"When the room is quiet,
The daylight almost gone,
It seems there's something I should know,
Well, I ought to leave,
But the rain, it never stops,
And I've no particular place to go."

Fragment

She opened her eyes to muted moonlight and a cracked window.

A soft paw searched the surface of the bed, claws probing through the ruffled sheets and comforter in hopes to find a familiar body – his body – laying near to her on the king mattress. He was not there. A pain settled in her gut, not unlike the heavy weight of loneliness.

Katt Monroe had managed her way home several hours ago after taking the evening to watch a distant desert sunset. The feline woman had even savored a crystal water at some point. She remembered counting each shade of violet, orange, blush pink, and eventide blue out of curiosity, quickly overwhelmed by the varying shades of colors. Did color travel at the speed of light? It had to, she told herself.

Panther, it seemed, did not travel at such speeds. The black feline had promised her a night of horror films, cuddles, popcorn, and maybe even intimacy. When she'd come home, the converted hangar-apartment was emptier than the blackness that filled intergalactic space. It was then that Katt felt anxiety well up and gurgle through her abdomen, tossing feminine, feline guts around like an unbalanced carnival ride manned by some drunk lowlife just off parole.

So great was her desire to meet him that she'd not even bothered to park her cruiser in the 'garage'. Katt had left it on the plot of land in the back, surrounded by tall fences and walls. Her Mathilda about swallowed the entire yard, leaving just enough room for her to maneuver inside.

"Panther? Babe?" she has called out.

Silence was the response.

She decided to check the garage, then. It was part of the hangar that neither of them had bothered to convert; the two needed a place for their cruisers, anyway. Oh well, she thought, his cruiser is probably in there.

The truth was that Panther rarely used his cruiser anymore. The last time he'd flown the thing was maybe a year or so ago. For whatever reason, he'd stopped. Katt assumed this was depression but wasn't able to verify it and didn't feel like pestering him for an answer. Instead, she supported him the best she could.

Katt remembered cuddling him beneath the sheets, doing things to him with her maw and tongue, and even giving the male feline a deep-tissue massage. She bought tools and accessories just to make sure that everything was in order. Panther had moaned in bliss when she found the knot just between his shoulder blades.

He'd returned the favor. Panther had started at Katt's neck, then further down, eventually landing on either cheek of her rearend. He focused on the base of her tail and just above her ass because, for whatever reason, she tended to be the most sore there. Katt assumed it had something to do with a few incidents years ago, but she wasn't sure.

At the time, she just needed Panther's touch, just needed his soft words and breath in her hair and on her face. And that's what she needed, now. Where the hell was he? Katt called out another time. "Panther, I'm home. Where are you?"

There was no response. Somewhat tired and defeated, Katt made her way to the bedroom. She locked the doors, of course; if Panther was out, he would be able unlock them. He had keys. Maybe he'll meet me in bed, Katt hoped. She ascended the stairs slowly, her tail gently swinging back and forth in small strides with each rising step. She felt her hips tilt from side to side in that sort of seductive sway, the kind that brought stiff males to bed.

It was the same sway, the same dance, that turned heterosexual vixens into a mischievous, lust-loving lesbians. Her sway. Katt's sway, Panther had called it. She was blessed with hips, much like the other girl in her small circle of acquaintances (Krystal – Krystal had those wide hips, maybe even wider than her own).

Sometimes, she compared the shape of her backside to Krystal. Other times, she would contrast the curve of her lower back with the blue female fox, then the symmetry of her eyes, maybe the whiteness of her fangs, possibly the femininity and size of her bust, and so on. The vixen had motherly, wide, fertile hips; the kind that made males ache.

And maybe that's where Panther was – satisfying the ache between his legs deep inside Krystal, squeezing her mother-hips until he exploded. Katt knew that wasn't likely at all. Panther wasn't the kind of cat to cheat. He always quietly chanted in her ear at night that she was the one. How did it go? He sang it in a song, almost.

"You're the one for me. Yes, you're the one for me," he'd croon and whisper in hushed, feather-light breaths.

And she'd sing back, too. "I'm the one for you, yes I'm the one for you."

