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The Dying Game

Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

@arianmabe

Cover art by Orobas

Autumn lingered. Great Britain crawled into December like a raindrop trickling down glass. The river was as cold as such unmoving glass, toying with leftover leaves that bobbed and swirled between eddies. Thus caught, they bobbed and dipped, tossed to the murky riverbed and thrown back up again without a care, swallowed into a ravenous, watery maw. The river was ever hungry, sighing, groaning and sucking minute lives into its depths. As long as it continued meandering towards the not so distant ocean, it cared not for all the passed over, quenched lives in its embrace. Above the muddy water, the young, two-legged palomino equine on the bridge sat and stared. Legs swinging against the weather-worn stone, her hooves struck and clacked loudly, drawing a look from a passing canine - a Doberman male with a curious tilt to his muzzle - in the brief second that she commanded his attention. Heather Rees scratched her chin, ignored the tickle of short, golden hair against her fingertips, and frowned.

It wasn't even a very nice river, she thought, tucking a stray clump of loose, silver-blonde hair behind one curved ear, which was pierced in two places, cheap gems sparkling deceivingly. The bridge was crusty with moss and lichen, the green and yellow reminding her of disease ridden flesh, something that ate away at the outside of a fur while the inside lost the will to live. Scowling, she flicked a sharp stone into the river and watched it disappear with barely a ripple. An empty beer can bobbed past, too swiftly for her to take in the brand name, but she supposed that it wasn't anything interesting anyway, only a passing distraction. Too many others were interested in beer.

Heather shoved her paws deep into her wide skirt pockets, hoof-like fingertips curled into her palms, and hopped off the humpback bridge, stalking along her way as if something had personally offended her. Cars on the road to her right snarled past, lifting her straightened mane up from her neck and into her face in a rush of angry air. There was a hole in the left knee of her black tights and her denim skirt, daringly short, had seen better days, though the hooded sweatshirt depicting her college name was laundered, smelling faintly of lavender washing powder. She had to be presentable, or presentable enough, to visit Michael, even if Michael would not see her.

Her heart twisted. Michael. Mike. Mikey. Poor little cat. Why did he have to screw around down by the railway line? He was a fool. A fool but a kind fool - there was no harm in the lad. Her steps quickened and she tugged the sleeve of her sweatshirt down over her paw as far as possible, further warming from the winter nip. No, Michael had done no wrong. He had only been spraying graffiti. Where was the harm in that? In hindsight, there had been some harm to him, because he had not evaded the train swiftly enough. But he had to be all right: Michael had to be all right for her. He could live without an arm or a leg. He had to.

Heather sniffed loudly, nostrils flaring. Damn good her friends were, the ones who had been down by the railway line with Michael. They hadn't even wanted to come with her to the hospital. Sara, the silver tabby cat, had laughed and blown a foul cloud of cigarette smoke into her face. Worried about your 'friend'? That's what Sarah had screamed in her shrieking laugh, more like a hyena than a feline. Or perhaps like a cat being strangled. Bitch. What did she know? And the others went along with it like the obedient pooches that they were, yipping and yapping their nonsense. Did dying mean nothing to them? Probably not. They were already dead. Heather was half-dead too.

Digging in her pocket in hope of a stubborn cigarette, she forced her legs into action, one pale cream hoof after the other, white fetlocks flashing. There was no thought in the motion and she considered whether she was responsible for bodily actions when she felt so detached from her own physical being. Her legs did not look like hers, though they were ended with the same scuffed hooves as always, black mud smeared across the upper curve of the left. She finally scooped out a bent cigarette, already wrapped, and her silver lighter to light her first smoke in months. The smoke made her cough at first but it was like welcoming an old friend back into her lungs, souring them as she relaxed and breathed easier under the influence. It was okay, she reasoned, as the hospital was not far and she would not finish the whole cigarette, only a half or so.

Only a half.

*

"Hey, Mike," Heather murmured, sinking into a hard, straight-backed chair beside the hospital bed. The young cat was hooked up to several beeping machines, which she averted her eyes from. "How've you been?"

