User:MatthiasRat/Made Alone
 | [[:Category:Paradise|Paradise]] story universe |
[[Setting::Paradise| ]]
{{#if:Work in progress.png|}} | This story is a work in progress. |
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{{#if:Nuvola apps bookcase.png|}} | Works by MatthiasRat on Shifti |
This is the first story of Christopher's life in the Paradise setting.
{{#ifeq: User |User| Made Alone | Made Alone}}[[Title::{{#ifeq: User |User| Made Alone | Made Alone}}| ]]
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Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}}| ]]
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Author: {{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}} |
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}}]] [[Author::{{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}}| ]]
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{{#ifeq: {{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}} | | Authors: ' |
Authors: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}}]]
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Authors: {{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}} |
Author: [[User:{{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}}|{{#ifeq: User |User| MatthiasRat | MatthiasRat}}]]
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"Have a good evening, sweetheart!"
The curly dark-haired woman waved to her husband as she hurried out the apartment door, dressed in her work uniform. "I'll try," Leslie muttered. Her husband nodded, knowing how much the evening shifts irritated her. Sometimes she wasn't home until nearly four o'clock in the morning. Once she'd been even later.
That would bring her to just about the time her husband would experience an annual event that science could not explain.
Though to all appearances, Leslie and her husband were a happily married couple, appearances, her husband had learned, were very deceiving. Because for the last six years, Christopher Mattiaz did not see the same face in the mirror that everyone else saw when they looked at him. In fact, from year to year, he did not see the same face. Every August the 17th since 1996, at just after five in the morning, he changed. But only he could see the change.
"I hope you're feeling better soon," Leslie said before offering him a tired smile and rushing up the stairs to the ground level.
"Flu's passing already," Christopher said to her back, and it was true; his annual flu had passed him by, which it always did by this point of the evening.
With a long sigh, Christopher let his arm fall to his side and he shut the door. Their dog lifted her old head from the bean bag, curious at the sound, and then lowered it again. But Christopher, a name he had once hated but now embraced because it was unmistakably masculine, could only stare at his hands and wonder what tomorrow they would look like.
For where everyone else saw four human digits and a thumb, he saw two thick finger ending in dark black hoof-like nails, and a single thumb that could barely touch either finger. He lifted those beastly hands to his face, rubbing over the long equine snout, flaring his nostrils, and then up over his long ears, and then back down his spiky, black mane. This year it had been a donkey, and as his hands rested on the shirt that hung loosely from his shoulders, he felt the straps of his bra. Not just a donkey, but a jenny.
"Father in Heaven," he prayed fervently, "please let me be male again."
Only a few days ago, Leslie and he had celebrated their second anniversary of marriage. He'd still been a man then; well, a rat, but he'd been male at least. But on August 17th, 2000, only six days after they'd been wed, he'd changed again, a change that no one else could see, feel, or understand. And that time he'd become a female dog, and his hopes had been dashed.
Christopher slumped on the couch, the hooves that ended his legs digging into the carpet. His long rope-like tail settled behind him, still comfortable despite being pinned behind his back. He closed his eyes and just breathed, taking in the many scents of their apartment. Their dog, Crystal, was the most obvious, as well as his own pungent aroma. Then there was last night's pasta caked on the pan still needing to be washed, and the fetid miasma of the trash that needed emptying. Leslie also had a flavor, one both sweet and simple, one that he always took the time to savor. And lastly, the persistent fragrance of scented candles which he often burned to hide his musk.
His ears bent to either side, and he sighed. Though the shape of his head prevented him from looking down at his chest, he could feel the two breasts snuggled judiciously in his bra. He may have spent the last two years as female -- and two more before that -- but he didn't wear the bra because he had embraced the feminine. It was a matter of practicality, gravity, and comfort. He hoped that by tomorrow he wouldn't have to wear any anymore.
His eyes strayed to the gold ring adorning the smaller of his two fingers on what passed for his left hand. His wedding band; he had two others already made because this one didn't fit his fingers in those forms. At least, despite the bizarreness of his body, he still had Leslie; one day she might even know the truth.
