SR was nearly in a non-alcohol-related drunken stupor when he rounded the second-to-last corner that lead to his apartment complex. He was laughing hysterically. In that night, he had unintentionally completed the task of cutting himself off from every friend he had ever had. God had played a dirty game of poker with him, and SR couldn't do a thing about it except laugh. Suddenly the laughter stopped: Ahead on the road, something was amiss. SR couldn't see anything wrong, but it definitely did not smell right. It was the acrid after-scent of burning composites having recently been smothered. Finally, his eyes caught something: the ornate sign that marked this section of Gnade Street was missing. SR sprinted to the corner. He staggered backward as if having received a blow to the face when he saw what was awaiting him there. 45 Gnade Street-- the place that had, for this fox, become the symbol for everything he held dear-- was a burnt-out shell. From the look and smell of things, the fire had only been put out a few hours previously. The street was conspicuously devoid of anyone but SR, and yellow police-tape surrounded the affected area. Even the two small trees in front of the church had burnt down to the ground. The holes where the stained-glass windows had been stared at SR like the empty sockets of a dead skull. In the cold winter air, great plumes of steam from these holes rose indefinitely into the night. SR would have liked to attribute the entire thing to a freak accident, but the remains of a burnt cross on the charred front lawn told another story: This night, part of the Human Firsters' dream had been realized. The damage didn't limit itself to the church either. In a moment, SR saw the ornate sign that announced the presence of Gnade Street protruding from the back window of a nearby parked car. The Human Firsters had rioted. Windows were smashed out and specieist graffiti had been sprayed on walls in the area around the epicenter of the church. SR stumbled blindly to the entrance of the apartment complex, the skull mocking his back. He fumbled with his keys in the lock on his mailbox. It contained only one letter. It was his letter-- the letter he dutifully sent out each week only to have returned six days later. Like all the others, the front loudly displayed the rubber stamp marking the mail as undeliverable. SR turned the letter over. On the back, some postal worker, thinking himself clever, had scrawled a note to SR: Hey, idiot! For you, there is no Gnade Street. They moved it! SR let the letter and his keys drop to the pavement. He staggered away, seeing nothing and hearing only the words to Pink Floyd's "Sorrow" throbbing in his head. A few blocks away from the apartment complex and the church, Gnade Street came to the city's river. At this point, where the river emptied into the bay, the street had been extended into a bridge that counter-intuitively crossed nearly fifty feet above the river's widest point. Before SR became conscious of his surroundings, he found himself leaning over the narrow hand railing of that bridge, staring downward at the water that seemed so far below. It beckoned to him with its indifferent invitation, the oily black waters swirling around the concrete pillars that supported the bridge's weight. From his vantage point, he could see small pieces of ice approaching from upstream and being enveloped in the eddies and whirlpools that formed from the turbulence introduced by the bridge's immovable supports, just before being carried out of sight underneath the bridge. It was nearly silent, with a steady breeze blowing from the bay and over SR's back, causing his head-fur to get into his eyes. Unbidden, his analytical mind began prophesying SR's future: There would be a long, windy descent followed by a loud splash. Then there would be a few minutes of unavoidable, desperate struggle before hypothermia would tighten its icy grip. In a few days, a fisherman would have the unfortunate task of unentangling a red-furred body from his nets. SR's landlord would sell the few things of value in SR's apartment, and a new tenant would be found. No one, especially not George or Janet Foxley, would know or care what happened to the red fox morph wearing the blue woolen jacket. The disappearance of SR Foxley would be complete. SR climbed the railing without taking his eyes from the waters below. He stood, precariously balancing himself with his right paw on a nearby street light post. If his father was right, then this move would only begin SR's eternal fate, perhaps not prematurely, of endless wo and suffering. If he was wrong, then this would simply end the torment. SR would feel nothing, being no longer existent, having entered the unimaginable realm of oblivion. SR could not bring himself to believe in any other possible outcomes. He removed his paw from the lamp post, and let both arms hang limply at his sides. SR began to see faces. Tara was there, crying on her porch for the comforting word that SR never gave her. She opened her tear-stained and pleading eyes just before her image disappeared in a swirl of water. A moment later, Kelly gazed up at SR with eyes that wanted to weep, but no longer had that capacity. He turned and hopped on all fours into the darkness, his plush rabbit ears bobbing until they were no longer visible. Gunther was next, with glistening wet cheeks and red eyes, gingerly sheltering a dragonfly in his cupped hands. He didn't break his stare until he was swept by the current under the concrete bridge. In the next scene, all the members of TIC were happily gathered together, conversing as a movie played in the background. Only Jason and Terry noticed SR staring down at them from fifty feet above. Each of these had expressions of silent remorse on their respective faces. Before they were gone, however, they turned their attention back to the group, rightfully forgetting the observer above. Finally, the image that stared back at SR from the inky waters was that of Dr. Pastor George Foxley: SR's father. His jaw was locked, with the muscles on either side bulging out in tension. Yet his unfathomable grey eyes stared out in an expression impossible to read. He did not see SR, but stared into the infinity behind him. SR watched as this steel face moved silently, began rippling, then finally disappeared in the turbulence under the bridge. SR did not cry. He moved his feet so that he was standing with the balls on the thin iron railing. This was what he should do. This was what made sense. This was... the end. He raised his arms in preparation for a great dive. He took a deep breath and looked upward at the moon, who was silently observing the suicide. He closed his eyes, and then... Copyright © 1998 by SR Foxley. All rights reserved. Please contact the author if you have questions regarding the publication of this document.
|