|
Return to Scribblers and Ink Spillers Home Page by Damien Walters Grintalis The best part about being alone was the silence. The worst part about it was the shame. Thomas should have known better. He sat huddled in the corner of the room, his nose filled with his own stink, staring out into nothing. The convention was over (Five fun-filled days in New Orleans! Come experience Mardi Gras as you’ve never done before - the Furry way!) but he still wore his costume, although the mask sat on the top of the television cabinet like a severed head minus the drippings. He’d extended his reservation for a week, unable to leave the room, even refusing to allow housekeeping to enter. He didn’t want to see anyone, or talk to anyone, or even think about anyone. Anyone except her. Only the fear he might burn a hole in the carpet with his endless back and forth shuffling kept him from pacing. Seven days of solitude and shame. Three years of bliss, of perfection, all ruined in one night. Megan had been so excited about the trip; it was her first convention, his first in four years. He remembered with painful clarity the night he showed her his costume, the way she ran her fingers through the soft fur exclaiming how it looked just like a real groundhog. The light in her eyes, the smile on her face, the surety in his heart that she was the one he’d been waiting for his entire life—a woman who wouldn’t laugh, who wouldn’t judge, a woman who would walk by his side embracing her inner animal just as he’d embraced his. When she asked him to help her find her inner animal, he knew without a doubt, they were soul mates. They went together to the costume shop. Megan clapped her hands like a child when the proprietor, a man known for his discretion, brought out the raccoon suit. Thomas taught her about scritching, told her his animal name, and took her to several private parties to help acclimate her with the Furry Society. Four hours after their flight landed in New Orleans, it all ended. She was quiet on the plane and in the taxicab on the way to the hotel, but he thought nerves had rendered her silent; he remembered his first convention. After they checked in and changed into their fur suits, he tried to hold her close in the elevator as they headed down to the first Furry Meet & Greet, but she pulled away. If he hadn’t been so excited, he might have realized something was wrong. If they’d not been in costume, maybe her face would have given it away Just outside the ballroom, she pulled him off to the side. She stood without speaking, twisting her paws together while scores of costumed Furries filed into the ballroom. “It will be okay,” he said, stepping forward to embrace her. She stepped back, and he realized it was more than nerves. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, shaking her sweet raccoon head slowly. “I’m not in love with you anymore. Thank you for bringing me into this life. I couldn’t have done it without you, but it’s time for us to part ways now. I wanted to tell you before, but I just couldn’t. I’m so sorry.” He stepped forward again. She held up one paw, turned, and walked away. He started to go after her then watched in horror as a possum encircled her waist with one paw and led her into the ballroom. The betrayal hurt the most. She’d traded her faithful groundhog for a filthy possum. Thomas had wandered through the first floor of the hotel in shock, only dimly aware of the looks and the laughter. Silent tears ran down his face, blurring his vision. When he stumbled into an elevator, he could barely see. He accidentally pushed the button for the wrong floor; when the doors slid open, a couple standing in the hallway burst into laughter. As the door slid shut, he heard the man’s voice. “Freak.” The word didn’t bother him; he’d been called worse at other conventions, but the tone cut into his wounded heart like a knife into butter. He entered their room to find her bags gone, a short tuft of dark-tipped faux-fur on the floor next to the bed the only sign she’d ever been there at all. He dropped to his knees, picked up the bit of fur, and cried. He still loved her with all his heart. Just the thought of her brought a smile to his face. She was his perfection; now she was gone. So he’d stayed in the room, a prisoner of his own hurt, for seven days. “Please come back,” he whispered, burying his face in his hands. If his inner animal were a tiger or lion, she wouldn’t have left him. Instead, he was a stupid groundhog. Were they laughing about him now? Megan and her dirty stinking possum? Laughing at the pitiful, slow groundhog with the soft belly? Thomas looked up at the groundhog mask, and a wave of anger raced through him. If he were a tiger, he’d be out in the streets celebrating Mardi Gras. A tiger wouldn’t spend seven days moping in a hotel room about his ex-girlfriend; a tiger would have stayed at the Meet & Greet and picked up another girl to spend some time with. Maybe a fox or a mouse. Something small and soft and cuddly. A tiger wouldn’t let a random stranger call him names. It was all his stupid inner groundhog’s fault. What good were groundhogs anyway? More often than not they ended up splattered across interstate highways or rotted in gutters while crows pecked out their eyes. He stood up and paced—damn the carpet—and let the anger work its way deep inside. He forced every soft groundhog thought from his mind and tried to think tiger thoughts. He wanted to be fierce and strong and hard. His pitiful inner animal had held him back all this time. He needed to banish it from his self; banish it, and replace it with ferocity. Thomas stripped off the rest of the costume and threw it across the room. As soon as it landed in a heap, he grabbed the mask from the cabinet. “I hate you,” he said, giving it a hard shake. “I hate everything about you.” Disgusted at his own weakness, he dropped the mask. If he destroyed the groundhog, he would be clean. Pure. He could start over; he could be fierce and proud. “I could be a tiger,” he said, letting out an experimental roar. It would need work, but it would come in time. The mask was too large to fit in the trash can. Thomas thought about carrying the whole costume down to the dumpster, but he didn’t want it in his hands that long. The familiarity of the well-rubbed fur might make him change his mind. Even if he managed to throw it out, what happened if his inner groundhog woke him up in the middle of the night and made him go back and retrieve it? He spied a matchbook in the room’s ashtray. Neither he nor Megan smoked, but by the time they’d made the reservation the hotel only had smoking rooms available. Perhaps it had been fate, rather than chance. Thomas picked up the matchbook, gathered up the costume, and carried it into the bathroom. If he burned the groundhog, he would not be able to weaken and change his mind. It would be gone for good. He tossed it into the tub, lit a match with shaking hands, then blew it out. He couldn’t do it. Thomas closed his eyes and counted. By the time he reached thirty, the shake in his hands had ceased. He roared at his reflection in the mirror, (And was it stronger? Why yes, he thought it was.) lit another match, and smiled. Yes, he could.
END Copyright 2010 Damien Walters Grintalis This website and all its contents are Copyright 2009-2010 Scribblers and Ink Spillers, LLC. No copying in whole or in part is allowed. You may link to this page. |