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More from unwisedragon
Written because I don't see enough of these stories.
I also had a husky stuck in my head.
The title is definitely not a pun because I'm writing about a husky and couldn't think of a title.
In case you wanted to know... I had no end of trouble with the ending.
File is a docx, but here is the text if you'd rather not download:
Husk - The story of a beginning life
I have almost reached the point where life stops mattering and starts to just drift by, hopefully flowing past me as it does. Such a deep ache… I can’t just live with it, I have to kill it – drown it with alcohol so I have the courage to face it. It is the hollow feeling of an empty life, of waking up every day so you’ll be a little closer to death because you’re too much of a fucking coward to end it yourself. That’s how I feel every day when I rise with a ringing, pain-ridden head.
Not that time yet; don’t want to get too ahead of myself. I bid the bartender for another cold, stiff one. One more ought to do it, so I can leave the world behind and wake up not even caring what happened. The sweet, burning alcohol on my tongue - liquid gold. Now I can forget for another night just what a failure I’ve become. A sea of dreams is there, just beyond the door. I smile at it, walk to the door to the world that seems just a little better, if only because I feel a little worse than I did before. Streetlights are beginning to dim as fire bounces off glass walls.
There aren’t any wandering souls besides me. I stagger; damned drink won’t let me keep my footing. I can barely even feel my tail – I’m that far gone. My pads scrape the sidewalk and I pull on my shirt collar, try to get a bit more air. It feels so hot, always so damn hot. Why is it always so hot? I pull out a tuft of grey fur from my back and throw it away in disgust. I never stop shedding in this fucking city. Working as a mine dog up north was almost preferable; at least there I could keep my fur on my body, even if the feel of a pickaxe in my paws and the ice shifting with every blow still brings terrifying dreams down on me.
A little, half-seen realization dawns on me as the sun leaps above the artificial horizon at last: I haven’t been sober for a sunrise in decades. Not that I care now, it’s just an interesting thought. How would the golden fire of life looks without adding a little extra drop of gold? But no, I don’t want to face the morning without it. I don’t want to face the passersby, and it’s good that I need to put all my concentration into getting one foot in front of the other and into balancing without flailing arms so I don’t even need to notice the putrid wind calling to me, whispering in my ears.
No surprise I fall, tumble to the ground with arms trying to determine which way to point to stop my snout from smashing into concrete. Somehow they get it right, and I land on my knees and scrape my paws on the sidewalk. It’s all I can do to not curse my fucking tongue out. The rage is like a sun, and the drink is like a magnifying glass.
But here it is: home. The brown brick is assaulting to the eyes. It is, quite literally speaking, an inexpensive shit-hole that I’m forced to live in because no one wants to hire a husky. Somehow I force myself to stand, lean my arm against the shit-brick to find some balance.
I stagger through the unused lobby, somehow manage to creak my way up the stained blue carpet of the stairs. Some of those stains are mine, but I’m in no way capable of thinking of that right now.
It takes me a very long time to ascend to the fourth floor, and by that time the headache is starting to set in. The clarity of thought is just as painful; forced to confront myself. Frustration forgotten, rage cooled to frozen, I lurch through door number 422, sobbing loudly, bracing myself with one paw on the wall, howling in anguish at every failure I’ve committed.
Someone takes me to a chair. I know the feel of the chair, wooden, uncomfortable; I’m sitting at the table. So I bury my snout in my arms and continue to cry and mutter and sob at the wreck of a life I’ve created. Eventually I feel the world falls away from me, and I land howling in the empty recess where my nightmares live.
…
When I wake it is afternoon. The sun cascades in through the window, reveals all the dust and mites I’ve brought in to the apartment. I wear nothing but fur and a blanket. My ears sink as I think of my daughter tucking me into bed like this. I should be the one tucking her in, seeing her off to work and school. All the should-haves piling upon me… makes my aching head wish for a drop of liquid gold to ease its pain and make me forget again.
Someone pounds on the door. Each thump makes my head explode. I catch the pain in my throat, stop it from becoming a scream – swallow it. I clench my jaw and fold my ears to my head, rub them with my paws. Why me? Why does someone need to knock on the door the moment I wake up with a massive hangover?
“All right, I’m coming!” I yell at the door. That appeases it, the wood stops rattling against the frame and I can get some peace.
