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Attention Seeking

"Start freaking thinking. And stop acting like a little, emo attention seeker, stop cutting yourself, grow up, and take punches from life more easily. Because there will be a lot more. And they won't be coming from me."

"Like it's that simple."

No, no, no, no. It was all wrong, they were all wrong. The black German Shepherd huddled into the corner of the room, the two walls cool and reassuringly solid against his back. Once upon a time, the peeling wallpaper had been green. Years of grime and contempt led it to its current, lonely state, uncared for. It was not a far cry from the one it cradled, a shredded scrap of a dog with tearstains on his muzzle. Breathing heavily, Alan drew his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around them, though the bony protrusions did little to convince him that he was holding another - perhaps even another who cared. He laughed, the hoarse bark echoing through the bare room. Another who cared: how quaint.

He stood shakily, turning his muzzle so that he would have appeared to cast a cursory glance about the room if his eyes were not glassy and unfocused. He leaned heavily upon the wall, claws scratching the paint as the bare, grey floorboards creaked beneath his hind paws, dirt caked between the toes. For the first time, the dog realised that he was nude from muzzle to tail, not a scrap of clothing hiding his tattered fur and scarred hide from view. Clumps of fur stuck out at odd angles, never brushed, and dried blood matted his fur into dark pools of obscenity. Tracing the line of a scar that ran up his calf, grey and thick like a coarse rope, disgust caught him like a wildfire and he whirled about.

"Look at you!" He snarled, slamming a fist into the wall with enough force to shake loose lumps of plaster. "You're a fucking mess, you lazy bastard! Can't you do anything right? You're a piece of shit, you are, that's all you'll ever be."

Alan shook his head violently as if to remove water from his ears. He automatically cradled his paw against his chest, even if the pain was yet to come. Outside pain was nothing compared to what sank fangs into his heart, slowly but surely filling his veins with poison. Rusty nails stood up at an angle from the floorboards, twisted and ugly with orange and grey. Ears pinned to his skull, Alan growled furiously, upper lip curling back - an ugly grimace - and clawed at one such nail, ripping up fur and fingers until he dragged it from the scarred wood. Clutching it in one paw, he scraped the sharp end down his forearm, gritting his teeth against a howl as a line of crimson sprung forth. Miss me? It had been a while. His blood smelled metallic in the stale air.

It was not enough, it had never been. Again, he scraped the nail down his arm, hissing through clenched teeth. He nipped his lip, soothed by the metallic swill of blood on his tongue. The pain brought on a kind of euphoria that made everything seem not so much more bearable but wrapped a blanket around his emotions. One cut, two cuts, three cuts, four cuts. Blood dripped to the ground, a red siren to any that cared to bear witness.

He tossed the nail aside: unsatisfying. Nobody cares if you disappear, the inner voice whispered, snakelike in its tone. Give up. Stop. Lie down and be no more. His hide quivered. He did not deserve to live. Releasing a strangled cry of unholy pain, Alan scraped a full set of claws across his chest, clawing off scabs that had never fully healed over layers of scarring. Once, John the husky, had spotted his scars in the changing room just before football, that damn physical education class. John's eyes had shot wide and voice carried as he asked what happened. The others at school looked at him differently after that. Alan lowered his muzzle and drew a line of blood across his stomach, blood dripping from his claws. There was whispering behind cupped paws from the lads at first and then the girls picked up on it too, that he was different. John refused to speak to him after the rumours of him scarring himself for attention flitted amongst the population. After all, who would consort with a fur like that?

Someone was calling, their voice catching at the tips of his pricked ears. Back, back, back. Away from the shadows and a return to darker reality. Standing tall in the centre of the bare room, new features came into focus: a bed with a thick, blue duvet, a study desk, open scrapbook, posters of famous sportsfurs - the standard awnings of a teenager's bedroom. The carpet had holes in it but it was still a carpet, brown and frayed with age. He breathed harshly, chest heaving, and surveyed the damage, calculating all that would need to be done before he braved the trial of his family. He was sure they meant well, all families did.

The young dog would be fine; he knew the routine by now. First, clean the wounds, then antiseptic and bandage. Cover the scent with aftershave, deodorant. No one would be any the wiser. For he could not let his parents know what he was doing. That would only be attention seeking and he knew how well that had turned out with John the husky, had he not? Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes and he shook himself, grabbing blindly for clothes that were mildly odorous. They would cover up the scent of blood and antiseptic or at least dissuade curious noses. The old nail that he had salvaged from a school project lay on his desk, black with dried blood. Despair stirred in his stomach and he put his paws to his temples, moaning.

