A Taste of Whiskey

Warning! This chapter contains a scene of graphic violence near the end. Please do not read if you are not comfortable with such subject matter. Please feel free to either submit reviews, or email me at kokkei.bunni@gmail.com!


Chapter 4:

When I slipped out of bed, Kevin was still asleep. It was dark out, and I paused on the steps of the house to just inhale the fresh night breeze. It seemed somehow richer, deeper, and I realized I was losing hold on my normalcy. I shook my head and stepped off into the night. It was so very 'backdoor lover' of me, but I couldn't help myself. I wasn't really sure just what had happened between us, much less whether I actually even liked him or not. Anyway I looked at it, it very much seemed like he'd sought me out to seduce me.

I guess I'd know whether or not that was true if I ever saw him again. He knew where I worked, after all.

And, apparently, where I lived, because two nights later there came a knock on my apartment door. The delivery boy handed me a beautiful array of white lillies, a small card tucked into them. I appreciated the gesture for what it didn't say; he hadn't used roses, so obviously he wasn't assuming there was something there that wasn't. Plus, roses were so.. normal. I didn't want this to be normal at all, because then it'd blur the clearly defined lines in my head. I tipped the boy, then set the lillies on the table in the middle of my kitchen counter.

I didn't open the note for another hour. I'm not sure what I was trying to prove, except that it was suddenly important to me to prove it.

When I finally ripped the envelope open, I found a small white card inside. The handwriting on the inside was a neat, bold scrawl. Somehow the simple but elegant letters very much reminded me of him. My eyes roamed over the short, almost curt message -- Ivory Tower, 5th and Main. 8pm. Tonight.

What a classy way to ask me out on a date. I frowned at the note. How the hell had he known it was my night off? Either he was more well-connected than he seemed, or he was stalking me. I shook my head, tossed the note on the counter, and went to watch a movie. I'd decide in a couple of hours whether I wanted to go or not, I thought as I settled down into the couch and propped my feet up. Because, of course, I hadn't already decided as soon as I read the note. And my body wasn't tingling thinking about seeing him again.

So if I started getting ready at seven, sharp, it was only because if I -did- decide to go I wanted to look my best. And if I selected one of my most figure-flattering, deep green dresses, it was only to make him squirm in his seat. The color would make my green eyes stand out even more brilliantly, and they were, after all, the best part of me. And when I stepped out of my apartment and locked the door behind me, I was telling myself I might just turn around and come right back and stand him up for being the lecherous sot he undoubtedly was.

I descended the stairs and pushed out onto the street. I had to pause, as I usually did, to let my senses become accustomed to the flood of information. It was harder than it should have been; being here was slowly wearing down at my long-held controls. It was like the world, which had always been so distant, held out at arm's length, was slowly shrinking in towards me.

Something to one side of me caught my attention and I turned to look. A girl -- young woman? -- was standing on the sidewalk not too far from me, staring up at one of the windows in the apartment building I'd just left. It'd been her hair that I'd seen out of the corner of my eye -- long enough that she could easily sit on it, it was a shade of silvery-white that shone like spun moonlight. How did anyone's hair get that long and not be nothing more than a huge nuisance? She noticed me, and turned her gaze to me, blinking slowly. Her eyes were a rich shade of purple -- uncommon even in a city of freaks. There was such unbearable sadness in those depths, as if she looked out at the world and only saw pain and loss staring back at her.

She smiled at me but there was no joy in that expression. I almost thought she was going to start crying. Then she turned and walked away and I noticed that all she was barefoot on the city streets, clad in only a white dress that eeriely reminded me of a hospital or mental ward gown.

Escaped basketcase? Maybe. I'd have to shove my dresser in front of my door tonight. Despite being a Feral, the raw muscle of the Freak world, I didn't think I could hold my own in a fight. Maybe against a Normie, but definitely not in this town.

Shaking off my reverie, I cast one more glance, searching for her form. She'd disappeared from my sight, just like Kevin had that first time I'd met him. How did people do that? Did you walk down the street a bit, then throw yourself into an alleyway? Seemed like way too much effort to me just to make an impression. I shook my head. Whatever.

Half an hour later, at 8:15 sharp, I slid into the seat across from Kevin. The restaurant was upscale, way out of my price range. He'd better be paying or I'd be spending the next dozen of my days off washing dishes, and not even great sex was worth that. I'd, of course, arrived at 7:55, but spent about twenty minutes about a block away debating about whether I was actually going to show up. Sometimes I wonder how I get anything done, with how I turn every little decision into a major battle.

