The Dying Game

SAMPLE

Written by Arian Mabe

 @arianmabe

[email protected]

https://amethystmare.sofurry.com/

www.furaffinity.net/user/amethystmare

Cover art by Orobas

www.furaffinity.net/user/orobas

Autumn lingered. Great Britain crawled into December like a raindrop trickling down glass. The river was as cold as such unmoving glass, toying with leftover leaves that bobbed and swirled between eddies. Thus caught, they bobbed and dipped, tossed to the murky riverbed and thrown back up again without a care, swallowed into a ravenous, watery maw. The river was ever hungry, sighing, groaning and sucking minute lives into its depths. As long as it continued meandering towards the not so distant ocean, it cared not for all the passed over, quenched lives in its embrace. Above the muddy water, the young, two-legged palomino equine on the bridge sat and stared. Legs swinging against the weather-worn stone, her hooves struck and clacked loudly, drawing a look from a passing canine – a Doberman male with a curious tilt to his muzzle – in the brief second that she commanded his attention. Heather Rees scratched her chin, ignored the tickle of short, golden hair against her fingertips, and frowned.

It wasn't even a very nice river, she thought, tucking a stray clump of loose, silver-blonde hair behind one curved ear, which was pierced in two places, cheap gems sparkling deceivingly. The bridge was crusty with moss and lichen, the green and yellow reminding her of disease ridden flesh, something that ate away at the outside of a fur while the inside lost the will to live. Scowling, she flicked a sharp stone into the river and watched it disappear with barely a ripple. An empty beer can bobbed past, too swiftly for her to take in the brand name, but she supposed that it wasn't anything interesting anyway, only a passing distraction. Too many others were interested in beer.

Heather shoved her paws deep into her wide skirt pockets, hoof-like fingertips curled into her palms, and hopped off the humpback bridge, stalking along her way as if something had personally offended her. Cars on the road to her right snarled past, lifting her straightened mane up from her neck and into her face in a rush of angry air. There was a hole in the left knee of her black tights and her denim skirt, daringly short, had seen better days, though the hooded sweatshirt depicting her college name was laundered, smelling faintly of lavender washing powder. She had to be presentable, or presentable enough, to visit Michael, even if Michael would not see her.

Her heart twisted. Michael. Mike. Mikey. Poor little cat. Why did he have to screw around down by the railway line? He was a fool. A fool but a kind fool – there was no harm in the lad. Her steps quickened and she tugged the sleeve of her sweatshirt down over her paw as far as possible, further warming from the winter nip. No, Michael had done no wrong. He had only been spraying graffiti. Where was the harm in that? In hindsight, there had been some harm to him, because he had not evaded the train swiftly enough. But he had to be all right: Michael had to be all right for her. He could live without an arm or a leg. He had to.

Heather sniffed loudly, nostrils flaring. Damn good her friends were, the ones who had been down by the railway line with Michael. They hadn't even wanted to come with her to the hospital. Sara, the silver tabby cat, had laughed and blown a foul cloud of cigarette smoke into her face. Worried about your 'friend'? That's what Sarah had screamed in her shrieking laugh, more like a hyena than a feline. Or perhaps like a cat being strangled. Bitch. What did she know? And the others went along with it like the obedient pooches that they were, yipping and yapping their nonsense. Did dying mean nothing to them? Probably not. They were already dead. Heather was half-dead too.

Digging in her pocket in hope of a stubborn cigarette, she forced her legs into action, one pale cream hoof after the other, white fetlocks flashing. There was no thought in the motion and she considered whether she was responsible for bodily actions when she felt so detached from her own physical being. Her legs did not look like hers, though they were ended with the same scuffed hooves as always, black mud smeared across the upper curve of the left. She finally scooped out a bent cigarette, already wrapped, and her silver lighter to light her first smoke in months. The smoke made her cough at first but it was like welcoming an old friend back into her lungs, souring them as she relaxed and breathed easier under the influence. It was okay, she reasoned, as the hospital was not far and she would not finish the whole cigarette, only a half or so.

Only a half.

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