The Love we Hide (Gay Furry Romance/Thriller story) MA15+

C3P14 - Freezer

*disturbing themes*

I would like to give a warning not to read these segments if you don't want to be disturbed over the characters deaths. I'm giving this note because some people didn't handle Rust's death well last time.

I'm fucking up hard.

Fucking myself over, getting up these stairs, all thrown over one another in this horribly concrete order. Maybe I'm jealous that I can't be that rigid, that my own decisions can't be concrete. Can't be soaking in that paste-like confidence that I'm moving on finally, that I'm being led with my own head and not that tired beating organ in my chest. Hurting, really. Tired, if I'm being honest. Terrified of what Vince will think of me, if I spared the thought in the midst of these stony steps.

Should stub my toe just to feel something. Maybe if I kick it hard enough it will wake me up enough to come back to my senses. Might just knock me out of my stagnent, bitter ooze that is lust. Maybe I'll get a good night's sleep in, make some better choices in the morning.

So here I am thinking about the self-harm I can cause to myself. How much blood I can drip down these steps, when there's no need, really.

There's already blood there.

Crimson. Must've hurt a lot. Trickling down these steps like red warning signs, only instead of letters they twist into blotchy red fingers that clast the concrete corners as though demons had been pulling themselves to ground level. Given Vincent's social standards, I don't doubt that's the case.

How am I numb to this? Keeping that lusting pounce in my steps, even though each one lands me into another dark puddle of blood. And its frequent now, less occasional and more of a pattern. As though it were directed. A song that some sick psychopath was conducting upstairs.

That fucking hyena. Shit, I'm tearing up just imaginging that chalky texture on his mask. Maybe I have stress from it. Or... what was it called? That medical condition that I'd read about the other day. Post traumatic stress disorder. Doesn't matter though. Does it Kev? You'll never be a doctor.

I wouldn't doubt it if I did. Shaking paws, sweaty fur.

A headrush. Maybe stress, maybe an episode of emotion of some sort. It makes me sit down on the steps, wetting my ass with blood that's dripping up against my ankle. And I feel like I'm actually hallucinating, like a real-like hallucination - since there's no way in hell that there's a dead body slung limpy over the steps beside me.

In cartoons I always see the main character blink when they see something shocking. Squint there eyes, maybe rub them in case that could make the body go away. I'm rubbing. The body is still staring at me, and its eyes are crying red.

A cat of some sort. She'd be a pretty young thing. Black furred, great figure. Out of the question now, though. That figures snapped in three different ways like a winding tree branch.

It hits me all at once and I'm too traumatised to make a sound. The cat's dead eyes are sucking my noise away, leeching at me as I stare. Can't help it. Too unreal not to. Wow, Kev, a real body! Now you can get to studying...

I gulp. Dried, acid-like spit rolling to the back of my throat. "Too real." Is what I decide to vocalise.

The worst thing I want to hear. A quick, scurrying sound from upstairs. Its that sound of paws scratching up cardboard, echoing down these stony steps.

Maybe fucking Vincent isn't by biggest problem right now.

My dick is no longer leading me. Its just nerves. Its as though I'm suicidal, these nerves pulling me step by step closer to something that can slice me open, leaving me dead on the stairs.