Blackbird- Before
The night is cold, and I look up at the ceiling for a little bit. The wood paneling is all red and shiny in the moonlight, and I run a paw over one of my ears. I'm feeling kind of good about this, I'm feeling kind of frisky. It's the good kind of frisky, the kind that sort of makes you feel alive when you've done something bad. It's the frisky the thief feels when he makes off with the jewels, or the frisky a kid gets when he burns an ant with a magnifying glass. I won't lie to you -- it feels damn good. It's the part of a person that lets you know what you're doing is sin. I'm not an bad person. This was just the best kind of sin.
The guy I shot is huddled in a corner, holding his paw real close to his chest. He's a huge scaly fucker, wings and horns and all. And he's lookin' at me, two red eyes burnin' like fire in the dark, tryin' not to cry. He's calling me names like bitch, bastard, worthless fuck... It doesn't really matter to me. Because he only calls me one thing that I really care about. "Wretch" he says. Wretch. It's what they call traitors. Not the normal kind of traitors, no. Wretch was meant for people who were marked by death, even by their closest kin, and that sort of makes sense. If I wasn't marked before, I sure am now.
I blow a little of the smoke off my revolver, and it spirals away into the night air, and it's so pretty. I want to float off into the night too, but I don't have time right now. The dragon is saying something again, and he's trying to stand up. I warn him that it isn't a good idea, but he doesn't listen, so I level my gun again.
I'm too late though. He's already out my window and into the night. I look down at the fox kid he was trying to fuck when I found him. The poor guy. His pants were off, and he'd been smacked in the face real hard. A few of his teeth are missing, but it's nothing too terrible. I've lost more than my fair share of fangs before. He sits up and looks at me with these really big golden eyes.
"You alright, kid?"
"Yeah." He says.
He means it.
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James
"Rachel, please! I'm sorry!" A suitcase whizzed past my head and I ducked into the closet.
"My spotted ass you're sorry! If you were SORRY, you wouldn't have thrown up on your wife. You wouldn't have gone drinking the minute you got home! You wouldn't live at your damn job! Or at the bar! Don't tell me you're sorry!"
"It was only this once!"
"This ONCE?! The point is, you're drunk all the time! Or working! Alex and I never get to see you." My wife turned around, angrily stuffing shirts into a bag. "I'm sick of your bullshit, James. You're never home, you're always working or drinking, you never have time for me or Alex, and to be perfectly frank, I'm not even sure you're being faithful to me!"
"Faithful! Who are you to talk about faithful?" I shouted back at her. "Remember who I caught YOU with? How humiliating was that?"
Rachel's eyes narrowed at me. "Don't bring that up now. As if you've been loyal."
I shook my head, and I could feel my chest tightening up. I wasn't going to win this one. "Ok... ok, Rachel. I admit that we've had some hard times, and that... that I've looked at other women. I have, alright? But Rachel, please! I... I love you."
"Don't give me that." Her voice was cold... so very cold. "I... I know. It's just getting harder and harder to tell." I looked up at my wife's face. Her expression was softening, and I hoped to the bottom of my heart I was getting somewhere.
"So don't go. I lost everything once already."
It was the wrong thing. Rachel's eyes widened and she slammed an angry fist into the wall. "You lost everything?? James, you had me! You've always had me! So don't give me this shit!"
"It's not shit..." My voice trailed off. It was shit. It really, really was.
"It is." She gave me a steely glare. "I'm leaving. I'm taking Alex. I'm just sick of having to deal with you! Even when you ARE around, you're so messed up... you're so messed up!" Her voice trailed off and I thought I could see a few tears forming in her eyes.
"... ok." I said. The knot in my throat was making it so hard to do anything other than whisper.
With that, I watched my love walk out the door. Part of me told me I deserved it, and another part begged me to scream at her. I wanted to pull her close, and kiss her. I wanted to hit her.
I wanted to rip her heart from her chest. I needed a drink.
