Free Fall (A Furry Story)

I

The soft tap of rain, pattering against the weathered roof above my head. The slight echo of footsteps in the other room bouncing around the interior of my room, the quiet sound of laughter plaguing my ears. The creak of wood underneath every tread, the incessant stream of water running down my window. The scent of something baking in the oven, the aftertaste lingering far too long. The soft piano in the background, engulfing the would-be silence in an enlightening score. The bouncing of my foot on the wooden floor, tapping away as much as what comes to mind.

What would have been a calm, lonesome evening was slowly interrupted by the party going on in the other room.

I knew that I would eventually be called in; a trophy is designed to be shown off. When they call me in, I'm only drawing, but it doesn't matter to them. Right now, their only desire is drawing the curtain over the truth, hiding what they really feel about me.

When they call my name, I don't protest. Instead, I just sit my pencil onto the vast and ornate desk I'm sitting at, and stand up and out of my just as elaborately decorated chair. I'm there before my name is called a second time, and with good luck, there won't be much retaliation when the party goes home and I'm left on my own.

Among the throng of passing guests, I spot them. Just a group of the rich elite, dressed as such, and laughing at some obscure, inside joke. By now, the piano in the back of the ballroom is joined by a chorus of chimes and violins, setting the mood for a true dance. Candlelit tables scattered around the room, not a deviant soul to be found. I quickly join my family in a matter of moments, still taking in every new stimulus that bombards my senses.

My parents decide to show me off to a wealthy couple, this time. "Did you ever hear about our youngest son, Samuel?" My mother asks.

"He made the honor roll for five years in a row, and is soon to be accepted into one of the most prestigious schools in the country," my father boasts. He makes an easy gesture of slapping a heavy hand onto my back, and I flinch.

I've never liked being touched. Especially not by him.

"Well, that's nice," one of the guests comments, her voice growing weary. I can tell she's getting bored, and gloating doesn't help much. I won't say anything; I never do, anyways.

The conversation stays on me for minutes on end:

"Did you know that he originally planned to join the special forces in the military? Hah, well, they wouldn't accept him, what with the 'skin and bones', but they admired his spirit!"

"Samuel was greeted by the President once, what a wonder!"

"He's much smarter than we all could hope to be, we're hoping he takes up something in business or politics, and the medical field is never too bad a back-up, am I wrong?"

Eventually I don't even listen to what they say anymore. Most of it is lies, anyway. Stories told just to entertain people. It's a part of the illusion, the black curtain that tricks everyone else into believing that we are a perfect family.

Soon my legs grow tired, and I go to walk away, only for my father to grab my wrist with a firm grip. I tug against him, and he asks in a dreadfully polite tone, "Where are you going?"

I motion to the punch bowl, situated precariously around the ballroom. I never much cared for the punch, but an excuse is... well, an excuse.

My father dons a displeased look. "Samuel, we have servants for that."

I never liked it when he frivolously called servants, and I certainly have never appealed to my full name.

I let out a quiet huff of air, a signature sigh. A shred of a sound comes out of my throat, and it hurts; it's the closest I've been to talking in a while.