The evening only went downhill from there. I sat in the local pub for the better part of three hours, listlessly swirling a bit of whiskey in a glass. At last I drank it, the burning taste making my eyes water. Who am I kidding? I asked myself. I’m not a drinker. Never have been. This is no way to solve my problems. And yet I found myself asking the bartender to refill my glass.

            It shames me to say it now, but I didn’t simply walk home that night. I stumbled, blind drunk, all three miles to my parents’ doorstep where I let myself in and collapsed on the couch. Then I gave myself the same useless advice. This is no way to solve my problems.

            I was standing in an alleyway between two buildings in the middle of nowhere, thick white snow falling all around me. It was knee-deep at least, though I felt no cold, no pain. Only a sense of dread. Suddenly, off in the distance I heard moaning. A low tortured wail that echoed off the alley walls in such a way that it made the fur on my spine stand on end. I ran towards it, though the deep snow made progress very difficult. All of a sudden the snow cleared, and I could see the source of the noise. It was Ben, lying beneath a long-dead willow tree on a bed of dark red snow. His fur was slick with blood, seeming to come from everywhere. He raised a paw, though not to me; to his mother, who appeared trapped in a glass box. He told her to run, but she could not, her paws making little headway against the glass. She was distressed, crying even, as her paws pounded the glass and she screamed noiselessly for help. I rushed to their aid but was met halfway by Arthur, who simply rose out of the snow, a scowl on his face and a soulless Lydia ragdoll in his arms. He bared his teeth. “Get the @$&# off my property”, he said, taking a gun from the folds of his coat. He turned it on Ben, and for a moment he was the hooded wolf from New York as he fired three shots into Ben’s chest. He stopped for a moment, and I could see the real Lydia, the one in the box, sink to her knees. She sobbed. Then a wicked smile spread across his muzzle, and he turned the gun on me. He pulled the trigger.

            I sat bolt upright, my clothes matted to my fur and my fur matted to my skin by a cold sweat. I was back in my parents’ house on the living room couch, the sun just beginning to rise above the beautiful autumn trees. Instinctively, I put a paw to my chest, feeling around for a wound that wasn’t there. Then I curled up into a ball, wrapped my tail around my legs, and cried while the golden sunlight inched its way through the room, bathing everything in a rich flaxen hue.

            I recounted the events of the dream to my parents to the best of my ability, choking out the words between sobs. Thankfully, they didn’t ask why my clothes smelled heavily of whiskey or where I got my injured paw; I suppose they figured it was my business and I was thankful. They didn’t need to know of my encounter with Arthur the day before, and so I left the Lydons out of what I told them about the dream as well. I would deal with that when I came to it.

            Having nothing else to do that day, I got into my car and told my parents I was going into town but instead drove back to 322 Prospect Street. I waited across the street until I saw Arthur pull out of the driveway on his way to work. I then stepped out of my own car and began making my way towards the house. I had always assumed that Lydia agreed with Arthur about Ben and I, but my nightmare had suggested that the situation might be otherwise. After all, she had never given me any reason to dislike her aside from the fact that she never actively disagreed with Arthur. Could it be that she still cared? That, perhaps, she had always cared?

            After two or three knocks, the door opened on a kind but weather-beaten face, framed by a halo of graying hair. “I’m sorry to bother you Mrs. Lydon, but I…” I said, trying to think of what to say. What she did next, I will never forget. She simply put her paw on my shoulder, smiled sympathetically, and said “I know, Freddie, I know. Come inside, will you? It’s cold out there.”

