"Dr. Patel, how did you invent Vitroleum?"
His hands clasp together on the tabletop, hiding the tremor in his leg just under the table. "I did not invent it, I simply discovered it. The potential had always been there, we just weren't ready for it until now."
The press room falls into an awed silence before a bright eyed Sciuri pops up out of her seat with her hand in the air, bushy tail puffing up behind her, "How did you come across the Vitron slivers in the first place?"
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, his tail straightening out, "It was a gift." Wrapped in newspaper, tied with twine, and handed to him with the forceful stubbornness he came to know so well, "from someone I treasure just as much as my work."
A flurry of interest sparkles in the room, when another Sciuri shoots up, "Are they here with you now?" Each reporter and cameraman swivels around looking for a face they had no knowledge of or information on.
His slitted grey eyes stare the Sciuri in the eye, and from across the room, he could sense the instinctual tension of fight or flight passing through the trembling body. He releases the young girl's gaping stare, passing a hand through his whitened hair, "No, he is not. I have not seen him for a very long time now."
A few sets of shoulders slump in their seats, while others sit up straighter. He could laugh. They had no idea who they were competing with. Wouldn't know it if he was standing right in front of them. He leans back in his chair, the tremor in his leg gone. "I believe this is a press conference on Vitroleum, not my personal life, as intertwined as it is." Piqued as they were, the questions flowed to the inception of Vitroleum and the manipulation, until the allotted time slot was finally finished and he was released from the prison of the public eye.
He was escorted to his lofty home, now that he was one of the richest people in the nation and possibly the world, he had suddenly made many enemies. He heaved a sigh, dragging a hand over his face as he flopped onto the recliner in his living room.
"You're wrong." Jerry shot up from his seat, every muscle in his body tense. A white smile stared down at him from the second level of his home, that peered down into the first. "You're always wrong." With a casual leap, the Musan was standing on the Polloidin rug that covered the living room floor with peacock eyes. An artifact that was worth almost as much as the home, yet given to him for nothing but a warm smile and a place to keep it.
Jerry's breath caught in his throat as he slowly rose to his feet. "Tom?" He nearly choked on the 'm' as he said the single syllable. Tom crossed the room with silent steps.
A hand ran along his forearm, eliciting a shiver up his spine. "A little birdy told me you finally told the world you're a genius."
Jerry stared, unblinking, his trembling fingers reaching up to touch Tom's cheek. Tom's eyes fluttered close and the warmth spread through Jerry's fingers as he pressed closer. "It's been almost 3 years..." A note of frustration escaped his throat, warning of the coming tide of locked up emotions.
"Has it? Or has it only been 3 years?" Their bodies shifted and slid together, locking together in a tight embrace.
"You didn't even say goodbye. Not even a note, or a letter, or a fucking courier pigeon." Jerry only hugged tighter, and Tom responded in the same manner.
"I'm sorry." Tom's nose buried deeper into the curves of his chest.
Jerry hesitated, for once not instantly forgiving him. "Are you?" Tom backed away suddenly, his brows knitted together.
From this vantage point, Jerry could see the worn scratches and marks peaking out from under Tom's shirt. When he stepped forward, his eyes focusing on the mark on Tom's neck, he could hear Tom's heartbeat suddenly sky rocket and the air sour with Tom's fear. He froze in his tracks, looking back up at Tom's face to see his eyes blown up into saucers, his ears pulled back tight against his head.
He slowly put a hand up, "Tom? Tom... I'm not going to hurt you."
Tom stepped back again, his leg hitting the couch behind him. Tom could see him shaking, down to his bones, and knew the haunted look in Tom's face when he was disappointed in himself. "I'm... sorry." A hand covered Tom's mouth as a soft keen broke from his throat.
He softened his voice, lowering his hands, keeping eye contact with Tom. "I'm going to sit down and if you want, you can come sit down with me, alright?"
Tom nodded though it wasn't until Jerry had actually settled down into the chair that he made a move. It wasn't to come closer to Jerry, or come sit by him, but to reach into his woven bag and withdraw a bundle of pages. He set it down on the end table and stared down at it, his fingers brushing against the worn edges. "I'm going to go see my family for a while, but I came here to see you first."
"Alright..." Jerry watched as Tom slipped out of his home, through his fingers once more.
--
Days passed before he had a chance to think about the bundle of papers. Between the conferences and the meetings he had with his new crew of employees, he had very little time to even sleep.
It was the first night he had free after a week of torture when he could sit back down on the couch to relax, accidentally making the pages fall. Groaning at his clumsiness, he bent down to pick them up and toss them back onto the end table when the scrawled handwriting stopped him. He had stopped his own curiosity several times during the week, telling himself he was supposed to be angry, that he wouldn't succumb to Tom's sly ploys to gain his forgiveness back.
Sure, he wondered why Tom reacted with such instincts when he'd never been one to follow the status quo, but he told himself it was all a lie. Tom would leave him again, as if he was only a bed warmer used when convenient.