It was an inane question - she knew that - but social convention dictated much of interaction. Heather smiled. Michael would have told her off for being so formal. He lay quite still in the narrow bed with clinical, metal bars and crisp linen, both brown-furred palms resting on top of the white sheets. His chocolate brown fur needed washing. Next to the bed was a cheap, chipboard bedside cabinet with two drawers and a sickly green curtain allowed privacy around the bed, if so desired, as the door was wedged open at all times. There was nothing about the room that suggested the brown cat's temporary ownership. He was lucky to have a room to himself, Heather thought. Even at home, she had to share with her younger brother, the daft colt. She frowned. She would have been 'babysitting' Sam if she had not escaped to visit Michael. Work had been on the agenda for the day but the care service had understood when she had informed them that she was visiting a friend in hospital.

"Oh, how lovely!"

A nurse in a blue hospital tunic strutted into the room and pressed a clipboard to her ample chest. The black and white furred husky was plump and had a clinical smile permanently fixed on her face, cheeks strained with the effort of holding it indefinitely. Heather wondered if she smiled like that even when her shifts were over in the care service, going from home to home with a smile that never reached her eyes. As if the equine's presence was an obstruction to her work, the nurse made a point of walking around Heather's chair to check the machines, pen scratching away at the clipboard. Noting aloud that Michael did not receive many visitors, her smile grew wider, yet Heather barely registered the comment. Clicking her tongue, the husky shook her head and made another note, murmuring under her breath about how very sad it was.

Heather fidgeted with her paws in her lap and the nurse did not utter another word as she completed her assigned tasks. Reaching down the front of her tunic to adjust her brassiere, which suddenly became of utmost importance in that moment, she strode briskly from the small room.

"Is he going to be okay?" Heather asked bluntly, stopping the nurse in her tracks, flat-soled shoes scuffing against the linoleum.

"I can only speak about his condition to family members," the nurse said automatically, tucking the clipboard out of sight.

"And what if his family won't tell me anything about his condition?" Heather snapped: was the nurse deliberately obtuse?

"I can only speak about his condition to family members," she repeated coldly, a broken record. "I cannot tell you anything."

"That's all right then, I'll just sit here and wait for him to die," Heather heaved a sigh and stared up at the battered ceiling, sarcasm palatable.

Shifting her weight from foot to foot, the nurse blinked twice and left the room for a second time, the sound of scuffing shoes echoing down the corridor. When she was out of earshot, Heather took one of Michael's cool, limp paws between her own, warming it with her body's mild heat.

"Nurses are used to death," she said out loud, as if for Mike's benefit. "They're used to sickness. This is nothing to her." She imagined Michael's eyelids fluttered. "This is something to me."

Outside, a bird trilled a tune, a starling that had picked up someone's signature whistle. Last week, she had heard one that sounded like the traditional Nokia ringtone that had once played over and over on her brick of a phone. She watched Michael carefully, the rise and fall of his exposed chest so slight that she was afraid that her eyes were playing tricks on her. Her chest was tight, every breath coming with more difficulty than the last. She imagined slamming a manhole cover on the lip of the bubbling volcano that threatened to erupt. She couldn't breathe. What was happening? Was he going to live or was he going to die? He was not in a critical condition ward, but he was not awake either. Was it a coma? Heather could not tell. He was trapped in an unnatural sleep in which his body continued to go on living and his mind sank further and further into darkness incarnate. Heather squeezed his paw, larger than hers, between both of her own and drew a ragged breath. The bird sang on, warbling the phone ringtone.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Oh... Heather glanced towards the door, unable to feign interest. Not now, please not now. Go away. Walk away, lady...

"Are you listening to me, filly?"

Unwillingly, Heather turned her eyes up to the mare that towered over her: her mother. Scowling, the black-haired bay jiggled the colt in her arms, a bright eyed youngster with hair just like Heather's pale blonde locks, matching her natural coat colour. She wore a deep purple cardigan that was missing a button and jeans that were too tight for her tree trunk legs, swollen with fat and disuse. With her mane yanked back in a brutal ponytail, the older mare stomped across the room, muttering obscenities.

