Group Therapy (gay furry camp story)

11 - dying and drying

Amongst all the traumatizing things that have happened, its easy to lose sight of the small things. Foods. The textures of bedsheets. The feel of the sand as it scratches into your ankles.

Ryan's life eased up over the next few days. Once the lovely hyena snuck from his tent, and Bandit had let him out, "Mate, we can't afford fuckups like this." Was what the cat had said. Ryan knew better to apologise, knew how blank it would be in his mouth.

If guilt were a currency, the coyote would be a broke man. Not an ounce. Every now and then he remembered the look on that cheetah's face, how he had felt around blindly at the bleeding stump on his head. It made him grin. He grinned often, but what would always daunted his smile was the realization that he had most likely passed through the cheetah's ear in one of his bowel movements.

"Am I sadistic?" He had asked Flack later that day, when most of the other boys had began the half-day trek to Camp D - Bandit needed support for the demands he wanted to issue. No more bullshit, it was going to be an official rule. 

The hyena played with his fur, stroking small circles and picking out red gravel. Ryan stared indifferently up at the sky. "Yer not sadistic, lad. I've seen sadistic." He chuckled. "Its a lot uglier than you are."

Ryan had smiled, although at this point he wasn't too sure whether or not he would've eaten the rest of the cheetah had he had the chance.

The wolf - to be informally known as Bandit's bodyguard - had brought up this topic with Ryan over some expired cereal in what was meant to be the cafeteria, which was just an outdoor area with a few picnic tables shoved into the soil. The food here was one of the 'small things', meats and cereals and breads for breakfast, something hot and soupy for lunch, a platter of leftover scraps for dinner. Ears weren't often on the menu.

"Ah, tastes like toffee." The wolf said through a mouthful of gingery meat. "Probably not to yer' fancy though, aye puppy?"

Ryan wasn't sure whether he liked 'puppy' as his nickname. Luckily, it was just Roadrage (the wolf, named that way from a disgustingly violent banground) who now called him that.

"I still got his blood on my car." The wolf said to himself, and scratched at his raggedy ears.

"Huh?"

"His blood stains my windshield. Ah, too many syllables..." The meat on his paws, drummed into his torn trousers. "Ehh... blood on the windshield. His eyes... worn, and dripping red."

The bird, looking as tired as ever, gave an approving nod as he feathered at some cereal. He coughed silently.

Isolated to a corner, almost begrudgingly, Bandit sat and smoked.

The bear sat close to Ryan and chewed on something unchewable.

Kyle rolled around in the dirt, spluttering and laughing as if the dust in his dirt and eyes was a well-told joke.

"Worn, dripping red. His kids want me dead." The wolf snarled at something that could only exist in his imagination. He cocked his head at the bird. "Rhymes, too."

"Not bad." The bird said, before a fit of hoarse coughing forced him to bend over and clutch at his abs. He spat something phylum-like into the dirt. "Lungs are burnt, weakening." He said. "How does it work, Roady? Is it five syllables then seven then five?"

Roadkill ignored him, clawing feverishly into the sides of his own head.

"Five, seven, five." Said Bandit. "Standard haiku format."

"Ha... haha." Kyle wheezed against the ground.

"Lungs are burnt, weakening. I've been bitten by decay." A tear slowly formed at the edge of his beak and he discreetly wiped it away, before he peered down at the bread in his lap and smiled. "I asked for wholegrain."