Trip
This was one of a couple of short stories that I wrote last spring and they kind of were left alone, but I figured I'd post this up and see what you think of it.
It's been nine months now, since I've been doing it. Now I do it almost everyday. I guess I'm just addicted to bad decisions. The pain I'd feel afterwards was my way of reminding me that I was still alive. Just one pill a day, and all my troubles go away.
I remember the first time I did it. I even remember what the guy said. "I saw you from across the party. You didn't seem like you having much fun, try this." I still have the image of him putting it in my paw each time I take it.
Nine months. Oh well, it's my routine. I do it everyday. I still like it, so why should I stop? Each time I take it, the sensation always feels queer to me. It's like I'm in a completely different place where all of my troubles are forgotten. Just one pill a day, and all my troubles go away.
It was fun at first. I had a good time. We took them in groups at parties and laughed at each other's reactions for the night. Most of them stopped taking it though, but not me. I fell down the slippery slope never to get back up again. I'm not sure why I never hung out with those guys again. I can only assume that it was my fault. I can't remember. Soon, I didn't have any friends; All I had were others that did the same thing I did. Sometimes, I'd see them often they just disappeared. They probably got arrested or maybe died. It wasn't my concern. My only concern was this small, round, pill that dictates everything that I do.
I moved into an apartment with some other drug users, we're probably getting kicked out after this month because we can't pay the rent again. I tried to get jobs, but I kept getting fired for either my job performance or because I stopped going.
Sex was another thing that lost its fun. I yiffed plenty of women, but they were only one-night-stands. I'd treat them nastily and they'd hate me afterwards. I had to be an asshole to them. I was doing them a favor; I hoped that they would stay away from furs like me. Just one pill a day, and all my troubles go away.
I've been to jail a few times. I started to stop caring about anything around me. My first time came not long after I started on the pill. Apparently, I forced another car off of the road and it crashed into a tree. I don't remember any of it. My dad bailed me out and we had one of those talks about the evils of drugs. I think I yelled at him and stormed out of the house. I haven't seen him since. I took multiple pills that night to just end the pain, but somehow, I didn't die from it. That next day was the first time I cried.
Now, I'm just a nobody. A John Doe if you will. I'm just a fox with no future, no past, and a fucked up present. I'm the guy that dies at the beginning of the movie, the prodigal son who didn't come home, an abomination of society.
Just one pill a day, and all my troubles go away.
"Looks like you had a bad trip kid," Dr. Walter said as the wolf closed the journal and stared at the fox lying on the small table.
"His name was Benjamin Harold Dean," a deer said handing the clipboard to Dr. Walter, "He was identified by his parents this morning. They found the body under a bridge. He had nothing on him but a few pills of flunitrazepam, a pill found in Mexico nicknamed the 'forget-me pill' along with that notebook you were reading."
Dr. Walter reached down to the fox and removed the final article of clothing. He then picked up a tag with the fox's name on it and placed it on one of the fox's big toes before pulling the white sheet up to the fox's chest, then over his face. He and the deer then placed the lifeless body onto the metal surface drawer that was labeled with the number "9" on it.
The doctor pushed in the front of the cool metal drawer and till the clanging of metal sounded when the drawer closed. The doctor locked it and left the morgue as the fox's body laid there in nothing but a hole in the basement of a hospital.
Just on pill a day, and all his troubles went away.