Just a Jackal
Opening my eyes. That's the first step. It seems simple enough, but it took me nearly ten minutes to manage it. After that comes the slow and stiff standing up, trying to work the kinks out so I can actually walk. Then, I pick up my stuff slowly, taking care not to make any sudden movements. All I can think about is taking a shower, partly because thoughts of the water takes my mind off of impending conversations. Sounds like a pretty normal morning routine, no?
One problem. It isn't morning.
Rather than opening my eyes to a dark room, I'm opening it to grass and trees and sunlight. Instead of getting out of a comfortable bed, I'm picking myself up from the dirt and rocks and dead pine needles. While at home, I'd be grabbing a towel or some clothing, but here, I'm picking up my messenger bag and scattered books. Lastly, rather than wanting to wash the sleep out of my eyes, I'm more concerned with the grime and the blood. Perhaps not a normal afterschool routine for most people, but for me, unfortunately, it was.
Perhaps it would be easier to take if I had done something to my tormentors, but I was probably singled out for the simple reason that I wasn't able to fight back. My body had become more resiliant with time, but I still went home most days with swollen eyes, scratches and cuts, a sore or dislocated tail, and bruises in general. Needless to say, it was a slow walk home.
Home wasn't much of a home. Actually, if home is truly where the heart is, I'm not sure I have one. I was living in a dilapidated apartment in a poor part of town. I'm pretty sure that the building doesn't follow proper safety and health regulations, but it's cheap, so I'm not going to try and report the landlord. If rent was any higher, I would have to choose between shelter and food, and I was already losing weight as it was. So I ignored the occasional bug or whatever else and made of it what I could.
It would be easier to afford a little better if I didn't have to keep spending money on medical supplies. However, once when I left a wound untreated, I got an infection, and the antibiotics cost more than the cleaning agents would have. So I went through with my little ritual day after day, looking in the mirror and cleaning up what I could with as little of everything as possible. After I was done, I looked over my sorry appearence.
I am a golden jackal, though the golden part was hard to see then with the dust coating my fur. Jackals are shorter than a lot of other canines--even coyotes are bigger by a bit--and I was short even for a jackal. My small frame and light weight were points against me, and I wasn't going to grow any taller and my weight, as I said, isn't exactly going up. My fur was originally a sandy-yellow; now, it was mostly brown. My right eye, coloured a rich brown, was staring at me disconsolately in the mirror. My left eye was swollen shut. My shirt was discarded on the floor. They had been more vigorous than usual, and the thing was in tatters. Thin lines of dried blood matted my fur across my torso. My jeans were in better shape, though just as dirty as the rest of me. My lower body was sore but not bleeding. I took my jeans off. I wouldn't need them in the shower. Without the loose fabric, it was plain to see I was standing awkwardly, not placing much weight on my left leg. I had limped all the way back. I grabbed the back of my briefs and slowly pulled them down, wincing as I got rid of the wedgie they had given me. I hadn't bothered to do anything about it on the way home because it hurt about as much to get rid of it as it did when it was given.
I started walking to the bathroom, untying and removing my bandana as I did so. It was a miracle that it had stayed on my head intact during the beating. It needed a good wash, though--just like me. I ran a paw through my hair as I started the water for a shower. After giving it a moment to heat up, I jumped in and set about removing the dirt from my fur. It was tiresome work, but I was used to it. Finally, I could get out, dry off, and set my clothes, minus the shirt, in my laundry basket.
I sighed as I looked at the shirt. I didn't have many, and I couldn't afford to go out and buy more. With great reluctance, I threw it out. Maybe, I though cynically, I should strip before next time. The body heals, but shirts don't.
The phone rang. I didn't have caller ID, but I could guess who it was. Few enough people called me, so it had to be work. I ignored it. I was in no position to listen to my boss yell at me. Maybe I'd be fired, but right then, I didn't give a damn. I went to the couch and gingerly curled up on it, not bothering to put clothes on. The fabric would only irritate my wounds. Without TV, I was forced to simply lie there, listening to the phone ring futilely, thinking...
*
My mom holds me close, letting me cry. I can hear glasses clinking in the kitchen. Dad must be pouring himself a drink. I feel I could use one myself. Dad always said it made him feel better, so why shouldn't it help me? I don't bother suggesting it to my mom, though. I already know her answer.
She starts whipsering in my ear. It's a quiet song, a lullaby she sang to me as a pup.