But the panicked scrawl of sharp and shaking letters, so stark in difference from his usual well-mannered meticulous handwriting on documents and letters, caught his attention. He turned the light on, lightly grasping the loose pages as he dragged himself up on the couch again. He peeled away the cover and began to read the first letter written in a dark rusty black.
His hands clasp together on the tabletop, hiding the tremor in his leg just under the table. "I did not invent it, I simply discovered it. The potential had always been there, we just weren't ready for it until now."
The press room falls into an awed silence before a bright eyed Sciuri pops up out of her seat with her hand in the air, bushy tail puffing up behind her, "How did you come across the Vitron slivers in the first place?"
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, his tail straightening out, "It was a gift." Wrapped in newspaper, tied with twine, and handed to him with the forceful stubbornness he came to know so well, "from someone I treasure just as much as my work."
A flurry of interest sparkles in the room, when another Sciuri shoots up, "Are they here with you now?" Each reporter and cameraman swivels around looking for a face they had no knowledge of or information on.
His slitted grey eyes stare the Sciuri in the eye, and from across the room, he could sense the instinctual tension of fight or flight passing through the trembling body. He releases the young girl's gaping stare, passing a hand through his whitened hair, "No, he is not. I have not seen him for a very long time now."
A few sets of shoulders slump in their seats, while others sit up straighter. He could laugh. They had no idea who they were competing with. Wouldn't know it if he was standing right in front of them. He leans back in his chair, the tremor in his leg gone. "I believe this is a press conference on Vitroleum, not my personal life, as intertwined as it is." Piqued as they were, the questions flowed to the inception of Vitroleum and the manipulation, until the allotted time slot was finally finished and he was released from the prison of the public eye.
He was escorted to his lofty home, now that he was one of the richest people in the nation and possibly the world, he had suddenly made many enemies. He heaved a sigh, dragging a hand over his face as he flopped onto the recliner in his living room.
"You're wrong." Jerry shot up from his seat, every muscle in his body tense. A white smile stared down at him from the second level of his home, that peered down into the first. "You're always wrong." With a casual leap, the Musan was standing on the Polloidin rug that covered the living room floor with peacock eyes. An artifact that was worth almost as much as the home, yet given to him for nothing but a warm smile and a place to keep it.
Jerry's breath caught in his throat as he slowly rose to his feet. "Tom?" He nearly choked on the 'm' as he said the single syllable. Tom crossed the room with silent steps.
A hand ran along his forearm, eliciting a shiver up his spine. "A little birdy told me you finally told the world you're a genius."
Jerry stared, unblinking, his trembling fingers reaching up to touch Tom's cheek. Tom's eyes fluttered close and the warmth spread through Jerry's fingers as he pressed closer. "It's been almost 3 years..." A note of frustration escaped his throat, warning of the coming tide of locked up emotions.
"Has it? Or has it only been 3 years?" Their bodies shifted and slid together, locking together in a tight embrace.
"You didn't even say goodbye. Not even a note, or a letter, or a fucking courier pigeon." Jerry only hugged tighter, and Tom responded in the same manner.
"I'm sorry." Tom's nose buried deeper into the curves of his chest.
Jerry hesitated, for once not instantly forgiving him. "Are you?" Tom backed away suddenly, his brows knitted together.
From this vantage point, Jerry could see the worn scratches and marks peaking out from under Tom's shirt. When he stepped forward, his eyes focusing on the mark on Tom's neck, he could hear Tom's heartbeat suddenly sky rocket and the air sour with Tom's fear. He froze in his tracks, looking back up at Tom's face to see his eyes blown up into saucers, his ears pulled back tight against his head.
He slowly put a hand up, "Tom? Tom... I'm not going to hurt you."
Tom stepped back again, his leg hitting the couch behind him. Tom could see him shaking, down to his bones, and knew the haunted look in Tom's face when he was disappointed in himself. "I'm... sorry." A hand covered Tom's mouth as a soft keen broke from his throat.
He softened his voice, lowering his hands, keeping eye contact with Tom. "I'm going to sit down and if you want, you can come sit down with me, alright?"
Tom nodded though it wasn't until Jerry had actually settled down into the chair that he made a move. It wasn't to come closer to Jerry, or come sit by him, but to reach into his woven bag and withdraw a bundle of pages. He set it down on the end table and stared down at it, his fingers brushing against the worn edges. "I'm going to go see my family for a while, but I came here to see you first."
"Alright..." Jerry watched as Tom slipped out of his home, through his fingers once more.
--
Days passed before he had a chance to think about the bundle of papers. Between the conferences and the meetings he had with his new crew of employees, he had very little time to even sleep.
It was the first night he had free after a week of torture when he could sit back down on the couch to relax, accidentally making the pages fall. Groaning at his clumsiness, he bent down to pick them up and toss them back onto the end table when the scrawled handwriting stopped him. He had stopped his own curiosity several times during the week, telling himself he was supposed to be angry, that he wouldn't succumb to Tom's sly ploys to gain his forgiveness back.