Then they'd change the lyrics until they fell asleep, made love, or did something of both. That was how Katt Monroe knew, deep down, that Panther would never hurt her, at least not on purpose. It is the reason why she was able to fall asleep that night all by herself on the lonely, king bed without the love her life.

It didn't come easy; no, there were times she woke up covered in a thin, girly sweat, crying out in the darkness. "Baby! My love!"

Her voice would echo through the dark, obscured halls and grate flooring. There was no response, not even from the wind that crept through the cracks in their converted apartment's walls. She'd fall back into the bed, catching her breath while the pink and creamy white fluff of her bare breasts rose up and down with each respiration. Her diaphragm would expand then contract and fall before doing it all over again, each time slower than the last.

And eventually, after calming down, Katt Monroe fell asleep.

He woke next to the vixen without his clothes.

Melissa, still fast asleep, rested next to him on the bed. He wondered, briefly, how he'd gotten there. Oh yes, Panther recalled, he'd gone to the bar for stress relief with the last bit of money they had, was hit on by some horny fox, and then followed her home with an empty wallet and full testicles. Panther turned slowly, facing away from the nude fox.

And what about the money? Fuck, the money… first I cheated, then I blew the last of the creds… He slowly sat up, staring at his naked body. His black fluff had matted beneath the comforters, likely from the sticky sweat and secretions shared between him and the nude, seductive vixen. His stomach roiled, bubbling with guilt and shame.

How could he have done that? He felt like puking. A warm paw rested on his inner thigh, slowly inching toward the flaccid girth between his legs. "Morning, sunshine," Melissa crooned.

Panther instinctively closed his legs, adjusting himself as to face his sack and soft member away from Melissa's lustful grasp. "Oh, hey," Panther said.

Melissa shifted, propping her head up with an elbow and paw. "What's wrong?" she inquired, a concerned look plastered over her face.

Panther shook his head. "Nothing, I'm fine. Just uh, wasn't sure where I was for a second."

"Or who I was? Or why I'm sticky and naked next to you in this nice, soft, warm bed? That what you were trying to figure out?" she winked, a sly smile over her face.

Without wasting much more than a moment, Panther was out of bed, searching for his clothes. He could hear the disappointed groan of Melissa behind him and the way her fluffy vixen tail swished back and forth over the large bed. Eventually, he found his pair of jeans on the ground, along with the blue-boxer briefs, a pair of socks, a t-shirt, belt and jacket.

His phone and wrist communicator were there too, each blinking with an urgent flash of light. Oh no, Panther thought, Katt. He felt a painful, cold lump begin to grow in his stomach. Panther, the love of Katt Monroe's life, had committed adultery. Nausea began to bubble up his throat.

He fought the urge to vomit, swallowing the hot bile back down. Panther exhaled and continued to dress himself while Melissa continued behind him. "You know, I didn't suck your cock for nothing. I thought you'd stay here a little longer and take care of me. I can't remember the last time a guy lasted that long," she purred.

His jacket and shirt clung to him with little resistance. By now, he had completely dressed himself save for his buttoning his jeans. "I can't," Panther said.

He heard a light growl of irritation. "Ugh," she groaned, "you can't give a horny fox like me good dick then just up and leave. Got someone else?" Melissa laughed.

Panther froze. The vixen was joking, sure, but the words stung like nothing else. Someone else. He turned to face her while buttoning his jeans. A weak smile grew over his muzzle. "Melissa," he said, sitting on the edge of her bed, "you were amazing and it was a great time, but I've got to go. Thank you."

He stared deep into the vixen's big, shimmering eyes and waited. Part of him hoped that the gratitude in his voice and sexual flattery would be enough to soothe her irritation. Finally, after a long pause, Melissa smiled and grinned. She placed a soft paw over his bicep and tugged on the fabric of his shirt. "Well, if you're ever around again," Melissa kissed his chin, "stop by and stay a while."

Panther nodded. "Thank you."

"No," she laid back in the bed, her breasts exposed and free, "thank you. I'll let you get going."

He studied her bright pink, firming nipples. Panther didn't remember them being so large and feminine. They weren't obnoxiously oversized, he concluded, but not small or misshapen either. Panther ignored the distant reverberation of sex building in his lap. "You have a good day. It was nice meeting you."

