to coach himself into standing back up and running again, but his body wouldn't allow it. He wanted to scream his frustration, but all that came out was a strangled cry. It was just too damn hot to even scream.
Then something black and strong smacked down on the floor near Vincent's face. It brought up a cloud of dust and dirt, and the fox started to cough as the thing that had been chasing him started to growl low in its throat. Vincent could feel its heat bearing down on him, and then he felt the course, long fur brush up against his back. In blind panic Vincent scraped at the ground, pulling himself through the sand.
Suddenly he felt a powerful, impossibly huge claw grip his shoulder and he cried out when claws dug through his skin like meat cleavers. The thing continued to growl and snarl at him, spittle falling from its mouth into Vincent's hair. Vincent still held onto the ground, trying to get away, but the thing held him still.
Base instinct took over, and he let himself go limp. He knew what was coming, and he didn't care. Death was alright, and it wasn't as rare as it used to be. It was the truth, and it was painful to learn, but Vincent didn't care anymore. Things changed, and you had to accept them. If you didn't, your ass would get thrown to the dark things that watched and waited.
Vincent waited for what seemed like an eternity to him; it was strange how anticipation warped your sense of time like that. He wondered how it would happen, if it would bite him first and dismember him later, or maybe it would rip him apart and save parts of him for later, a little fox a la mode. Maybe it would just go all out and tear him to pieces right there. It didn't matter to him, the result was the result no matter what the method. He just lay there with the thing's claw digging deeper into his shoulder, shaking with what would happen.
Then he felt the creature press its massive body against his back, and the fox braced himself for his death. The monster gave another growl, and a tear slipped out from underneath his lids--
Then he felt something stiff and molten hot press against his back, and when he felt the small of his back become wet, he knew what was going on. His eyes widened in shock and he tried to squirm away, but the creature shoved him harder into the ground. "No," he muttered, and he kept repeating it, more to himself than to the creature, who was now grinding its pelvis against him.
"No, goddamnit, no!" Vincent growled. He could smell the thing's musk drilling into his nostrils, and more tears squeezed out as the thing continued to press him into the ground, making the area just above his tail slick. Vincent knew that it was mating with him, and as much as he tried to get out from beneath it, he knew that it wouldn't let him go; they never did. You weren't allowed to leave before the show was done.
It pressed itself harder, and the fox could feel the phallus pulsing against him, rubbing him in a rhythmic cycle that he had always been used to, but still afforded no pleasure whatsoever. He wondered how long it would take the thing to find his love spot.
As if reading his mind--or perhaps it really was one of those offbeat coincidences--Vincent felt the thing press against his tail hole, wetting it, priming it for the explosion. Vincent closed his eyes, his muscles shaking with fear and expectancy. He didn't want it to happen, he begged silently that it wouldn't happen, but he knew that it was going to, whether he wanted it or not.
The creature pressed harder, Vincent shut his eyes tighter, and he let it happen.
He let it happen, and it was completely his fault. He had lost everything, his boyfriend, his job, his confidence, even his sense of security. When he came to the city expecting all of these, he had been pushed into a world he had never known before, and he embraced it openly--but at the expense of his own intuition and foresight.
He hadn't expected any of the shit that was happening to him to ever happen. It just wasn't supposed to happen. He came to the city in typical country bumpkin Frau Ana "I-have-confidence-in-me" fashion, and now look.
He leaned over the railing of the bridge and looked out over the black waters of the lake that divided the city, the bright yellow moon staring at its own reflection. The lake was calm tonight, with no wind to stir it into action. Vincent looked down, thinking how easy it would be...
It was a ninety foot drop from the bridge to the cool black waters beneath, maybe a hundred and twenty to the rocky bottom. Vincent had heard on the news of somebody who jumped and cracked his head on a sharp bit of rock sticking up out of the lake. Painless...relatively. Just a shot of adrenaline, a rush of air, maybe some water, and that was it. PRESTO! No more problems.
The fox looked around, wondering if anyone was watching. Slowly, he brought up one long leg over the railing. It didn't touch the small ledge that hung over the other side of the railing, so he shifted his weight and sat on the metal bar. He gave another look around before turning to the dark, glassy waters, putting the rest of his weight onto the leg that lay precariously over the edge of the overhang. He brought up his other leg--
"Hey, man! What're ya doing there!?"