_"When night is dark
And the daylight cold,
Never forget
What you've been told:_
_No matter what
You are my son,
And I will love you
Whatever you've done."_
*
The phone rang again, interrupting my thoughts. Groaning, I reached over brought it to my ear. I tried to say "Hello?" but I was so groggy that it might have been just about anything.
"JC? It's Joyce."
"Oh, hey." I shook my head to clear it. It worked but made me wince in pain. I still couldn't see out of my left eye at all.
"Amanda called in sick five minutes ago, and we could really use someone to sort out the back. Can you come in?"
"Well, I'd like to," I said, glancing at my watch, "but the buses aren't as good at this time of day. It would probably take me forty minutes or more to get there." I was secretly breathing a sigh of relief. This call was from work, but it was my other job. I got along fine there. Most of my coworkers were good, and the management was reasonable.
"Tell you what. It's really slow for customers right now, so I'll tell Miranda that I'm slipping out for a few minutes and come pick you up."
I was momentarily silent as I tried to absorb what was just said. "Um, you don't have to. I could walk or something."
"No, I'm sure it'll be fine. Just give me your address."
"Really, Joyce--"
"I insist. Your address?"
I gave in. I knew better than to try to argue with a woman. I gave her the address and then hurried to find my work clothes. Even though I worked in the back, I still had to dress the part.
I waited on the front step of the apartment building, dressed in black slacks and a white shirt. I never wore them anywhere but work to preserve them from the treatment my earlier clothing got. I was only outside for a few minutes before Joyce pulled up in her two-door Ford Focus. I let myself in, quickly doing up my seatbelt. I'd driven with Joyce before.
"I can't belive Miranda just let you slip off."
"Ugh, it is so dead in there. We just need someone in the back to sort stuff and whatnot."
She glanced over at me and then did a doubletake. "Joyce, the road?"
"Fuck the road!" she responded with her usual eloquence. How she could be so different with coworkers and customers was beyond me. "What happened to you?"
"I fell while walking through the park," I replied. Not strictly a lie, just not the whole truth.
"But your eye! That doesn't look good."
"I've had worse, Joyce. Really."
"When? How?"
Shit. "I'm rather accident-prone."
"I find that hard to believe." She glanced over at me again. "I don't think you've had a single incident in the back since you started."
"Look, Joyce, I'm fine. Really. Tomorrow I should be good as new."
"If you say so." She sounded rather dubious saying it. The conversation was cut short by our arrival at work, though. For Joyce, speed limits were at least ten klicks more than posted. "Well, don't strain yourself in the back too much."
"I won't," I assured her.
The shift was rather uneventful. I was the only person back in receiving, so the work was quiet and fairly productive even without depth perception. When closing time rolled around, Joyce offered me a ride home. When I refused, she told me I was getting a ride whether I wanted it or not, so get in the damn car.
She was uncharacteristically silent on the way back. When we stopped outside my building, though, she made an unexpected requst. "Mind if I come in? I'd like to see where you live."
"It's really not much."
"I'd still like to see it."
I acquiesced as gracefully as possible. I felt mildly embarrassed leading her in there. It wasn't that my apartment was a mess. It was that the whole building was.
Once we got situated, her on the couch, me on a kitchen chair, she asked the question that I'm sure had been bugging her during her whole shift.
"JC, what happened?"
"What do you mean?"
"Cut the crap. We both know you didn't fall. Not only is your eye swollen, I can see you wincing when you move, and I could see you limping on the way into the store. What happened?"
"I did fall," I said irritably. "I was just helped on my way down."
"When? Where? By whom?" I'd forgotten just how inquisitive she could be, but it was all rapidly coming back.
"Today, in the park, and by the same guys who do it everyday. I don't know all their names."
"Wait, this has happened before?"
"Pretty much everyday at universiy."
"Well, you need to report them!"
"I tried that. Didn't accomplish much."
"But--"
"Look, Joyce, it's just how it is. I've accepted it."
She looked downcast at that. "You shouldn't have to." I heard her say it, but it was quiet enough for me to ignore.
"Thanks for the rides. I could use the shut-eye, though, so I'm afraid you'll have to go."
"Okay," she said, still looking down. "Talk to you later."
I watched her walk out. I felt a momentary pang of guilt. She was, after all, only trying to help. I was beyond help, though. Life just was. With that closing thought, I laid myself out on the couch and fell asleep.