The female donkey sighed and rubbed at the base of his ears with thick nails. No sense berating himself for things he couldn't change, so he may as well start collecting all his donkey things and putting them in their box to store away. If the pattern of the last few years fit, he'd need much bigger clothes tomorrow morning.
Christopher stood up again, steady and sure on his hooves. He had twelve hours before his hour came; it would come whether he prepared or not. Hooves clopping, he walked down the narrow hall through the middle of their apartment and slipped into the computer room. He fired up his email and web browser. Who knows? Maybe one of his long-standing inquiries would finally prove that he wasn't alone in being a beast.
After an hour browsing the news, traipsing from website to website, scanning furry forums for questions that might imply a more intimate familiarity with the difficulties being a real furry would bring, Christopher closed his browser. A few years ago, he'd been certain that there had to be other people out there like him; people changed into animal forms that only they could see. With enough care, clever questioning, and investigation, he might find some of them and at last be able to share his story.
He sighed and rubbed heavy nails into his forehead. The tough hide shifted back and forth under his touch, and his supple lips formed the prayer that had been his for the last six years: "Father in Heaven, please don't let me be alone."
But he was alone, there could be no denying it. After six years, chasing down so many false trails, why should things be any different now?
He opened his eyes and stared in surprise at his email client. There at the bottom, unread, was a message bearing an attachment, the subject reading, "My Picture. I Hope You Like It!"
His heart beat faster, and his tail flicked from side to side. He recognized the email address as his most recent possibility. They'd been corresponding now for a few months, and Christopher has dropped several hints as to his equine condition. He'd even risked sending his new friend a picture of his hoofprint in the snow. It had taken him three weeks to work up the courage to do that! He usually brushed all his hoofprints, pawprints, or any other sort of print he might leave so that nobody would see them.
How well he remembered the day last January, when Leslie had seen the hoofprint. While he'd been on campus, Leslie had been out shopping and saw his name on an envolope at the photo shop. Thinking she was doing him a favor, she picked up the pictures, all of which were of him and the various signs he left with his hooves in the snow. When he'd returned home, she asked him if he'd sen the horse who'd left the prints. She couldn't see that he was a female donkey in the pcitures, but she could see the hoofprints.
And that hadn't been the first time he'd learned that the delusion that everyone else had when they saw him did not extend to things he left behind. Some days it was all he could to do to focus on not leaving any visible signs. When the stress was too great, he just called in sick.
Christopher shifted in his seat, tail flicking against his legs. His hooves tapped a staccato on the chair legs, as he opened the email, a small flicker of hope in his heart. Words upon words filled the screen, and he scrolled it until the picture came into view.
Human. Christopher let out a bray, and closed the screen. Of course they were still human, what else would they be? He smacked the pencil holder off the computer desk and they scattered over his printer and across the floor. Hot tears steamed his eyes and cheeks; agonized, he bent over until he was nearly on all fours, his pants stretching tightly over his wide hips.
Christopher wasn't human. He wasn't even a he anymore. He ground his blunt teeth together, running his thick tongue along their backs. Long ears folded to either side, and he rubbed at his cheeks with the remnants of his hands. After a few moments, he managed to lean back against the spare bed, hooves crossed before him, knees to muzzle, and enjoyed a good long cry. He was alone, and that was that.
It took him a while to gather the energy to move again. He made himself a hearty bowl of oatmeal -- just the oats, he didn't bother adding hot water -- and then opened the closet in the computer room. Leslie never went in there at his request, and he trusted her not to violate his privacy. Inside he saw twelve printer paper boxes stacked up to the top, and on the top shelf a stack of used journals.
He took out the top three boxes which were empty except for his feminine items, and opened them up, laying the box tops behind them. Munching on his oats while he worked, Christopher carefully went through his clothes drawers and emptied out his shirts and pants, folding them as tightly as he could, and then stored them in the boxes. Some of his clothes he left out; those would be big enough if he changed according to the pattern of the last six years.