            I was beckoned into a warm house, the smell of something delicious cooking wafting from the kitchen. It was as if I had walked into a house completely different from the one yesterday. “You were smart to wait until Arthur left”, she said, leading me into the kitchen. “If he had seen you back here…I don’t know what he would have done.” She seemed distressed for a moment and she clasped her paws together, looking at her feet. I was about to ask what was wrong when she suddenly perked up, appearing to have regained her composure. There came an insistent beep from the oven, and she shuffled over to remove the plate that she had been warming. I gasped. It was a stack of paper-thin crepes, the kind Ben used to make for breakfast or when he got depressed. Suddenly, I could sense no evil in this woman; no malice. I felt my eyes grow wet as an emotional barrier broke down, though I allowed them to go no further. Instead, I simply stared at the crepes with a feeling of heartache building in my chest. Sensing something, Mrs. Lydon set down the plate and turned to me, a look of quiet sympathy in her eyes.

            “Frederick, what is the matter?” She asked, a worried tone in her voice. I sniffed, and tried to collect myself.

            “It’s just that…Ben used to make those crepes whenever things got bad for us…and it’s bringing back some bad memories. I don’t expect you to understand”. She nodded, but said nothing, and took a seat at a small but neatly set table. She put her head in her paws. I spoke up again. “Mrs. Lydon…is something wrong?” She spoke, her voice muffled by her paws.

            “I missed everything…”

            “What?” She lifted her head, and I could see that now her eyes were wet.

            “I missed everything!” she cried, “I missed high school, I missed his graduation…” she paused for a moment to gather herself. “…and I missed you. And now he’s dead, and I even missed his funeral! I am such a terrible mother”. I felt a sudden anger build in my chest, and I lashed out verbally, all of a sudden yelling across the table at her.

            “But why, Mrs. Lydon? If you really felt this way, why didn’t you tell anyone? Why did you throw Ben out? You ruined his life, you know. And you ruined mine for a while too”. She whimpered a little and backed off, hugging her tail against her breast.

            “Freddie, you need to understand. I never wanted to throw him out. I never wanted to do any of those things, and I never liked it. I just…”

            “You just what? What could have possibly motivated you to side with Arthur?”

            “He always said it was what God expected of us…and I foolishly believed him,” she answered timidly. Immediately I felt the anger wash out of me and become quickly replaced with hatred for the man who had long since stopped calling Ben his son, and sympathy for the woman who was married to him.

            “I’m sorry I lashed out, Mrs. Lydon” I sighed. “I just…I never knew…I lost control. I’m sorry.”

            “No need to be sorry. You deserve to be angry”, she said. “Arthur did terrible things, and I just stood idly by. Simply tried to pretend it was all for good. This is as much my fault as it is his”. I was stunned. I didn’t know how to respond, so I did the only thing I could think of. I reached across the table, took her paws in mine, and looked straight into her eyes.

            “At least you learned from the mistakes you made”.

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Author guidance for This story

DISCLAIMER: MATURE DOES NOT MEAN THE STORY CONTAINS SEX. I USED TWO SWEARS. TWO!!!

This story has slight furry overtones, so if that really puts you off, don't read it.

Ok, now for the important things.
Characters:

Frederick Hall - The protagonist, deeply depressed by his lover's untimely death, though he cheers up some when meeting with old friends throughout the story.

Benjamin Lydon - Frederick's now deceased lover. They shared a loving, deep relationship stemming from their junior year in high school before Ben was shot near their apartment in NYC. He (was) a successful author.

Arthur Lydon - Ben's controlling, harsh Catholic father. Not much is known about him, except for the fact that he has a deep hatred of Frederick for, as he puts it, "turning his only son into a goddam faggot".

Lydia Lydon - Ben's quiet, obedient mother. She has come to accept the fact that Ben is gay, and is deeply saddened to find out about her son's death. She has also taken a liking to Frederick, although she is kept under control by Arthur and never truly gets to tell anyone. She finally stands up for herself when Frederick shows up at their door to tell them in person of their son's passing.

(Father) Michael Holloway - The priest at the UCC church in Orwell (Frederick and Benjamin's hometown), Father Holloway helped Freddie through most of the difficult times in his life. He also has a certain fondness for Benjamin, and takes pride in the fact that he was the first and only man of cloth to influence Ben's life. Ben was also mutually fond of him, in the short time they knew each other.

updated Jul 1 '10 by DandyLion