She stopped directly in front of Heather, blocking her daughter's view of Michael, and shoved her arm away, separating the two. Clouds scudded along their way in the otherwise blue sky, unconcerned with the brewing storm beneath their bellies. Her touch with Michael broken, Heather fought the urge to slam her paws into her mother's belly, right where that missing button was.

"What do you want?" She said with icy civility.

Her mother grunted and drew Sam in closer to her body, tight enough that he gave a cry of discomfort.

"What do I want?" Her mother repeated. "What do I want?"

"Yes, what do you want?"

Heather rubbed the back of her paw. The mare gaped like a goldfish for two seconds and sprung into animation.

"Look at him!" She screeched, thrusting the colt before her like an offering. "Who's supposed to be taking care of him today? Who's supposed to be looking after him? And I'm not at work because someone stuffed him with me!" Heather leapt to her feet, the force of her motion knocking the chair over backwards.

"I was working today! I never said I'd look after him! I never said it, I never!"

"Oh?" Her mother pounced. "And if you're working today, why aren't you in the car or in some old biddy's house, hm? Why aren't you working, Heather? Slagging about as usual, aren't you?"

The blood drained from Heather's cheeks and she slowly righted the chair with a sense of deliberateness, just for something to occupy her trembling paws. She gripped the back of the chair, knuckles turning white under her golden coat. She bit her tongue. How dare she? She had everything in order and she knew nothing - nothing!

"I called in sick," she said frostily. "The care service got someone to cover for me."

"Yeah, but you're not being paid for those hours now, are you?"

Heather had heard it all before. Her mother wanted her to be at work. Her mother wanted her to look after her brother. Her mother wanted Heather close. Her mother wanted Heather out of sight. There was no middle ground. Tuning out the anger, Heather blinked rapidly, beating back rebellious emotion with an iron fist. Her mother's lips moved up and down, words fading into mindless noise, and flailed flailing her free arm wildly. The colt swayed precariously with her agitation, opening his little, red mouth to join in with the noise, an ear-splitting wail cutting through everything else.

The commotion had not gone unnoticed and strangers gathered in the doorway like crows flocking to carrion. Heather wished herself anywhere else and stared at the ground between her hooves, black marks from other footwear on the linoleum. Rubbing her left forearm over and over again, she ignored the nip of pain flaring up under the concealed skin.

"Excuse me? Excuse me? Ma'am? Miss? You can't be shouting in here."

A petite, quiet nurse arrived on scene, holding her paws with palms facing upwards as if to summon help from above. Heather gave her a small smile but the nurse had cold eyes and looked to the older equine as if she was the voice of reason above Heather. Briefly, Heather noted that her nametag was missing.

"Mother, please calm down," Heather said softly. The nurse that had made notes on Michael's condition a short while ago moved down the corridor with her fixed, plastic smile. With a calm nod and assertive glance, she reassured worried patients that all was fine, just fine, that the situation was being dealt with.

"Calm down? There's a cheek on you! Who do you think you are?" She thundered, half-raising a clenched fist that Heather dodged instinctively. "The nerve! You think that you can talk to me like that? We can't have conversations, you and me, 'cause you're always thinking you're one step better than the rest of us!"

"Right, out, the two of you."

The plump nurse pushed them apart with her body, her glare fixed upon Heather.

"Out. Now. Ma'am, take your daughter and leave. I'll be calling the police if you don't, I warn you."

Her mother smiled triumphantly.

Rudely escorted to the nearest exit, Heather's mother smiled pleasantly and cooed at Sam, bouncing him in her arms as if they were taking an afternoon stroll together. Heather pressed her lips into a thin line, clenching and unclenching her paws as her hoofed fingertips dug deeper and deeper with every motion.

"Did you get what you wanted then?" Heather asked in a monotone, once they were outside, door closed upon their heels.

"Don't speak to me like that." Her mother sighed, toying with the hole in her cardigan; the alteration was a mere blip in her day if the conclusion suited her desires. "Take your brother."

