Furr Read online

  Furr

  Published by Tyche Books Ltd.

  www.TycheBooks.com

  Copyright © 2016 Axel Howerton

  First Tyche Books Ltd Edition 2016

  Print ISBN: 978-1-928025-59-7

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-928025-60-3

  Cover Art by Sean Yang

  Cover Layout by Lucia Starkey

  Interior Layout by Ryah Deines

  Editorial by M.L.D. Curelas

  Author photograph: Liz Howerton Photography

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage & retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this story are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead would be really cool, but is purely coincidental.

  This book was funded in part by a grant from the Alberta Media Fund.

  To family,

  In all its myriad forms.

  1

  I CAN SMELL the smoke coming down from the mountains. It’s still a long way off, days even, but I can smell it all the same. Or I’m due for what my mother called a spell. Because I can’t possibly smell the trees burning four or five hundred kilometres away, but it’s there, coating the inside of my nose the same as if it was a campfire two feet in front of me.

  “You smell that?”

  Devil looks at me from under one doubtful eyebrow.

  “Do I smell what?” he grumbles, paying little attention to me and serious attention to the hundred bucks I just put in his hand. “You just want the usual, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Devil and I were friends. Had been friends. A very long time ago. Now he was just my weed dealer, and I was just one more awkward desk jockey nerd scoring off him in a back alley.

  Devil DeVille, master of every possible way to be cool. Leaning against his gleaming black Charger, in his black leather jacket, his black leather boots. Fonzie boots with the little buckles. I can smell the oil on those boots. Fresh oil. They gleam even in the sickly orange streetlight glow.

  Devil reaches into his pocket and tosses me a little plastic-bag coated bundle. The ripe stink of it brings water to my eyes and I pull back, while my fingers miraculously wrap around the bundle and pick it from the air.

  “Nice catch, Jimmy.”

  “Thanks.” I want to tell him how I’ve been oddly coordinated lately. How every wastebasket three-pointer has sunk, how every jagged sidewalk block that has tripped me up for the better part of three years has suddenly smoothed out in front of me. How I hear like a bat and pounce like a cat. I want to talk to him about the woman across the road, how I can smell her perfume when the balcony door is open. I want to share it with somebody, but I know what he’ll say. He’ll think I’m losing my shit again. Once upon a time, Adam DeVille was the only person I could talk to. We’d hide out in his basement, listen to AC/DC records and talk about girls like Amanda Sorensen, and her step-sister Megan who had double-D breasts in grade nine. We’d eat mac and cheese and bitch about our crazy mothers and their stupid boyfriends.

  I want to talk to Devil, but I know what he’ll say. You’re imagining things, Jimmy. Maybe you should go talk to that shrink of yours, Jim. Or worse, he won’t give me the time of day without a fistful of twenties for a bag of indica.

  “That’s a lot of green, Jim. You’re gonna bleed me dry, man, you keep buying this much this often.”

  I want to tell him how I have to smoke three times what I used to, just to get calm. I want to tell him how I have a bottle of whiskey sitting on my kitchen table, staring at me.

  “I’m meeting some friends at Flames Central.”

  Devil chuckles.

  “You? At a sports bar?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Since when are you into sports, let alone hockey? Or bars? You’re not drinking again, are you?”

  I feel the pause. One of those pauses that I know is different for me than for everyone else. It’s a breath for Devil, and an excruciating ten minutes of panic for me before I finally mumble my reply. “I just need to be around people. It’s just some guys . . . from work . . .”

  Devil stands and throws his hands up in surrender.

  “None of my fucking business anyways, Jimbo. Drop me a line when you run out.”

  He fishes keys out of his jacket, gives me a strange sideways glance before he opens the door.

  “Stay out of trouble, kid.”

  I offer a gawky salute and step to one side as the black beast rumbles to life and the headlights slice through the alleyway. A strange tang of sulfur cuts the smell of woodsmoke, as I watch his tail lights curve around the corner, leaving red lightning behind my eyelids.

  2

  I AM BROKEN.

  That’s what they’ve been telling me for most of my life, anyways.

  When you’re little—six, seven years old—fresh out of an abusive home, cute, terrified, easily manageable . . . that’s when they get the hooks in. Doctors sitting around, deciding how your brain went sideways from everybody else’s.

  Oh no, Jimmy. You can’t feel that way. You can’t possibly understand. You’re not old enough to really get what’s going on with you. You’re just broken.

  Broken. Wrong. And no damn good.

  And Ma, in her abject terror and endless lazy guilt, she takes me to church. A bunch of churches.

  She takes me to more doctors.

  She reads all the books on how to fix a broken boy.

  And then she leaves all that on the windowsill and goes out to find a new man to fix her own broken life.

  New men.

  And I sit, wondering.

  What was the thing that knocked my brain astray?

  How did I get this broken?

  What is it about me that’s wrong?