"Good evening." His eyes roamed over my form and I could feel the heat of them almost like a physical carress. I couldn't help but check him out as well. A suit, again, but this one was a dark blue that set off the raven's wing hues in his hair and made his golden eyes stand out even more. I was pretty sure I'd read somewhere that Ferals' eyes were usually only that gold when their beast was in control. I didn't know for sure; whenever my beast took over, I spent my time alone, locked in the basement or the bathroom or somewhere where no one would see me and figure out it. I'd probably still end up doing that here, even with 'my kind' all over and accepted. I couldn't control the panther, nor stop her when she was in charge.

"I was terribly afraid you wouldn't call," I said, with a sarcastic pout in my voice.

"I'm sorry. I should have called five minutes after I realized you'd left." There was no accusation in his voice, and I was genuinely surprised. Most guys would have seen my sudden retreat as an insult or at least wondered about it. He just smiled at me without any hard feelings.

"Don't make that mistake next time," I shot back, before I realized I'd tacitly acknowledged that I'd see him again. I scrambled, tacked on, "not that there's necessarily going to -be- a next time. You weren't that good."

One of his eyebrows arched. "Oh? And what's your basis for comparision?"

Owch. Subtle jibe about being a virgin. Score one for him. I glared, then tossed my hair over my shoulder. I'd left it down again, and it was annoying me. Almost as much as he was. "What do you want, anyway? Dinner and a movie? Or should we skip straight to the sweaty stuff?"

He smiled at me as the maitre'd brought us menus. I opened it and dropped my eyes to it so I wouldn't have to acknowledge the thinly-veiled hunger in his eyes. A hunger not, unfortunately, for anything on the menu. I tapped my finger on the plastic page, looking up at him. "What does the moon next to some of these dishes mean?"

"It means it's available in a Feral-sized portion," he replied, without laughing at my ignorance. I appreciated it; I already felt under cultured just from how classy this place was.

"... why a moon?" I didn't need to ask why have a Feral-sized portion. I'm a size six and I can put away a dozen hamburgers, no problem. We burn hotter, so we need more fuel.

He shrugged, still perusing the menu. "I suppose Normies need to fall back on the well-known and well-published, and a lot of Gas babies bring those preconceptions to the GARI towns and subculture. We Ferals are almost identical to the ancient human notion of lycanthropes, or were-wolves, even though there are some big differences between fact and fiction. We're not all wolves, after all." He looked up at me and there was a playful smirk in those amber eyes. I rolled my green ones and he looked back down at his menu. "So they use the moon, because that's the traditional ruler of werewolves, nevermind that most Ferals cycle according to season, not moon."

"...we do?" My eyebrows shot up. I knew what he meant by cycling -- every so often, the beast would get strong, too strong to control, and all you could do was to lock yourself away and hope you wouldn't kill someone. Mine was monthly. No brownie points for guessing what it coincided with. I was always a -real- gem around that time.

"You probably cycle monthly because you don't embrace your beast. If you lived with her and through her, instead of trying to pretend she wasn't there, you wouldn't lose control so often or have to fight against her so much."

It was the first time he'd taken a tone with me that could have been described as disapproving. He didn't look up at me but I stared at him, shocked that he'd dare bring up my inner struggle so nonchalantly, furious that he'd be so insensitive, and confused that it was so blatantly obvious.

"What the hell do you know?" I hissed at him. "Go to hell, Kevin. I'll live any damn way I want to, and I want to be -normal.-"

"Why?" His eyes suddenly fastened on me again.

"Why? Why would I -want- to be a Freak? In case you haven't noticed, Dr. Green, the whole entire world hates us, and we're holed up in these dirty pits of cities like rats holed up in a wall. What is there to be gained, what good is there, in being a Freak?" I kept my voice low so as not to attract attention, but I'm pretty sure the people closest to us picked up on the fury in my voice.

"It won't be like this forever. Segregation has a habit of being broken.. one way or another." He was so calm, so unnaturally confident about that statement, that it waylaid my anger and I sat up again.

"How can you be so sure?"

He smiled at me, but was spared from answering my question by the return of the waitress. We both ordered -- him the Feral portion, me resolutely the -normal- sized portion -- and he selected a wine for us. When the waitress walked away again, he smoothly steered the conversation away from Freaks and the Outside, instead asking me about my job, my apartment, what I thought of the city. I recognized his attempts to make peace with me and begrudgingly acquiesed, though my anger quickly faded away in the face of his sharp wit and incredible observancy. He was one smart cookie, and engaging, to boot.

If it wasn't for his golden eyes, the wildness in them, I would have thought of him as the perfect man.

The rest of the evening, at least, was about as close to perfect as any date I'd ever been on. He was a perfect gentleman, even picking up the bill without even a break in conversation. He signed it off, handed it to the waitress, and then escorted me out.