Heather stared at her.

"No."

"Well, you can't go back in there, filly." Her mother shook her head and dumped Sam on the pavement. "He's there, take him or leave him. I'm going home."

"Back to your booze, no doubt."

"I'll do as I fucking please, you little cow! What would you have me do? It's no good sitting on your arse doing fuck all, is it?"

There she goes... Heather thought, biting her lower lip to hold back a smirk. She knelt and wrapped her arms around Sam, breathing in his soft scent. Baby powder and sweets mingled with the thicker, darker odour of cigarette smoke on his clothes, but she loved it regardless. She loved him. She hid her paws within her sleeves, sighed and straightened, finding herself almost eye to eye with her ranting mother.

"Go home," she advised, cutting across a finely tuned insult.

Her mother's eyes flashed and she advanced, one clenched fist raised to shoulder height.

"You're the one who's going home, filly," she countered. "You are going to watch your brother."

"No, no, I am not," Heather giggled, the bubble of amusement rising quite unexpectedly. "Look after him yourself. He's your son, not mine."

She fled, hooves beating against the tarmac, quicker than her pounding heart. Her mother screamed but she scarcely heard, gritting her teeth against the receding verbal onslaught. She threw herself into the run, knowing that she did not have to run so swiftly when her mother was already falling behind but, maybe, just maybe, if she ran hard enough, long enough, fast enough, she would escape.

Wheeling around the side of the red-bricked hospital, windows and flashes of life passed in a blur: a German Shepherd in a wheelchair, an old vixen hooked up to machines, a swallow in a blue tunic shaking her head, a doctor leaning over a patient, a young couple crying. She could not stop and shoved furs out of her way as she ran, curses licking at her heels. Only when she was well around the back of the hospital, close to the marked staff car park, did she slow to a walk, clutching the stitch in her side.

Her mother was as good as insane, Heather decided, thumping a fist against her thigh. The red bricks mocked her with their solidity, barring her from Michael, the nurses patrolling the corridors within like ferocious dogs. Muttering an obscenity, Heather paced back and forth along a short, paved path with broken flagstones, over and over again. Perhaps inspiration would come to her. Her hoof caught in a crack and she tripped, catching herself on one knee. Again, her fist hit her thigh.

Fuck her, Heather spat, imagining her fist connecting soundly with her mother's squealing muzzle, as fat and round as a swine's snout. Fuck her to hell. Look what she's done now. She paused. Look what I've done.

No, she could not think like that. Moistening her lips, Heather yanked her hood up with unnecessary force and hid her paws once again. Her objective was simple. There were more entrances to the hospital and what else was she to do besides make her way back to Michael's room? She could hide if she came across a nurse. They seemed to make enough noise as they moved around the hospital to advertise their presence to the world to say the very least of them in polite words.

Retracing her steps in part, Heather walked quickly, head down, towards the emergency entrance. She didn't like the waiting room, packed to the brim with frightened furs, some of whom did not know what was wrong with them, why they had experienced these sudden stomach pains or other such ailments. A beagle cradled a bandaged paw in his lap, ashen muzzled and bleary eyed. Heather averted her eyes and continued onwards, wishing that she had not worn her college sweatshirt - far too conspicuous in hindsight. The receptionist, a horse like Heather, but with a flea-bitten grey coat, glanced up, lank mane hanging around her eyes like curtains around a window. She paid Heather no attention and allowed passage into the hospital's belly without comment. She was just another young mare in a hospital, nothing more.

She had not progressed much farther down the corridor when noise halted her in her tracks. The plump nurse's booming voice was unmistakable and Heather dived into the nearest bathroom, a single room, locking the door after her in a scrambling flurry of adrenaline. Her heart pounded in her ears and she caught the swinging light cord after a few failed attempts in the darkness. She yanked it once, twice, to illuminate the neat, simple bathroom. A support rested beside the toilet for those who found relieving themselves difficult, something that Heather was all too familiar with as a care worker. Holding her breath, she listened to the approaching footsteps, two pairs of shoes encasing hind paws on the linoleum.