  “SO HOW ARE we feeling this week, James?” Doctor Rhodes sits in his same spot, legs crossed exactly the same, in the same grey trousers, with his same bald head, and the same long beard, only slightly whiter every year. Every week it’s the same thing. How are you feeling, James? Have you talked to your mother, James? Have you been taking your medication, James? And always, without fail, Have you been sleeping, James? Have you been dreaming?

  He sits there in his grey trousers, stroking his beard and wondering if it’s time to send me away again. Am I feeling violent? Am I acting out and opposing authority? Am I using alcohol and illicit drugs to cope with my mental health issues?

  Three times thus far. Three times good ol’ Doc Rhodes has had me committed for my own well-being. The first time I was all of fourteen years old.

  Broken. Dangerous. No damn good.

  How did I get this way? That’s what Doc Rhodes pretends he’s asking questions for. Really I think he just takes my money and waits for me to lose my shit again.

  All I have for an answer is the dream. This dream and these bunches of words, almost a poem, but never all together. Half a poem and one faded dream. Like some half-torn picture of somebody else’s life.

  “COME ON, FINN! Run with me!”

  I’m standing in a room with no walls. White flows from the edges of this place, fluid, shifting. No walls, just movement. Like I’m standing behind the waterfall, looking out into a vast white nothing.

  The little girl laughs. It echoes from the walls of this place. There are no walls. It echoes from nowhere.

&nb
sp; “Emma!” I hear my mother calling from the end of a long hallway. Echoes with no walls. Echoes from nowhere.

  I’m six years old. Running. Jumping. Spinning. Long white-blond hair flowing behind me as I spin. Me. That’s me. Jimmy Finn. I remember that boy. I remember him as if he was a cousin I met one sunny afternoon full of people I was supposed to remember, but never really knew. Ran athwart the gloom.

  The little girl—little Emma with the dark hair and the green eyes—she spins too. Nothing else in this place but the feeling of the earth moving beneath us, the earth spinning, wild and out-of-control, and her green eyes. Dark, olive eyes. I remember all that. It’s the only thing I remember. The olive green eyes and the world spinning. The maidens of the moon.

  Then comes the blood. Dressed of fur.

  The teeth. The anger. Fierce of tooth.

  Tearing, ripping, screaming.

  The teeth, howling as the echoes close in.

  The world turns backwards, white becomes black becomes red.

  Blood red.

  The waterfall has turned to blood.

  And the echoes have turned to screams.

  I remember all that. I know it. I breathe it. It’s at the very middle of my bones.

  Little Jimmy. Little Emma.

  The screaming teeth inside me.

  Tearing, ripping.

  Devouring me from the inside out.

  Hunger, and blood.

  So much blood. An ocean of blood. Rising and crashing. Pink foam cresting dark waves.

  It’s just outside of where we hide.

  Little Jimmy. Little Emma.

  Inching ever closer with the tide.

  And always my mother’s voice calling from a place without time. And never calling for me.

  “Emma! Run! Run home and hide!”

  And then comes the blood.

  “HAVE YOU SPOKEN to your mother since our last session, James? We had discussed you being more open with her.”

  “No.”

  I want to explain how miserable that makes me. How guilty. That the one person I’m supposed to be able to count on is the last person I want to talk to. I can’t tell her anything. She judges, sermonizes, cries, and beats her hands against the phone like she’s at the Wailing Wall. She begs forgiveness of God, Jesus, Doctor Rhodes, her latest gentleman friend, the ghost of my father . . . anyone and everyone but me. That’s on a good day, when I don’t have much to say.

  “How have you been handling your depression? We discussed you trying to be more social, now that we’re out of those winter doldrums, as it were.”

  Rhodes thinks my issues are tied to a multitude of things. I think he just likes the technical, officious-sounding labels—Seasonal Affective Disorder, because I get miserable and tired in the winter, and crazy, horny, and violent in the spring; Oppositional Defiance Disorder, because I don’t handle demanding people very well. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, despite the fact that I am almost never hyper, and can’t focus because I’m in a constant state of sensory overload. Which brings us to Sensory Processing Disorder, on account of my supposedly delusional, though somehow real-enough-to-label overactive senses and the confusion they wreak with my mental state. My file is literally a foot thick. Any slight issue I’ve had since seven years old, diagnosed, pigeonholed, labelled, stamped, and recorded in triplicate, then added to the List of Me. Rhodes is organized, I’ll say that for him. And after twenty-some years, he’s about the only person I ever really talk to, whether I trust him or not.

  I want to tell Rhodes about Devil. I want to talk about that bottle of whiskey that’s waiting for me. I want somebody to tell me I can say no, that I have something inside of me that is strong enough to persevere. I want someone to tell me I’m okay, or at least tell me that other people are as fucked up as I am. I want to tell him that I could smell the coffee and day-old doughnuts in his waiting room before I got off the elevator.

  He’d just smile knowingly under that beard, fingers working the scent of pastrami and pickles into the white tuft under his chin. Then he’d write some notes on his clipboard, tap the pen against his temple, and ask me, “What do you think about all of this, James?” Round and round and round we go, until he can pick out the right label and slap it on the file, then tuck it away in the archives of Jimmy Finn.