Sure, he wondered why Tom reacted with such instincts when he'd never been one to follow the status quo, but he told himself it was all a lie. Tom would leave him again, as if he was only a bed warmer used when convenient.
But the panicked scrawl of sharp and shaking letters, so stark in difference from his usual well-mannered meticulous handwriting on documents and letters, caught his attention. He turned the light on, lightly grasping the loose pages as he dragged himself up on the couch again. He peeled away the cover and began to read the first letter written in a dark rusty black.
Dear Jerry, The only comfort I have left is the skin that barely keeps me together and the thought of you. As they peel back every layer of my soul for answers I don't have, I can only think at least you are safe. I am not righteous, never have been, never had the luxury to be so, but I did one thing right when I left. Or perhaps that's the desperation settling in my bones. There may be as little of a chance of you reading these words, as there is chance of me escaping, but at least if I pretend I am writing to you, I have the benefit of the doubt everything's fine. I pretend sometimes you actually get these letters and try to imagine what sort of face or expression you'd make. If I have enough strength, sometimes I even try to imagine what you'd write back. Most nights I think you'd ignore the mail I send you out of spite. Those are the good days. On the bad days, I imagine you receiving these pages long after I have wasted away. My shoulders ache from carrying slabs of stone. I don't think I'll ever get the feeling to go away. Many of these nights I try to reach into the earth where the gods have gone and pray for one to swallow me and spit me out in a world where you and I were still together. The stars are too far to help me, but at least the earth does not suddenly fall away from my feet. I don't have bad dreams or nightmares because they do not scare me as much as the thought of never having said goodbye does. I'm so sorry I never said goodbye. I just didn't want it to end and I didn't have confidence in "see you soon". But if I had to choose, I would rather cut you off than leave you hanging. Knowing you, you'll wait for me to come back. You honestly put too much trust in the world and me. It makes it too easy to let you down. No, I will return to you even if it means these words are the only remains of me that survive. At least then you will known when to stop expecting me to crawl through your window. I think I almost deserve what fate has befallen me. I forget so easily slavery is a tangible and real possibility, even in Aeglia, yet I chose to ignore it because I have fought so hard for freedom. Here, I have no protection. The marks mean nothing to them and mock me as I fall asleep. I wonder if this is the fate I would have received had your invention of Vitroleum not occurred. Who knows what future I would have had then. After all, your discovery is the only confidence I have that our fates were always meant to align. I'm not a poet or a writer of beautiful phrases and quips, but if I had the talent, I would craft verse of the stars lining up and the world passing just so you could have met me in that ditch, broken and beaten. You never did ask what had happen that had gotten me in that state. You never placed the blame on me. You always thought the best of me. Maybe that's why I had to leave. I'm always afraid you will discover the truth of me and will stop letting me in if I ever showed you. I'll tell you now, the fault was nothing but my own. I had refused to concede to the whims of a Felinan and got myself a lesson in respect. Or so that's how society classifies it. I don't care if everyone else thinks I'm insolent and unnatural, but I suppose it wouldn't make sense why you put up with me if you cared about either. |
There was no signature. The next letter was much shorter, written on what looked like thin fabric.
I'm scared- not in the way the hairs on my neck stand when I hear the rattle of tails or the way my heart beat hammers up in my throat if they let their eyes trace the lines of my neck- the fear I feel is the sort, if given the option I would feed on the flesh of my kin to avoid whatever uncertain future they hold for me. The irregularity drives me to my wits ends. I cannot tell how many days have passed. I do not know if I will ever see the light of day. I don't even know if in the next moment, these cage doors will open and I will be chosen to walk down the corridor, for my final journey. |
He traced the lines of the words, some of the dirt crumbling into his lap. A faint smell lingered under the dust. He brought it closer to his nose and sniffed cautiously. The scent was aged and nearly gone under the time sitting in dust and mire, but under it all, nostalgia reminded him that it was a familiar scent. He closed his eyes to concentrate his senses and sniffed again. A flash of memory darted past in his mind. A broken, bruised form, lying in a ditch, nearly invisible to the eye, yet the pungent smell of iron- he lifted his head with a quick snap. It was Tom's blood. He clutched at the 'page' and his chest cinched, choking him. How weak he was.
He recalled how terrified Tom looked when he stood only a yard away from him when normally, neither of them could last very long without wrapping each other into a hug. If it hadn't been for that incident, he would have considered even the bloody letters to be a hoax.
In the time he had known Tom, he had no notion of instinctual fear, yet now... he was nearly the same as every other Musan in the world- trembling under the eyes of a predator. Oh Tom... and that was only the beginning.
He recalled how terrified Tom looked when he stood only a yard away from him when normally, neither of them could last very long without wrapping each other into a hug. If it hadn't been for that incident, he would have considered even the bloody letters to be a hoax.
In the time he had known Tom, he had no notion of instinctual fear, yet now... he was nearly the same as every other Musan in the world- trembling under the eyes of a predator. Oh Tom... and that was only the beginning.