"What was all that about?" A male voice queried, a hint of amusement in his light tone.

"Oh, some crazy teen," the nurse snorted, her 'friend' the husky. "She came in and caused a disturbance. Poor mother had to near drag her out of here, god knows what trouble that kid is."

"No kidding!"

Heather stilled, twitching ear pressed to the cold, unyielding door. A flake of peeling paint fluttered to the ground, coming to rest upon her shoe in a spot of white. How dare they? She had done nothing wrong...or had she? Was the truth decided by her or by what others saw? Sweat dampened patches beneath her arms and she brushed her forelock away from her sticky forehead, pressing closer to the door.

"Oh, yes," the nurse paused. "I know Kate, in a sense. That's the teen's mother, you see. Wouldn't hurt a fly. Worked with her many years ago. She only lost her cool for a moment, would never make such a ruckus normally. People don't change that quick. Just that kid, she's got ideas beyond her. She should be at work today, she's off skiving."

Their voices faded along with their footsteps and Heather slumped against the door. Was she really like that? Had she not been sitting quietly with Michael before her mother had arrived? Perhaps it was not a relevant fact and they thought that she was the instigator simply because she was there first. Resting her head in her paws, Heather shuddered and sobbed, coughing out dry tears into her palms. She cast her eyes wildly about, a caged animal hunting out release, gaze landing upon several lines of text written in black marker upon the wall:

I was here then.

You are here now.

our paths have

crossed and so we

share a fleeting

moment in the

tapestry of our lives.

What a stupid thing to write on a bathroom wall, Heather thought. Fucking poetic - fucking poetic here_! Who needs that? Who bloody needs that?_

It was strange to find poetry there, for it felt thoughtful to Heather's spinning mind, and the revelation calmed her. Heaving herself to her hooves, she splashed her muzzle with cold water and scraped it dry with a green paper towel, breathing slowly and deeply, counting each breath in and each breath out. The shadows beneath her eyes were more pronounced than ever and the dish of her cheek cut a sharp line through the contour of her face. Heather trembled: she looked like a skeleton.

The walk to Michael's room took longer the second time around, unfamiliar as she was with the hospital. Nurses paid her no mind, but it was with some relief that she stumbled into the known ward and slipped into Michael's private room, swinging the door closed behind her. It bounced against the frame and did not shut fully, allowing diluted noise to filter in. He lay, as before, perfectly motionless. It was as if he was not truly present and, if she closed her eyes, Heather did not dare believe he breathed. His separate room was an oasis of peace from the ward, ringing with clamour that was never subdued. Somewhere, an old bird screamed, swiftly followed by soothing croons and purposeful steps advancing down the corridor. She would scream again, soon.

The chair had disappeared, so she stood awkwardly between the bed and the door, twisting her paws together. She did not want to do anything that would cause any trouble - just sit with Michael. And now they had even taken her chair. She struggled with the notion and shifted anxiously from hoof to hoof. Something rustled behind her and she spun about, anticipating the nurse advancing on her with a stern frown and clipboard in her paw.

To her surprise, a small, bony feline with dark brown, shoulder length hair - unusual for a fur to have head hair, though interspecies breeding sometimes permitted - slipped through the door. Dressed in a bland school uniform that consisted of a white polo shirt with a 'shield' badge depicting the school, a grey skirt (too short and pinned at the waist) and black shoes with a hole in one toe, she looked curiously at the male cat on the bed. The pink sock within the shoe wriggled.

"Who are you?" Heather asked, placing herself between Michael and the new arrival. "What do you want? Have you got the right room?"

"Yes," the feline answered quietly, eyes sliding past Heather to Michael. "How is he?"

"How would I bloody know?" Heather snapped, nerves finally fraying.

The girl stared at her levelly.

"Well, you were here first."

"Sure," Heather laughed, the sound hollow. "Sure, I was here first but they won't tell me a damn thing. Probably have to have two copies of your birth certificate and undergo a blood test to prove you're related before they will give you a scrap of information about this guy."

