Melodramatic Metathesiophobe

Unexpected

The woods were cold, quiet and empty. That was usually the reason Ray's nights were spent there. He'd leave his home late into the evening, sometimes early in the morning, and would go to his backyard and just walk. There was no pressure out there, nature didn't want anything from him--at least, not yet--and he had no jobs. It was a dream come true.

There were no nagging parents, no talkative bandmates, no clingy friends, no acquaintances who used him respectively for favors. It would be wrong to say Ray was unthankful for the people in his life--he was a social person, without them he'd go insane. It was just wrong to say he didn't need a break sometimes. His jaw would get sore from talking. His arms would get weary of playing guitar. His cheeks would ache from smiling. His head would pound with thoughts and worries and sometimes just a hatred of the bright spotlights, whether figurative or literal.

He could think in the woods. He could talk things out with himself and not be looked at like he had three heads. He could sing, run, even cry, and the trees would never question a thing. Alright, maybe sometimes he startled squirrels from trees or birds from nests, but that wasn't really a major offense.

He whistled, walking down his familiar path, closing his eyes and listening. He could hear an owl, some sort of rodent in a bush, and the infrequent flutter of leaves up above. It was getting into the thick of September so it was cold, the chill of the wind biting at his skin through his dark jean jacket, but he used it as resolve--as a way to ignore everything else. He just thought. He really needed it that night specifically, his mind was whirring. They'd had a big gig that day, at the bar downtown, right in the middle of the evening rush of customers, many of whom had been too drunk or high to care about what music they were playing. Now, Ray had played at more bars than he knew the names of, and the band was the same, but that night was different. That night, some guy--moderate height, dark long hair, unreadable metal band shirt--had thought it would be funny to chuck a drink onstage, and, of course, it had set its sights on splashing Ray. His shirt from the gig was in the wash pile at that point, reeking of some strong beer or other alcohol, and reminding Ray of just how embarrassing it was. He'd been forced to set his guitar down hastily so it didn't get ruined, rushing off the stage and into the bathroom.

And the unpleasantries didn't think it was time to stop. The guy had followed him in, laughed drunkenly at the way Ray was wringing his shirt out over the sink, and tried to apologize. The key word there was try. He couldn't stop laughing, and it took a lot for Ray to keep down the burning urge to bury his fist in the guy's jaw. He was--drunkenly stumbling and laughing--led out of the restroom by some waiter and forced to vacate the premises, leaving Ray shirtless and sticky in some random bar, wishing he'd never decided to leave home.

Not once had Ray ever been mad enough to the point where he wanted to resort to that kind of violence. He got annoyed sometimes, even angry, but the most damage he'd done to anything was snapping a guitar string because he was playing too rough. He tried going over it with himself, really attempted calming the whole thing down in his head and trying to find a good part about it, which was his usual coping mechanism. Though that mechanism must have had a broken spring because he found himself as red in the face and frustrated as he'd been inside the restroom.

He shook it off, letting the wind around him whip away the heat and allowed the silence to calm his mind. It was enough to just be alone out there. It was enough to just be away from any bumbling drunkards with slippery fingers and sick senses of humor.

He sighed deeply, the cold air stinging his nose and drying his throat. There was a sound, like a deer or moose walking, treading in the thick grass and fallen leaves, and he ducked behind a tree to hopefully catch a glimpse. For a long time, he didn't really see deer as anything more than a nuisance to avoid when driving in the dark, but since he began his walks, he'd grown an appreciation. They were much larger than Ray had initially thought, and their legs were much more powerful. He knew. He got too close once. Their antlers were remarkable, large and intricate, and he really just found it interesting how aware they were. One wrong step and they'd be bolting off into the darkness.

Though, the faster the footsteps got, the more he denied the deer assumption. Maybe a coyote, he guessed, a wolf? Was he prepared to fight off a coyote? Those were the ones you had to make yourself bigger for, or were those bears?

What he saw didn't fit into any of the categories. It was a dark shape, ragged brown and tan fur curling over its whole body, which seemed to be somewhere between a wolf and a deer. It was hunched, clouds of breath leaving its mouth, which was--as far as Ray's moderate eyesight could guess--lined with sharp teeth. He hadn't really noticed the shakiness or the beating of his heart until he had to remind himself to breathe, really becoming aware of just how much he wished he stayed home, curled up on his couch with hot chocolate and putting on Evil Dead. he much preferred the horror to stay behind the screen. It was when it merged with reality that Ray started to freak out.

He tried to move silently, really wanting to avoid confrontation, careful to make a path around dry leaves and wet mud, and he was rather impressed by the silence of his travel. He was nearly out, he could see the light of his house in the distance, but his luck could only last so long.

He stepped on the edge of a twig, just the right amount of force to snap it into three pieces, the sound almost deafening compared to the prior silence. But now it was quiet, nothing making a sound, not even the creature.

Ray bolted.

He could hear footsteps behind him, hear them advance, but he just had to get to the back door, if he could just do that then he'd be in the clear.

His face was in the grass before he could realize it.

He fought, rolled over, tried to push and kick and thrash and make himself as much of a nuisance as possible, his body on autopilot as his brain shut down with fear, all sense of feeling leaving his body. It must have worked, though, as dumb as it was, because he managed to get over to a root, breaking a part off and jamming it into the face of the creature, making it release an ear piercing yowl of anguish and wrench off, its footsteps pounding the dry grass as it retreated into the wilderness.

Ray was entirely unaware of just how long he spent lying there, dazed and frozen in the mud, his heart pumping so much adrenaline into his brain that no coherent thoughts made it by for a considerable time. When they did, all that came through was 'am I dead?'.

No, he wasn't, he found, patting himself down. He counted four limbs, two hands, two feet, two eyes, two ears, a nose and a mouth, and precisely one shirt he'd never be able to clean the same again. He struggled for a minute before making it to his feet and leaning heavily on a tree, waiting until the starry night that took over his vision decided to stop its art show.

He started to trudge, to limp and lurch home, unconsciously holding his arm as he slid the door open. He closed it, locked it, slid the curtain shut, went to his bathroom, and should have been way more freaked out by what he saw in the mirror than he was. His hair was ragged, leaves caught in the mess and mud caked like he used it as gel. His face was splattered with dirt and his nose was slowly dripping blood, leaking to his tongue and tasting roughly of iron. His shirt was an irredeemable mess so he just shucked it off. His arms were scraped and starting to hurt as the adrenaline washed away, some parts slightly bloody and others just red, irritated and roughed up besides one deeper scratch he assumed was from the creature. He was most anxious about his chest though. It was rough as well, dirty and scratched, but there was a mark on his side, very closely resembling bite marks, and the more he thought about it the more he realized, oh yeah, it had bitten him there. It wasn't deep enough to be worried about infection, but it was red and ringed with a deep, burning ache.

He managed to clean up his wounds, using the bottle of antiseptic he hadn't touched in forever, his eyes fading in and out of focus with exhaustion and withdrawal from adrenaline, getting the bandages to cover what was bleeding.

He then limped to the couch, not bothering with anything else, and he was pretty aware that he was unconscious before his body even met the cushions. 

//Author's Notes\\

Here's the first chapter! I hope it lives up to the expectations :) I'll try to post once a week or so, but don't be surprised if that changes.

Thanks for checking out the story!!

~XO, Vacant.~