User:MatthiasRat/Made Alone
 | [[:Category:Paradise|Paradise]] story universe |
[[Setting::Paradise| ]]
{{#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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}} {{#if:| — see [[:Category:{{{category}}}|other works by this author]]}}
"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.
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. 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.
This Story is a Draft and still in Progess --MatthiasRat 05:20, 23 January 2008 (EST)