But I didn't I stood. I watched. She looked beautiful driving away in the moonlight. She looked beautiful doing everything. Rachel. I love you.
I remember thinking about going to work that day. I work at a supermarket, and it wouldn't be a tough way to end the day. I could sneak out a bottle of vodka. Smash my troubles against the glass and wake up with a headache and a hole in my memory. That's what I needed right now, some holes. Instead, I walked into my bathroom.
It was small, and it only had one mirror, right above the sink, so I could stare into it and marvel at what a useless old man I had become, morning and night. Whenever I washed my hands, whenever I brushed my teeth...
The same face always looked back at me. These tired green eyes, that spot over my right eye where the fur gets all dark... I looked like a hyena who was simply done living. I frowned and stared harder into the mirror. There was a big scar running up my face and into my ear from that time I got shot... that really was a while ago. I remember how Rachel said how cool I looked, and I almost laughed.
Cool. Haha. That's the guy I used to be. The kid. The puppy who knew too much and was turned into an adult as punishment. I needed... I needed a drink. It was dry in there. Real dry, killer dry. I needed to drink.
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The moon is full and I'm walking down a lonely city street at night. Good people don't walk the streets this time of night, but to be honest, I'm restless sometimes. Besides, there's a gun in my back pocket, and God knows if I need it, I'll use it.
It's not like I'm a bad person. I've just done a lot of bad things. Lying, in particular. That's the one I'm the best at. I like to think that there's no one better, but when it comes to telling people things that aren't true, I suppose the competition pales in comparison. I can tell ice cream that cones cause cancer. I really could. That's why it pays to be out so late, like this. The night is bright and alive, and I can practically feel it beating in my heart.
I can feel this guy behind me though. I don't turn around, because then he'll see me, but I know he's following me, grinning like a bastard. I know he wants a little taste, and I don't blame him. But I don't do that sort of thing, and it would be a damn shame if I had to use this pretty revolver to put a jackass like him in the ground. I can hear him. Grunting and rubbing himself. Pig. I don't even do that sort of thing with guys.
But I'm a little stupid tonight. Sure enough, the minute I slow down to have a smoke, he grabs me by the back of the neck and pulls me into an alleyway. And hell if he's not a strong brute. I finally get a good look at him, in the moonlight.
The guy is a bruiser, a real bulldog type, with short triangle ears and a sharp, fanged muzzle. He's a doberman, and he's really pleased with his prey tonight, because he's growling and pawing at himself while looking at me. Perv. In seconds he's already got his jeans off. I kick my self away from him, scrambling against the ground and shoving myself into the darkness of the alley, where I know I can get away. He chases after me. Good dog.
I cart myself behind a dumpster and struggle to my feet. He grabbed me a little hard back there, and I feel a little weak, but I get up anyway. Bad things happen to people who don't get up. He bounds around the corner and growls some name at me, but I don't pay attention. He grabs me by the arm and wrests me away from the dumpster, away from anything I can use to stand up. But I'm quick, and I give him one, right to the nads.
The doberman throws his head back in pain and I smile to myself. I'm not a bad person, but it feels so good to do that every now and then. He howls to the night long and loud-- I got him good. I crawl away and get to my feet again, but I don't run. He'll catch me, I know it. The guy looks at me with this evil glare in his eyes, and he paws himself even more furiously as he stalks me back toward the wall. I hold up my paws, look all innocent, and he shoves me. Back, back, back, right into the hard brick, breathing on my neck like some sort of fucking animal.
I shove him away a little bit, and he comes right back, and I give him my liar's grin. It's the smile that I give a lot of people who I fuck over. It's mistaken for a quiet, innocuous grin. It's not.
I shove the barrel of my six gun into his chest and give him three. The face he makes is absolutely priceless as he watches his own muzzle vomit blood all over my jacket. I know I'll have to wash it out later, but for right now? It's the best feeling in the world. It's the best kind of sin.
I'm not a bad person.