"Huh?" Vincent turned to face whoever had spoken. Just then his foot that hung over the ledge turned and slipped. In those few moments, Vincent's mind became clear and he was aware of everything that was happening: his ankle scraped against the concrete overhang; his thigh dragged painfully against the metal railing, flaring up a long, purplish bruise; he reached out for the railing, and it looked like he was about to grab it, but it was just out of reach; his groin rebounded against the ledge; a rush of cold air, the bridge grew smaller, and things began to fade as he felt---
He felt wet all over, and he stank with the creature's musk. His body was racked with fire; sweat stood out on his matted down fur and mingled with the creature's liquid and blood where the monster had cut him. He gasped, took a deep breath, and gasped again, took another deep breath, and repeated again.
He was wet with fire, and he had to get. The fuck. OUT.
The creature that had taken him was a few feet away, grunting and rolling in the dust. For a moment, he had looked into its eyes, and he had seen yellowish green. Where had he seen that before? It was forming in his mind, like milky green smoke. It came to him like a black swan, a shadowy nightmare, and his memory of the tiger came back to him. Tears ran down his face as the pain came back with the memory, the fiery whiplash of pain that burned. But with the pain came another fire, one that scorched his mind and blinded him to everything else. The determination to live and survive rose up from a thick darkness, and with mental clarity he knew what to do.
All his life he had looked at reality, and when it reared the uglier side of its face he had always turned and walked away without facing it. Every time, he had relied on other people to him through his things, and now he knew what he had to do. There was a broken tip of a stalagmite on the ground beside him. He grabbed it and stood up. It hurt, but he knew that if he didn't do anything, if he just turned away and let more shit happen, more shit would happen to him, and he was fed up with shit happening to him.
The creature had not noticed him yet. It was still panting and growling in the dust, which suited the fox just fine. He held the piece of limestone, a good two and a half feet long, in both hands and drove it deep into the back of the creature's skull.
The monster roared and spun around, raising its claws and catching Vincent just below the eye. An inch closer and it would have taken off half of his face, but the huge bleeding gash that ran across his cheek was something he could live with. The fox jumped back lithely on his toes, keeping away from the monster as it swung its arms wildly, like some dervish hopped up on meth. Black blood was spurting out of its head and neck, painting the walls and floor with spiderline puddles.
Vincent bared his teeth and growled, half angry and half pleased with himself. He just had to keep jumping back, timing his movements, slipping to the side and let the monster swing at noth--
It rushed him, its mouth hanging open like a cavern fringed with jutting jagged rocks. Vincent leapt to the side, but the deciding millisecond was not in his favor; it caught him in the stomach, ripping him apart like a lawnmower.
Vincent landed on the ground and the monster lay panting in the dust. It convulsed as blood shot out of wounds, giving one long, wet growl before lying still. Vincent watched it from where he lay, clutching spastically at the ground around him as the wound burned with a white-hot fire.
He was bleeding to death, and he knew that. It wouldn't be painful, just hot as hell, and besides, the one bite he had taken was enough pain to last him until the end. His muscles contracted and pulsed, and as he started gasping for air and watching the dark cavern walls fade in and out, he smiled to himself as he heard a sound. It was quiet at first, but very quickly it grew in pitch, and his smile broadened as realization hit him. It was the sound--
The sound of a phone ringing. A dull brrr...brrr...brrr that seemed to stretch out into eternity, but Vincent held his ground; he wasn't going to be pushed. With his hand on the wall, he bit his lip and breathed through his nose, hoping that she would pick up.
"Hello?" A familiar voice.
Vincent smiled.
"Hi, mom. It's Vince. Look, I just wanted to let you know that...I just want to tell you that I'm going to the city tomorrow."
"The...oh, Vince. What's wrong with you?"
"What--"
"Why don't you ever listen to me?"
"I do listen, mom..."
"Then why aren't you listening now? Vince, you know that I'm all for what's best for you, but sometimes you don't know what's best for you."
"Mom, this is what's best for me, and I know it. There's a lot more job opportunities over there than this shitty town, and I'll find someone. I'll make friends a lot better there than here--"
"Vince..."
"I know what's best for me, mom. You may not know that, but I do, and even though you might not like that, it's the truth. I'm going tomorrow, and I'll call you when I get there, alright?"
There was a silence on the other line, then a sigh.
"Vince...oh, alright. You were always like this. I hope you have a safe trip."
"I will..."
"And call me the moment you get there."
"I will."
"Good luck, Vincent. I love you, we all do."
"I love you, too."
The fox hung up the phone and smiled. Things were finally starting to look good for him. With a smile on his face and a bounce in his tail, he went to his part of the dorm and grabbed his packed suitcase. He was finally sure of himself, and he was ready for whatever the world threw at him.