He walked me to the bus stop, though I wasn't sure if he'd driven or was going to get on the bus with me. He didn't, but as it rounded the corner down the street, he pulled me to him and kissed me. It lit fire throughout my body and I was about ready to just let him drag me into the alleyway and stoke the furnace between my legs when he pulled back. I nearly fell over -- I'd been sure, after all, that dinner was just a prelude to .. dessert.

But instead he pressed a chaste kiss to the back of my hand, smiled at me, and whispered, "sweet dreams." Then he turned and left me standing there, flushed and rather confused by what had just happened. I nearly missed the bus. It took the bus driver two "hey! you gettin' on?"s to get my attention.

I stumbled on, fumbled my change in, and then took my seat. What.. had just happened? Had he really turned me down? Was I not good last night? I'd thought he'd enjoyed it just as much as I had, and he'd called me back again, but maybe...

I shook my head, trying to clear my brain of the lust-induced haze that'd settled over me, and rode home.

I managed to not miss my stop, and by the time I stepped off the bus my confusion and angst had turned into anger. I liked anger; anger was safe, comfortable, powerful. I had a lot to be angry about. How dare he sleep with me like that, then just toss me to the side the next day? I didn't know what little game he was playing with me, but I didn't like it, and the next time I saw his stupid face I was going to tell him that.

Safely esconsed in my protective layer of rage, I shoved the door to the apartment building open and was about to storm my way upstairs when the smell hit my nose.

Stench is more like it. Sickly sweet and thick with a metallic undertone, I nearly gagged on it, sagging against the doorway and gripping it to keep myself from falling. It was coming from the open door to my right, where the superintendant, Bugman's, door was. It was ajar and I could see the splinters from where it'd been forced open. Fear creeped like icicles down my spine, the hair at the back of my neck standing on end. The panther was close to the surface again, and she was riveted on the darkness beyond the doorway. I let her take over my gaze; the darkness suddenly seemed to lift, like someone had turned a light on. There, beyond the door, I could see a puddle of something black, and one of Bugman's thin little hands on the floor.

"H-hello?" My voice sounded hollow and tinny in my ears. My heart was thudding in my chest. Ice had settled like a brick at the base of my stomach, and I didn't even know why I was so scared. All I knew was that every sense, every nerve in my body, was screaming for me to run, to get away, to safety.

I've never been one to listen to good advice, so I shoved the door open.

I had to snatch at the doorframe again as a fresh wash of that stench slammed into me. I knew what it was now. Rather, my primal side recognized it, instinctively. It was the stench of blood, death, and terror, all combined together in one scent that could only be describe as pure, emotionless violence. Even my panther eyes couldn't see into the apartment more than bare shapes, so I fumbled for the light and switched it on.

It blinded me, but only for a split second, and when my eyes adjusted I wished I hadn't done it. Bugman was laying on the ground. More accurately, pieces of Bugman were laying on the ground. Blood was everywhere, splattered on the ceiling and walls, dripping down to collect in dark, viscous pools on the bare floor. He'd been ripped apart. That was the only way to explain the splashes of blood, the way no part of the apartment seemed to have escaped the red stain of it. The hand I'd seen wasn't attached to anything, but his fingers were still dug into the floor beneath him, as if it'd been ripped off in the middle of his desperate scramble to get away from someone or something. His chest lay a few feet away, and then against the far wall, slumped in the corner, was the lower half of his body, one leg twisted behind his hips unnaturally.

I screamed. More accurately, I stumbled back and screams ripped from my throat, tore into the air as if by giving wing to them I could relieve some of the panic and horror that filled me. My foot hit something, and before I'd realized it was a bad idea, I'd looked down to see what it was.

Bugman stared up at me, one of his insectoid eyes bulged out in terror. The other was an empty crimson socket from where it'd been gouged out. His face was contorted in a perfect picture of sheer agony. The image burned itself into my mind and I screamed again, and again, my back slamming into the wall of the hallway. I sank to the ground, burying my face in my hands, and just screamed. I wanted to scream myself into oblivion, to just tear away the images that had seared themselves into my mind.

When I was nine or ten, I'd come upon my cat, Mitsy, ripping into a bird that she'd somehow managed to catch. She looked up at me, blood all over her muzzle, and I'd run to my mother, crying uncontrollably. My parents had had to give Mitsy away, I couldn't deal with seeing her anymore. My parents just thought I was being sensitive, but it was more than that. When she looked up at me, crouched over her prey, its warm flesh in her mouth, the panther in me had let out a sigh of longing.

I envied my cat and her kill.

I'd never been able to forgive myself that thought, and now, as I curled up against the wall, screaming silently because my voice was gone, all I could see was my pretty little tabby, blood on her fur, and my reflection in her cat-green eyes.