No time to put on any clothes – I wrap the blanket around my waist, try to avoid covering my tail, and stir the dust in getting up. A great wave drifts through the sunlight, the floor creaks under my weight and I take the first painful step towards discovery. Through the kitchen, past the light wooden table, on to the portal; I try to make my ears perk up as much as possible so I at least appear presentable. A quick survey of my fur tells me that I will not: my fur is clearly unwashed. Nothing I can do now. I try to fluff it a little with the paw that isn’t holding the blanket – fluff my headfur – before taking a deep breath and opening the door to whatever awaits beyond.
I blink slowly. This is the last thing I would have expected: a police dog, German Shepherd by his brown mask of scruffy fur and black neck. Another heavy soul acting without choice, I know the look well. I see the empty hope every time I see my reflection – settled deep in my eyes. He takes a long, heavy breath; an ominous sound that foreshadows horrible news.
But first he asks, “Are you Kyne?”
“Y-” I clear my throat, “Yes, I am.”
He removes his hat. His ears are low and his face apologetic, “May I step inside a moment?”
I can feel my bones begin to give up. It happens the moment he steps through the door and sits me down, before he sits himself and smooths his deep blue uniform. The aching abandons my head; even it doesn’t want to feel the inevitable. All that remains is an empty shell being filled with a story.
It is a sad, horrible story. The officer relates it with gentle words and hushed rumbles, trying to keep my fragile shell from crumbling to dust. He knows, he understands, has seen the signs a thousand painful times: the symptoms of a breaking soul. He is almost afraid to deliver the final news, but to go on further would mean elaborations that would make it worse.
So he finishes, “I’m sorry, but your daughter didn’t make it.”
It was no use, I crumble all the same.
My will breaks, my eyes begin to leak tears like a broken dam. All that is left of me clings to the officer without moving, he is my lifeline, the final link I have to my daughter in this world. Beyond that lies a burning, uncertain world where I will suffer and die, alone.
The apartment is empty now, though I still sit at the table. I have a picture of my daughter in front of me; a school photo where she is actually smiling. How painful that smile must have been when she had to come home to see my passed out on the couch.
My little tail curls around my body. I am going to need to be a better man, else live like dust, blown away in the wind; invisible, fleeting, delicate. I lock the pain to my heart, a reminder to never let myself fall so low.
Thus begins life so late.
In case you're curious, Kyne has no surname because I hate giving my characters surnames. I couldn't tell you why.
Edited once.
I also had a husky stuck in my head.
The title is definitely not a pun because I'm writing about a husky and couldn't think of a title.
In case you wanted to know... I had no end of trouble with the ending.
File is a docx, but here is the text if you'd rather not download:
Husk - The story of a beginning life
I have almost reached the point where life stops mattering and starts to just drift by, hopefully flowing past me as it does. Such a deep ache… I can’t just live with it, I have to kill it – drown it with alcohol so I have the courage to face it. It is the hollow feeling of an empty life, of waking up every day so you’ll be a little closer to death because you’re too much of a fucking coward to end it yourself. That’s how I feel every day when I rise with a ringing, pain-ridden head.
Not that time yet; don’t want to get too ahead of myself. I bid the bartender for another cold, stiff one. One more ought to do it, so I can leave the world behind and wake up not even caring what happened. The sweet, burning alcohol on my tongue - liquid gold. Now I can forget for another night just what a failure I’ve become. A sea of dreams is there, just beyond the door. I smile at it, walk to the door to the world that seems just a little better, if only because I feel a little worse than I did before. Streetlights are beginning to dim as fire bounces off glass walls.
There aren’t any wandering souls besides me. I stagger; damned drink won’t let me keep my footing. I can barely even feel my tail – I’m that far gone. My pads scrape the sidewalk and I pull on my shirt collar, try to get a bit more air. It feels so hot, always so damn hot. Why is it always so hot? I pull out a tuft of grey fur from my back and throw it away in disgust. I never stop shedding in this fucking city. Working as a mine dog up north was almost preferable; at least there I could keep my fur on my body, even if the feel of a pickaxe in my paws and the ice shifting with every blow still brings terrifying dreams down on me.
A little, half-seen realization dawns on me as the sun leaps above the artificial horizon at last: I haven’t been sober for a sunrise in decades. Not that I care now, it’s just an interesting thought. How would the golden fire of life looks without adding a little extra drop of gold? But no, I don’t want to face the morning without it. I don’t want to face the passersby, and it’s good that I need to put all my concentration into getting one foot in front of the other and into balancing without flailing arms so I don’t even need to notice the putrid wind calling to me, whispering in my ears.