  Instead, I swallow a lump of skin inside my throat, grin like an idiot, and bow slightly as I fumble for the doorknob on my way out.

  3

  “GOOD GAME THE other night, hey Jim?”

  “What?” My head cracks the inside edge of the photocopier door and the birds scream out and claw at my eyes, instead of the cute tweets and stars you always see in cartoons. “Fuck!”

  Benoit slowly comes into focus as I pull my head out of the copier’s ass, ears still ringing.

  “Shit. Sorry, dude.”

  “No. My fault.” I smell blood and feel something hot and sticky on my fingertips as I reach back and touch my thundering head.

  “Jesus. You’re bleeding!”

  I smile and wave off his attempt to poke the wound, or lead me to help, or whatever he’s trying to do.

  “I’m fine. Thanks. It’s okay. Really.”

  I’m hunched over and creeping down the hallway toward the bathrooms, hoping not to run into anyone else. Benoit’s smoked meat poutine and three-beer lunch breath follows me all the way down. My stomach starts to growl at the thought of shredded beef, despite the pain in my head and the cacophony of all of my senses going off at once.

  “Jimmy? Jimmy, what happened?”

  Chanel No. 5, and the sweet cocoa scent of mochaccino.

  “Jimmy?” Margaret hustles down the carpeted hallway on her heels, wrapping a silk-covered arm around my waist. The taste of blood and meat are replaced by something else. I can feel her pulse through three layers of clothing. I feel the heat of her skin and I can smell her panic. It fills my nostrils and crowds out the cocoa and perfume. I breathe deep and feel a surge of energy well up from my chest.

  We hit the door to the men’s room just in time for me to fall through the door and onto my knees, panting and vibrating.

  The door swings shut behind me and dulls the smell of her as she repeats my name and raps lightly on the door.

  I retch and unleash my own meagre lunch of crackers and V-8, a lousy red slop that tastes more or less the same coming up as it did going down.

  Twenty minutes later the crowd outside the men’s room has dispersed, and I’m mostly recovered. I leave with a sheepish nod to the janitor who’s come in to mop up my remains.

  Margaret is waiting at my desk.

  “Are you okay? I think you should go down to three and see one of the doctors in the clinic. Do you feel well enough to get home?”

  The look of concern on her face is like some weird hieroglyphic that I can’t decipher. It’s beautiful, and it makes my heart ache. I suddenly want to talk to my mother, to apologize for everything I may have ever done wrong. I want Margaret to hold me, to run her fingers through my hair and tell me that I’m going to be just fine.

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry. I . . .”

  “Sorry? Don’t be silly, Jimmy. You had us all worried sick. Ben said you cracked your head on the copier. Must have done a real number too.”

  She reaches out towards the bandage on the back of my head. I want to turn and meet her, guide her hand to that place, feel her pulse against my skin again, and let it heal me.

  “Really. I’m fine. Maybe I should go home though.”

  I’m already clawing my stuff into my bag as the words tumble out of my open mouth.

  “Okay. Take the rest of the day. And get that looked at. You may need stitches.” She touches my shoulder lightly as she passes, and I feel a crackle of electricity pass from her fingers.

  I’m in the elevator and down two floors before her scent has faded enough for me to breathe.

  I STOP AT the convenience store in the lobby of my building for some aspirin and a bottle of club soda.<
br />
  Outside I get that whiff of sulfur again as something black and enormous swirls into and out of my periphery. It’s gone before my eyes can find it, some lousy concussion symptom. Unlike the wave of hobo musk that suddenly fills my entire sinus cavity. It almost knocks me to my knees. I look for the homeless man I’m sure must be standing right behind me. There’s no one on my side of the street. The other side of the road is filled with trees and concrete. Oddly quiet until a sudden gust of wind blows the stench past me and brings the campfire smoke back down from the mountains, and something else. Perfume. Not Margaret’s, something light and French. I look up and see her across the street, at the end of the block. The redhead from the 30th floor. Long gazelle legs stretching and curving on top of six-inch heels, her scarlet summer dress flowing behind her, and her long auburn hair blazing in the sun. She was a slow-motion vision, the smell of smoke driving her forward like a phoenix rising out of the ashes and across the city sidewalks.

  The swooping tail of her dress disappears behind the glass of her own front door, and the spell is broken. I realize that I’m staring like a goon, and hard as a marble pillar.

  I SIT AT my kitchen table, the bottle an arm’s length away, the phone slightly further, and stare out across the empty space between us. I can still smell her, all the way across the street. I can see her when she passes in front of the window, a gauzy daydream of thin linen blowing in the wind the only thing keeping her safe. What the hell is wrong with me?

  My hands stretch out across the table, in the slowest race in human history. Who loses? Sobriety or sanity?

  Every night. Same story. I sit here and brood and wait to go over the edge. Then I smoke a lot of weed.

  A lot of weed.

  And then I stare at the bottle some more.

  Tonight I let my hand creep to the right. The look of worry on Margaret’s face still haunting me.

  “Hello?”