Aethelmarc
June 27, the year of Our Lord 2005
Clad in a black tanker shirt and black jeans, Leonard dismounted the bike and looked around the parking lot of the bar he had come to. It looked like a typical honky-tonk place, someplace he could hide himself in.
He needed a drink. He had stayed on the outskirts of the funeral, at least being in the same cemetary his mother was during her last moments on Earth. He knew what he looked like – a skulking man in black at the far end of the cemetary, looking on at the others gathered around the casket. When they left, he retrieved a rose from a heart-shaped flower arrangement, the one that said “Mother” on it. He also took that tag, wrapping it four times around his wrist, and tucking one end in.
He knew he wasn’t wanted at the funeral, especially after hearing from his sister the reasons why they never came to visit his mother with him around. He looked all human, a little hairier than them, but it was blond and fine, hardly noticable. He didn’t look like the half-cat creature he had been when he was born, and knew he was a handsome man, not just because his mother had told him so.
He debated following them to the reception. He would cause a scene like no other, he knew that. Rob would tell him in no uncertain terms to get out, just like he had a week ago when he tried to see her one last time. He had to sneak into the hospital after hours, and sweet talked a sympathetic nurse, so that he could sit in ICU with his mother for three hours, holding and stroking her hand, telling her how much he loved her.
His sister would give him the cold shoulder, like she had when he went back home to gather the rest of his things four short years ago. She would gather her brood at her skirts, as he effortlessly carried his TV out and gave it to a roommate in payment for staying there. He heard the “catboy” reference, and refused to confront her with it, though he saw her mother winced at it. Mother would choose to remain a human, then so would he, as best as he could.
He walked into the bar, the place smoky and loud, just what he wanted in the middle of the day. He went to a corner of the place and sat down, his duster flowing out behind him. “Rum,” he said.
“You got it,” said the bartender, and poured him a Captain Morgan. He knocked it back, and the bartender didn’t even put the bottle back in its place, as he was pouring him another. “Bad day already? It’s not even noon.”
“Funeral,” he said, and knocked that back also. He got another poured.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” the bartender said. He waited to see if he wanted to talk, but he didn’t, so he moved to another patron.
He went between rum and beer, and knew he was getting totally smashed. By the time the place filled up for the evening, he knew he was going to have trouble riding home in this condition. He didn’t care about hurting himself – he healed, sometimes faster than a human – but he cared more about his bike. He liked the bike. He’d even named the 1998 Harley Fat Boy: Kitty.
He slid off the bar stool and stood against the wall, feeling very much no pain. He wound his way through the throng of people and bikers, stepping out into the humid night air. He leaned against the wall, looking out at his bike. “Sorry honey,” he slurred, “I can’t.”
Maybe if he got some coffee, or something to eat, he thought, and looked around again. There was a pizza place just next door. He started toward it, but stumbled and found himself leaning against another wall again. He finally sat down on the asphalt in the alley.
“What do we have here,” said a voice coming somewhere above him. He slowly lifted his head, wondering if it was a cop or not. It wasn’t – there was a guy standing over him. He was holding something in his hand. That something crashed against his skull and toppled him over.
He saw stars, and felt the guy rummaging around in his duster. The beast snapped inside him, and his hand came out, grabbing a hold of whatever was in his duster. “Hey, man – ” The hand turned into a claw, digging into the man’s arm. “Hey, oh shit – ”
The other claw swung, tearing out his throat. The man gurgled a yell, his windpipe slashed, and air rushed out of it, spashing blood on Leonard’s face. Leonard stopped the change just as buttons popped, seams ripped in his clothes. He was stone-cold sober now, and looked at what he had done.
“Shit,” he hissed, as the man wheezed, his eyes wide in panic. Leonard got up, getting out of the widening pool of blood as the man bled out. He jumped on his bike, leaving him there.
The next morning, Krystal was watching the news, standing in the living room dressed only in a bra and panties. Her arms were crossed, lips pursed, as she watched the story about a possible loose and rabid animal that had torn out a man’s throat near the outskirts of town.
Leonard was making her breakfast, trying not to listen to the noise in the other room. He liked no mechanical noise when he cooked, the same as when he worked on his bike. He preferred silence, or the noise of the air, or the noise of a live talking person in the room.
He didn’t have to work until second shift in a steel mill. She worked as a secretary for a doctor’s office in town and had to be in work early. They hardly saw each other, except maybe for an hour or so at night and during the weekends, but it was good enough for him for now. He didn’t love her – sometimes he didn’t even like her – but the arrangement was fair and beneficial and she wasn’t too bad in bed.
The noise in the other room snapped off and he hear her pad into the kitchen area. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Aren’t you listening?”
“I’m busy,” Leonard said, holding up eggs on a spatula.
“Sunny side up?”
“Yes. With Italian toast -” He took that out of the toaster and plopped it on the plate. “What was I supposed to be listening to?”
“There’s some rabid animal on the loose.”
“Like a cow?”
“Like a tiger.”
“I can be a tiger.” He made cat claw motions in the air.
She gave him a droll look, and he knew that his days were numbered with her.