________________________________________ ________________________________________ Last night I had slept comfortably on my king-sized bed. I woke up with no back pains of any sort, no headaches of any sort, and...what was that noise? My ears picked up a faint scratching noise from just outside my front door. I stumbled out of my bed, ripped my closet door open, and tossed all my extra clothes out of the way. Seated in an open shoebox at the very back, there was my prized possession: a Fang Magnum. The Fang Magnum was a prize that my father had bought off at an auction for a little over a thousand credits; and it was worth all thousand or so of it. Why not, with a custom blue finish and an eight-inch barrel? It wasn't as fast as an energy rifle but it was a lot more powerful in terms of energy output per shot. I checked to make sure that it was loaded and took off down the stairs. The celluloid grip of my revolver felt right at home in the palm of my right paw. I unlocked my door and yanked it open, lifting my Fang to do all the talking. I was genuinely surprised to say the least. Standing in front of me was not some hoodlum, not those retards from yesterday, or even some masked marauder; standing in front of me was the blue furred fox from yesterday. I was at a loss for words. Apparently she was too - but who wouldn't be when staring down the barrel of anything? She was gone in a flash as my ears picked up a clattering noise. I lowered my gun and picked it up. A paintbrush? There was an open can of white paint next to my bench and half of my entire porch had been repainted white. The graffiti from yesterday was covered up, though only partially because I could still see bits of it from the edges and corners. Now, I must admit that it gave my house a cleaner and much better look, but I didn't want anybody painting my porch without my permission, good intensions or not. I clamped the lid back on the paint can and then threw it away along with the brush and hoped that she wouldn't show up again. Why do foxes have to be stubborn? I thought they were supposed to be a bunch of pussies that didn't want any trouble. Turning tail at the very first sign of danger. Why did she have to be different? The next day I woke up slightly later than usual - I had forgotten to reset my alarm - but this time I heard nothing outside. I smirked to myself and sauntered down the stairs. I brewed myself some strong black coffee - no adult should go their morning without it - and proceeded to take a shower when I noticed something outside my window at the front. The porch was white? I opened the door and almost dropped my mug of coffee. She had painted the entire porch white - even went as far as to paint my bench too. There was an empty can of what used to be white paint next to the outer door frame. I took a sip of my coffee and shook my head. "She must've woken up extra early or something. Damn her." I slammed the door shut. This went on for about a week, the painting of my house white. Hell, she even tried to replace the rotten wood in some areas - I say tried because she failed at that task, apparently. My windows would be spotless as I stared through them in the morning, my driveway would be free of any leaves and debris, and my mail - as well as my Sunday newspaper - would be neatly stacked at my front door. I never asked for this, not that I can say that I detested it, but it was a nuisance because I knew that I was more than capable of doing all of these tasks myself; I just never cared for them. Once or twice I managed to catch a glimpse of her as I hurried outside the house, out of breath, and called out to her. She would turn briefly to stare at me - almost as if to taunt me - before running off. One day, I decided to set my clock a couple hours early one day: I woke up at 4:30 in the morning and waited in my garage. About a half-hour later the blue menace appeared to continue where she left off. She set about her task very meticulously, careful not to cause any disruptions. Behind her a young boy pushed a reel lawn mower. I smirked to myself. "She's a smart one just like the fox she is. Using that so I won't wake up. So the stereotype is true: foxes are smart." Oh well, time to end this shit. I tugged the garage door open and stepped out to meet them. She was just starting to push the lawn mower when the boy noticed me. I coughed audibly and she froze up. As she made a move to run I commanded her to stop. And she didn't run, but instead faced me for the first time in weeks. "Don't you owe me an apology?" She cocked her head slightly to the side and gave me the confused look. "You made me go through a lot of trouble just to catch you. Listen here, and I mean listen carefully: I don't want you fixing up my house or my lawn. Just leave me alone, will ya? I can take care of myself just fuckin fine. I'm just so happy that you feel the need to help me out but go help someone else out. You're not helping me out at all. Matter of fact, you're bothering the shit outa me. Now go. Git outa here and don't ever come back!" As my voice rose louder and louder, I could see her neck craning further and further back. She never took a step back though. Even though I could see the fear in her eyes, she held her ground. Apparently this fox wasn't smart enough to know when to run. When I was done saying all that I could say, she refused to move. I finally shooed them both away along with their mower, spat in my lawn, and shuffled back inside, hoping never to see either of them again. Especially the girl. ________________________________________ I shook my head and ran my paw through it. "Well, what would you say if the girl came back again...but this time she brought a card with some fancy scribbled writing saying thank you?" Without letting her answer I quickly fired, "Before you answer though, let me ask you this: what would you say if I took that card and destroyed it?" She was as silent as ever but her eyes sparked with curiosity. ________________________________________ The deep vibrations of my door bell rang throughout my house. I wasn't particularly happy to be disturbed from my Sunday sleep so it took me a while to stir. The ringing persisted and I finally dropped off the edge of my bed. I slowly crept down my stairs, taking my sweet Sunday time. I finally opened my door and almost yelled, "Fuck you want!" It was Her. I felt my grip tighten on the door and felt my lower lip curl. "Get off my porch." She stood her ground, yet again, and pulled out an envelope from her back pocket. I forced a smile, which actually felt like a sneer. "What's this, eh? Some thank you note?" She silently nodded her head. A gal of few words as usual. I took the note from her and unfolded it. Thank you for saving me the other day- I stopped reading after that, scoffed, and looked at her. "You think I saved you? Maybe I did but I didn't do it out of kindness, you hear? I felt sorry for you. I pitied you. This note? It means nothing to me." To emphasis my point I took the flimsy, decorated card in my two paws and ripped it in two: side to side. Her expression had always been passive and unresponsive before but after that incident it was as if her composure had received the same fate as her thank you letter: ripped in two. Seeing that shocked look upon her face hit me harder than a truck in the guts. I didn't have the resolve to continue this hardball act nor did I have the thought to apologize; it was too late for that...I had already wounded her. I might as well finish the job and get this over with. "Now get the fuck off my porch and don't ever bring me worthless pieces of shit again!" I slammed the door in her face and stomped off to my kitchen where I could find some peace and sanction in my whiskey. I poured myself a shot after thirty minutes of staring at my bottle and reminiscing over my harsh and cruel attitude toward the only being that had shown kindness to me in the past decade. I rationalized with myself: "She brought this upon herself. If she had only listened to me...none of this would've happened. Fucking deaf." But the more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that I was in the wrong at a hundred and fifty percent. I had no right to yell at her or rip up her lovely card. I looked over to the ripped halves of the card, which were lying on my countertop. I had to drown my guilt away or it would consume me. I threw my shot glass at the wall and then finished the rest of my whiskey. That night, I didn't get a good night's sleep. I had a dream about some unknown creature dragging me away into a dark well; just dragging me down and down. It was like getting swept away in a theoretical black hole: black everywhere and no sense of time or direction. I woke with a start, sweat forming on my brow and dripping off. I shook beads of it off and collapsed back onto my pillow. "Just fucking great." ________________________________________ ________________________________________ Funny how the smallest decisions can make the biggest impacts. Right?