No surprise I fall, tumble to the ground with arms trying to determine which way to point to stop my snout from smashing into concrete. Somehow they get it right, and I land on my knees and scrape my paws on the sidewalk. It’s all I can do to not curse my fucking tongue out. The rage is like a sun, and the drink is like a magnifying glass.
But here it is: home. The brown brick is assaulting to the eyes. It is, quite literally speaking, an inexpensive shit-hole that I’m forced to live in because no one wants to hire a husky. Somehow I force myself to stand, lean my arm against the shit-brick to find some balance.
I stagger through the unused lobby, somehow manage to creak my way up the stained blue carpet of the stairs. Some of those stains are mine, but I’m in no way capable of thinking of that right now.
It takes me a very long time to ascend to the fourth floor, and by that time the headache is starting to set in. The clarity of thought is just as painful; forced to confront myself. Frustration forgotten, rage cooled to frozen, I lurch through door number 422, sobbing loudly, bracing myself with one paw on the wall, howling in anguish at every failure I’ve committed.
Someone takes me to a chair. I know the feel of the chair, wooden, uncomfortable; I’m sitting at the table. So I bury my snout in my arms and continue to cry and mutter and sob at the wreck of a life I’ve created. Eventually I feel the world falls away from me, and I land howling in the empty recess where my nightmares live.
…
When I wake it is afternoon. The sun cascades in through the window, reveals all the dust and mites I’ve brought in to the apartment. I wear nothing but fur and a blanket. My ears sink as I think of my daughter tucking me into bed like this. I should be the one tucking her in, seeing her off to work and school. All the should-haves piling upon me… makes my aching head wish for a drop of liquid gold to ease its pain and make me forget again.
Someone pounds on the door. Each thump makes my head explode. I catch the pain in my throat, stop it from becoming a scream – swallow it. I clench my jaw and fold my ears to my head, rub them with my paws. Why me? Why does someone need to knock on the door the moment I wake up with a massive hangover?
“All right, I’m coming!” I yell at the door. That appeases it, the wood stops rattling against the frame and I can get some peace.
No time to put on any clothes – I wrap the blanket around my waist, try to avoid covering my tail, and stir the dust in getting up. A great wave drifts through the sunlight, the floor creaks under my weight and I take the first painful step towards discovery. Through the kitchen, past the light wooden table, on to the portal; I try to make my ears perk up as much as possible so I at least appear presentable. A quick survey of my fur tells me that I will not: my fur is clearly unwashed. Nothing I can do now. I try to fluff it a little with the paw that isn’t holding the blanket – fluff my headfur – before taking a deep breath and opening the door to whatever awaits beyond.
I blink slowly. This is the last thing I would have expected: a police dog, German Shepherd by his brown mask of scruffy fur and black neck. Another heavy soul acting without choice, I know the look well. I see the empty hope every time I see my reflection – settled deep in my eyes. He takes a long, heavy breath; an ominous sound that foreshadows horrible news.
But first he asks, “Are you Kyne?”
“Y-” I clear my throat, “Yes, I am.”
He removes his hat. His ears are low and his face apologetic, “May I step inside a moment?”
I can feel my bones begin to give up. It happens the moment he steps through the door and sits me down, before he sits himself and smooths his deep blue uniform. The aching abandons my head; even it doesn’t want to feel the inevitable. All that remains is an empty shell being filled with a story.
It is a sad, horrible story. The officer relates it with gentle words and hushed rumbles, trying to keep my fragile shell from crumbling to dust. He knows, he understands, has seen the signs a thousand painful times: the symptoms of a breaking soul. He is almost afraid to deliver the final news, but to go on further would mean elaborations that would make it worse.
So he finishes, “I’m sorry, but your daughter didn’t make it.”
It was no use, I crumble all the same.
My will breaks, my eyes begin to leak tears like a broken dam. All that is left of me clings to the officer without moving, he is my lifeline, the final link I have to my daughter in this world. Beyond that lies a burning, uncertain world where I will suffer and die, alone.
The apartment is empty now, though I still sit at the table. I have a picture of my daughter in front of me; a school photo where she is actually smiling. How painful that smile must have been when she had to come home to see my passed out on the couch.
My little tail curls around my body. I am going to need to be a better man, else live like dust, blown away in the wind; invisible, fleeting, delicate. I lock the pain to my heart, a reminder to never let myself fall so low.
Thus begins life so late.
In case you're curious, Kyne has no surname because I hate giving my characters surnames. I couldn't tell you why.
Edited once.
Category Story / All
Species Husky
Size 120 x 87px
File Size 18.8 kB
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