"Oh," she said after a moment. "But I'm his sister."

"Ah." So Heather did know her, at least in passing. "So you're Kacey then?" The girl nodded, her eyes never leaving Michael's face.

Michael rarely spoke of his sister. It was easy to forget that he had a family; they were not very close and family only by name, though his voice had softened upon mentioning Kacey. Kacey stepped up to the foot of the bed, her face expressionless and calm.

"Is your mum here?" Heather tried.

"Maybe. Somewhere."

Kacey's vagueness drove Heather to silence and she sighed, leaning against the wall and sliding her paws into her pockets once more, preferring them there than exposed. Her phone and some spare change scraped against her leg and she gripped the twenty pence piece between two fingers, rubbing it back and forth through the thin barrier of fabric. It hurt, but it was a good hurt. It meant that she did not have to think. The pain was a manageable pain.

"Mum says Mike will be gone soon," Kacey said without prompting, lowering her head so that her narrow chin rested on her chest, whiskers quivering. Heather took a second to compose herself and swallowed the lump in her throat.

Don't, just don't.

"I'm sure he won't," Heather reassured her, through her voice trembled. "Michael's strong, he won't go yet."

"If Mike dies, I'll die."

"Don't say that!" Heather sprang off the wall and wrapped her arms around the smaller feline. "That's a horrible thing to say, nothing's going to happen to Michael. You won't die."

"Isn't that what happens?" She asked. Heather did not know how to respond and Kacey continued, her voice a brittle tone.

"When someone dies, something happens to their family," Kacey breathed. "They go still and dark and cry. Isn't that dying?"

Heather shook her head 'no', stunned into silence. A young fur should not understand mourning. Kacey shrugged and remained silent. She did not move towards or away from Heather, but instead stood perfectly still - as still as Michael was, except for her chest very faintly rising and falling with every shallow breath. Awkwardly, Heather tightened her arms around the cat, her hold woefully inadequate. She would really have liked someone to hug her. Scratching an itch on her nose, the sleeve of Heather's sweatshirt rode up.

"What's that on your arm?" Kacey asked.

"Nothing," Heather said, hastily dragging her sleeve down to cover the angry, red-brown scabs, slicing through where fur now grew unevenly.

"Did you fall?" Kacey asked.

Heather wished that she was still that innocent and nodded.

"Yeah," she said slowly. "I had an...accident."

"My paw looks like that if Molly scrams me." The ghost of a smile flitted across Kacey's lips.

Heather coughed into her palm and released the cat to stand by the window, fingers gripping her sweatshirt cuffs so as not to reveal anything untoward again. Outside, the sky dipped its paintbrush into the grey-blue that was twilight, drawing a fresh scene across its daily canvas. Kacey scuffed her foot across the slick linoleum, the sound of her sole scraping like nails on a chalkboard. The machines beeped softly and a nurse laughed as she passed through the adjoining corridor, some private joke lingering beyond its telling. Heather's arm throbbed.

"I have to go," Kacey said to Heather's back. "My mum is here."

By the time Heather turned, the little cat had vanished, leaving her alone with Michael once more. That was what she had wanted. Sinking to her knees, Heather lay her forehead on Michael's chest, able to feel his bones through the thin sheet that someone, perhaps a nurse, had since thought to cover him with. Though there was enough 'padding' on her bones to be considered a so-called healthy weight and size, Heather yearned to be able to swap places with him, after all this time. If she could swap places, she would have the body that she always wanted - that tenuous control, that pure release - and Michael would be out of danger. That was what was most important. She wouldn't mind so much if she died. She gripped her lower arm with the opposite paw and winced at the pain. That was why she did it. She did it for the control and the release. The end result was irrelevant when it came to that, so why did it matter that life crumbled about her ears?

It was her only escape.

She pressed her cheek to his bones, the sensation of his breath coming and going reassuring her with its regularity. Everything would be okay, she reassured herself. He would get through this. She would get through this. Maybe. Something thick rose in her throat and she choked it down, hoofed nails digging into the white sheets. There was dirt beneath the thick nails and she could not remember how it had become sealed there. Curiously detached, she peered at her fingertips from a great distance, music ringing in her ears. That was not dirt: it was blood. And the music continued.

