Move
The fox is nowhere to be seen but having him out of sight only makes your stomach twitch uneasily, bile rising in your throat. Being a natural prey animal — what would unicorns be classed as anyway with that horn? — is unsettling and you feel considerably further down the food chain than you should be. A suited up fur kicks your heels and snaps at you to ‘be quicker’. You can’t even complain about the stab of pain in your fetlock. It was a wolf that kicked you and his yawning eyes linger in your mind as he strides away, tan briefcase clasped in his right paw. The angry words are stuck in your throat and a distinct aroma of sweat graces your nostrils, betraying your fear to every other fur in the near vicinity. A cheetah smirks knowingly.
Move. You have to keep moving. It is the only way that you are going to survive this hell. You lick your lips dryly, no moisture remaining in your mouth. What you would give for a tall, cool glass of water with beads of condensation trickling down the side. You salivate wantonly, tail thumping your leg as if you are a dog that has been presented with a treat. You are more animal than human now.
Your hooves clop loudly on the hot pavement and your route takes you into a shadier part of the city. Windows are smashed and badly taped up in places in a sort of ‘quick fix’ job. A scrap of litter catches the breeze and brushes past an overflowing, cracked waste paper bin, discoloured by the elements. It might have once been a forest green but now there is no telling. There are more clubs on this street and female furs lounging in revealing outfits, chewing gum and smacking their lips with every chomp. After recent experience, you try not to look but traitor eyes are prone to wander. Still, you are one to learn from experience (more so if experience is negative) and watch the ladies more discreetly than you would have done previously.
The walls here are plastered with posters, some torn off or sodden with moisture, and a group of lazy dogs lean against one such wall, conducting a mumbling discussion. One of the group looks up: a shabbily dressed Golden Retriever with dirty, yellow fur and ripped jeans. Unease stiffens your muscles and you look straight ahead, aiming to keep away from the troublemaking lads the best you can. They have other ideas. A wolf whistle follows you, possibly thrown forth by a wolf, and colour floods to your cheeks. Knowing that it’s a bad idea to do so, you throw a glance back over your shoulder.
Written by Amethyst Mare on 02 June 2013