No, no, no... There was only so much one dog could do. Alan swayed, grabbing at thin air, empty thoughts. Blindly, he dragged his clothes on, trousers one awkward leg at a time, and took a deep breath, though the very act of breathing stretched his damaged skin. He had to pull himself together. It was time for dinner.

*

"Where have you been?" The older canine said gruffly, stuffing potatoes into his muzzle. "Your mother's gone to all this trouble to make a good meal for you and what appreciation do you show her? Fuck all, that's what."

The assault began as soon as Alan set his left paw in the dining room. His mother and father - black German Shepherd's like himself - sat on either side of the square, wooden table, dinner already set and served on three placemats. Swallowing, Alan rubbed the bandages through his shirt, a fresh twinge of pain calming him, an addiction as potent as alcohol. His father was the expert on all things liquor, however. Helplessly, Alan turned his eyes on his mother, pleading silently with the glassy, amber orbs.

"Michael, please," the slender-muzzled canine whispered, dabbing delicately at her muzzle with a fresh napkin. "It is not a problem. Alan, please, sit-"

"Sure, sure," his father sneered. Half-chewed food slopped around his mouth when he spoke. "Have a seat, why don't you, Alan? After all, you show your parents so much respect, you deserve it."

Mutely, Alan dropped into the only spare chair, the one with the rickety leg. It never rested on four legs, only three, and even that depended on how he shifted his weight while seated. His tongue was like sandpaper but he did not dare ask for a drink as one had not been set out for him. He probably did not deserve a drink, yes: that was it. The young dog's ears splayed sadly to either side and he reached for a forkful of cooling chicken that had never been particularly appetising with a greasy sheen of gravy.

"When are you getting this job then, hey?"

Could he not even let him eat in peace? Stifling a sigh, Alan looked up, meeting his father's cold, blue eyes with his own amber ones.

"I don't know." His voice was almost too quiet to be heard.

"You don't know?" Wrong answer. "What do you mean, runt? You ain't got a job raising your tail on the street corner yet?"

"Michael -"

"Shut up!" He yelled, thumping the table with a closed fist so that the plates rattled anxiously. "He fucks up at school, he can't get a job, ain't respectable, ain't no good for his fucking parents - what else is he good for?"

Left out of the conversation, Alan quietly laid his fork on the blue tablecloth, food uneaten on the prongs. It did not matter; he was not hungry. He was never hungry. As if he was hearing conversation from underwater, Alan glanced up, surprised to see that his father's finger was in his face. Oh, what did it matter? He turned his muzzle away and was rewarded with a slap on the cheek. It barely stung.

"See 'im?" His father scraped his chair back noisily and leaned over the table, spittle flying from his thin lips. "Look at that! No reaction! What is he, a fucking puppet? You a doll, boy? A pretty little doll for a cub ten times smarter than you? Hey? Answer me, fucking beta. Not an alpha bone in your body." He spat on the table. "Your kind make me sick."

If he did not absorb the words, they would bounce off, only returning in the depths of night to crawl through his dreams in a manner that his subconscious could not fight off. Alan no longer possessed control over his own body, just like the puppet his father claimed he was. Twitching his ears, he blinked twice, raking his claws surreptitiously over his stomach, raising fresh pinpricks of pain that bloodied old scars. It was not attention seeking if he did not allow his parents to see, it was not attention seeking, it was not, it was not. Repeating the mantra in his head, he closed his eyes and promptly flew out of his chair when the enraged canine launched a blow at the side of his head.

He crashed bodily to the floor but made no move to get up, much easier to lie there and take it. And he was so, so tired. No one would know, not then and not ever. Alan could never tell again, he knew what speaking of harm meant. Any harm others did to him was negated by harming himself and everyone knew that self-harm equalled attention seeking. But the canine knew a secret. The corners of his black lips curled up triumphantly, a boot landing squarely on his chest, pinning him to the carpet. The scars, what he did to himself - it was all okay. It was okay as long as he remembered one, simple fact. If he abided by this rule, all was safe and all was well. It was not attention seeking. Nothing was wrong. His father spat in his face. Why was he not an attention seeker after all then? Alan whimpered as the boot pressed down on his chest and he struggled for breath, clinging on to one last thought as his vision faded to black:

It was only attention seeking if he cut and told.