"Listen," she said, lifting her muzzle from his chest an inch or two so that she could better hear. Could Michael hear it too?

Singing. She could hear singing. She was back in her school choir, tie nestled beneath her chin and lips parted, singing. A badger of the same age was pressed tightly to right arm and she was acutely aware of a brown cat on her left, of his warmth and gentle presence. He did not want to squash her. She thought it was sweet - sweet of him to think of her like that. She had only been eleven and he twelve. In the throng of music, she lifted her voice and sang, swept along with the age old carol. Away in a manger, no crib for a bed, the little lord Jesus lay down his sweet head. The tomcat with ruffled fur had kissed her after choir practice, but she had told no one.

Heather blinked. She was not at choir practice eight years ago. But there was singing vibrating through the ward.

"Hullo!" An elderly voice creaked. Heather listened carefully. Someone dragged their hind paws across the floor.

"Oh, don't you all look lovely," a nurse cooed. "All dressed up for a big night out!"

"Oh, oh, no," a female fur chuckled. From her inflection, Heather suspected she was of a plump disposition. "Just a few things we had lying around." Jingling bells accompanied her words.

"Go ahead then, me lovelies," the nurse encouraged. "Don't let me be getting in your way now, I'll just stand over here and listen quietly! You won't hear a peep from me though - not got the voice for it!"

Sitting very still, Heather rested her paw on top of Michael's colder one, trapping what little warmth was left, and waited. People in the main ward muttered, arranging themselves into some sort of pattern or group, to her ear. Paper rustled and a male fur cleared his throat as if to begin a speech.

"Silent night, holy night, all is calm and all is bright," the group chorused slowly, taking a length of time to complete each word. Heather closed her eyes. The off-key carolling could have put her to sleep.

She looked down at Michael, so peaceful in his unconsciousness. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and she scrambled to her feet. Out, out, she had to get out. She couldn't cry in front of him. Slipping around the edge of the door, Heather played with a loose thread on her sweatshirt, winding it around and around her finger. It was a welcome distraction.

It seemed silly to flee the room if Michael was asleep, yet she duly retreated down the corridor and around the corner to a long window overlooking the hospital grounds. She rubbed away the tears with a corner of her sleeve and breathed deeply, willing herself to calm down. Heather's legs trembled and she leaned against the opposite wall, staring out the window without really seeing anything for the first few minutes. In the background, the music continued and she thought herself to be the main or side character in a film, the soundtrack blaring above her head.

Blinking rapidly, she banished the tears, focusing instead on the pinpricks of light glimmering beyond the portal to the outside world. Stars peeked between the smoky clouds, as they always did and as they always would, their presence comforting. To be a star must be a monotonous existence, Heather thought, massaging her temples. Even though, when she thought about it, she would not mind being a star either. Anything to provide an escape from her circle of reality.

"Oh come all ye faithful..."

Heather found it vaguely amusing how she only managed to catch the first few words of what the carollers were singing. After those words, everything blurred into a chorus of meaningless noise that was supposed to be festive but was ultimately depressing. She glanced down the straight corridor into the ward at the end, brightly illuminated with white Christmas lights, the cheap kind that could be found in the supermarket. Nobody else was singing along.

She walked up to the window and placed her palm against the glass, peering out at the strange trees in the grounds that did not look like they belonged there. Heather shook her head at the peculiarity of planting olive trees, of all things, in the grounds. She supposed they had money to throw away. A fur - some canine - passed behind her and his reflection cast her a glance as he strode by, black coat flapping against his legs. He could not spare time for a sad hospital-goer when he was one himself. Heather chewed the inside of her cheek and studied her reflection, noting the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the pimple on her right cheek and the left eyebrow that needed plucking.