He returned to the entranceway and grabbed both sets of shoes, sandals and sneakers, and tucked them away. So odd that he didn't need to wear shoes except that if he didn't, everyone would comment on his going barefoot. But whenever he slipped shoes on, they disappeared! Christopher shook his head, took another mouthful of oats from the bowl, and resumed scouring the apartment for anything else he needed to store away for the next time he became a donkey.
The last thing Christopher put away, always the last thing, was his wedding band. Carefully, he gripped it between two hard nails and began seesawing it back and forth, sliding it up and over the knuckle. He had to angle it just right to slide it free of the hoof-like nail at the tip of his wider finger, but with only a little bit of pain, it came free. He rolled the simple golden band around in his palm for a moment and sighed. He took a small jewelry box and set it inside to keep it safe for the next few years.
"Well," he said to himself, his voice sounding rough but soft at the same time, pitched as a woman's would be, "only thing left to do is see what happens tomorrow."
Not quite true, Christopher reminded himself. He still had to store away his current set of clothes, but that could wait until after he'd walked the dog one last time. Returning to his closet, he stared at the nine other boxes, especially those marked with a "3". If he changed the way he expected, he'd need them in the morning.
As he reached into the closet to drag them out, his eyes spied the journals sitting on the top shelf. He nickered to himself and grabbed them down instead. On the cusp of such an auspicious anniversary, he did enjoy remembering where he'd once been.
The journals were nothing more than the standard composition books with black and white cover. He'd started keeping them his freshmen year in college, and he had tabbed moments that were especially important to him. The first tab marked his first date with Leslie. The second his first change.
Christopher took the journals to the spare bed and sat down atop it, tail between his legs, hooves digging at the coverlet. He set the first journal aside and opened the second to the second tab. He trembled, ears folding down at the sight of his horrible scrawling. HE flipped bakc a page, staring at the entry for August 16, 1996.
"Well, the headache is finally going away. Been sick as a dog the last two days; figures it would happen right before I come back to Bridgewater. Band practice starts tomorrow, and I'd hate to miss it.
"My folks moved Barry and I into our new dorm room today. It's a corner room, so we have windows on two sides. That'll be nice in the winter when they turn the boiler on. Maybe this year I won't roast all winter long if we can get a breeze going. Barry and I each have our sides of the room, and it should be just enough for both of us. This is the first time either of us haven't had a private room in years, so it should be interesting.
"I am looking forward to this year. I have a good number of Math classes, but I'm also going to be taking a number of history and music classes. I finished all my science and english classes at least. And then there's Old Testament, oh boy, I know that one's going to be interesting. I hear the professor is one of those guys who doesn't think anybody who wrote the Bible actually wrote the Bible. Talk about headache inducing!
"I think Barry is really going to like it here at Bridgewater. Nice small school, small town, lovely countryside. Heck, even the scent of cow and chickens is kind of nice. Weird how I realize how much I miss it when I get back here. My brother says he wants to major in Physics and Chemistry. Yikes, he'll be busy!
"Leslie won't be in town until next week, which sucks, but I can be waiting with flowers for her or something. Yeah, I think I'll do that.
"I really hope Band plays some good pieces this year. If we have to play another one of those Circus Marches I'm going to puke! I guess I shouldn't complain, Doc is the man!
"Well, I'm still feeling kind of bleah, so I tihnk I'll head to bed early tonight. Nothing is open on campus right now, so no point worrying about email or anything like that. Father, please bless this school year and help us both do well!"
Christopher sighed and tried to imagine what he'd been thinking on that last day of his human life. After six years of hiding, surreptitiously buying clothes in all different sizes, sewing tail holes into his pants and underwear, and ever looking for signs that there might be other animal-men, he didn't really know how to think like a normal person. What he saw on the following page of the journal was more real than a human life.
This Story is a Draft and still in Progess --MatthiasRat 05:20, 23 January 2008 (EST)