Forming the shape of a gun with her index finger, her middle finger and her thumb, Heather mimed putting a gun to her head and shooting, making an 'O' shape with her lips. As if resolved to a new path, she returned to Michael's room where the door had been left ajar and a fly buzzed around the overhead light, pelting the bulb with its tiny body. Heather stopped, heart hammering against her ribcage. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.

The machines had stopped bleeping and flashed manically, the once steady lines jumping from point to point. Heather fought to steady herself but her ears roared and she tilted sideways, latching on to the bed for support. Were the machines malfunctioning? Was Michael okay? She scrambled to his side and pressed her ear to his chest, his paw cool and pale in hers. She listened. The singing had stopped.

He was not breathing.

No! She was frustrated, she must be too strained to hear his heartbeat or feel his breath! Heather launched herself at the head of the bed, fumbling for the red button labelled, 'Call in case of emergency'. Surely this counted as an emergency? Even in the moment, she doubted herself and she missed the button several times, eventually slamming her palm on to the raised, concave surface with a strangled grunt. Her heart pounded and she counted thirty-two frantic beats before the door swung open with a bang as it glanced off the wall.

"What's going on here?" It was the plump nurse. She raised her eyebrows. "What have you done to our machines? Stay put. I'll have you sorted in just a moment. You're taking us away from patients that actually need us."

"Michael - he's not breathing," Heather sobbed, her words intelligible. She did not even care that the nurse was denouncing her, she only wanted her to help Michael. She took the nurse's sleeve and tried to lead her to the bed, but the nurse pulled her arm away, nose wrinkled in distaste. "Please help him! Why won't you do anything?"

As if from underwater, Heather watched the nurse shake her head and look over the machines with a mocking eye. And then her white muzzle paled under the fur, mouth gaping soundlessly. Heather could not hear anything as several other nurses and a doctor raced into the room, cramming themselves into the small space and pressing Heather neatly into the far corner, forgotten in their haste. It was all happening so fast, it was wrong, wrong, all wrong. She curled into herself and drew her knees up to her chest, faintly surprised to find herself on the ground. A forest of legs crowded her vision and the blue tunics were comforting in a way. They would know what to do. They would look after Michael.

In the doorway stood a scrawny cat, hidden within a male's brown overcoat, with Kacey at her side. The doctor shook his head, lips moving as he rubbed his forehead, the squirrel occupying a distinguished air of frustration. As one, the nurses stood back, shuffling into one another, head turning like lost sheep. Heather could not discern the plump nurse from the group, but she knew it was done. It was over. They had arrived too late. Tears blocked her eyes and she huddled into the corner, pulling at her forelock as she strived to block out a side of pain that had been unduly served. Nobody paid attention to her and, through blurred eyes, Heather cast her gaze on the growing night sky, mockingly dancing beyond her reach.

Outside the window, a dove sat on a branch of a nearby olive tree, frail within winter's claws and unsuited to the climate. As Heather watched, cupping the pain in her breast, the dove plucked a leaf from the bough and took flight, white wings beating like a ghost's breath. The dove fluttered into the night until Heather's sight was blocked by the doctor bending down to her level with a grave expression, nose twitching anxiously. He said how very sad it was and that Michael had been very unwell and that he was in a better, kinder place now, speaking as if to a small child with impatient deliberateness. Heather choked down a hacking laugh. She was sure Kacey would have felt the same derision in his words. The young cat, however, was nowhere in sight as tears streamed down her mother's face, as still as a statue in the doorway.

With his type, furs devoid of caring, Heather thought the doctor's words were true. Pinching her lower arm for a burst of head-clearing pain, she hauled herself to her hooves, stood tall and looked forward. She would no longer take part in their dying games, where one admitted themselves into care - whether the care of professionals, family or friends - and lost themselves along the way. The doctor shuffled and left her, misunderstanding her motions. Michael's mother scrubbed at her eyes and drew upon a store of strength within her gut that only showed itself in the most dire of circumstances. Heather closed her eyes and remembered Michael's smile, crushed within society's fist. Emptiness gnawed within her breast but she smiled in return to Michael's imagined warmth. Somewhere, he was watching her.

And she would live.