"Until we meet again, handsome," she smirked.

Panther glanced around, scanning for a door. "Uh…"

"Walk straight, then take a left," Melissa pointed, "just lock it behind you, for me."

Panther nodded. "Alright," he said.

After a few moments of gathering his senses, Panther was on his way to the door. He momentarily stopped to hazard a glance over his left, black-furred shoulder, then continued onward out of Melissa's apartment. Somewhere, down in the innards of his gut, he felt pain; he'd done something that Katt would probably never to do him – no, not, probably, certainly would never do – and now had to meet her face to face.

Panther had to lie. Lie to Katt.

What have I done?

He made his way to the hallway's end, surveying the area with heavy eyes and a heavier heart. Paranoia had begun to sweep over him. Ahead, he saw the elevator. Panther tried his best to ignore the emotions in his gut, passing the apartment doors down the corridor before stopping at the elevator doors. He tapped a claw on the buttons, calling it up to his level.

After calling the elevator, he slumped against the wall and exhaled. Panther hadn't the slightest idea of what he'd do when he returned home. Katt would be there, waiting with questions that he didn't want to answer. He had the answers, sure, but he didn't want to provide them.

Because that meant admitting he was a liar. It meant admitting he had hurt her and done so intentionally for the thrill of having some fun, of taking his mind off 'things', whatever those were. It meant admitting he spent some of the last bit of cash they had but, more importantly, admitting they didn't have much money at all. Katt had little understanding of their insolvency woes because he'd hidden its severity from her over the course of several months.

This wasn't going to work. He had to rationalize, had to come up with a plan. What could he do? What was there to do? Hey, calm down – just don't do it again – don't do it again, keep it to yourself, it will be alright – just honor everything from now on…

Panther wondered what sense there was in telling her the truth. If Katt knew everything… what good would come of it? The best course of action was to keep things to himself, no matter how much it hurt, not matter how much agony it caused. It was a self-sacrifice; by protecting Katt from the truth, Panther would have to endure the guilt, the shame, and regret by himself.

He concluded it would have to be that way.

The elevator finally came to a slow halt, its door parting and revealing an empty cabin. Panther stepped inside, turned, and watched the doors shut, closing off the corridor of Melissa's apartment complex. It was symbolic, after all. He was shutting away what had happened and creating new secrets.

It would be the last time Panther saw the corridor to nude Melissa's apartment. Panther punched in LVL1 on the destination panel. He felt something buzz as the elevator reached the ground floor. The phone in his pocket vibrated.

Panther knew who it was. He pulled it from his pocket, scrolling to the most recent text.

Katt: Hey baby, where are you, I didn't see you at home, are you coming home soon?

He quickly responded.

Panther: Of course baby, had to run an errand. I'll be home soon.

Katt replied almost instantaneously. He felt more guilt, more shame clawing away at the back of his throat, chewing on the base of his brainstem and skull. Panther pushed the feelings aside; he had to focus, had to stay on track – letting the negative feelings win would only cause problems, only push him close to revealing…

Katt: I love you so much and I miss you

Panther exhaled again, pushing out the breath of anxiety in his diaphragm. The elevator doors opened, eschewing a view of the lobby. He took a step and fashioned a quick response to Katt. If he didn't reply, she'd keep texting him, keep pushing…

Panther: I love you too, I miss you too

He put the phone in his pocket and found the doors, making his way back onto the streets. The area was familiar. If he took a left, down over by Summoner Way, he'd be on Fifth, which meant the hangar he called home was maybe a mile away.

And a mile further from Melissa, the living evidence of his shame.

She woke in a pool of sweat.

Her fur was matted, tangled together in annoying locks of moist, blue hair and white fluff. She sat up straight, eyes wide and heaving a gasp. She could feel her heart racing, beating so hard against the inside of her chest she thought it might explode. The vixen knew better; physically, she was fine.

Krystal was in good health. Mentally? Not so much. The nightmares, like the one she'd just had, never stopped. They kept coming and meant to kill her one day. She lurched forward, tears welling in her big eyes, curling up into herself. Her face was damp, wet from sweat and the mess of crying on her face.

"No, no, no, no," she frantically muttered to herself.

The nightmares were always the same: Fox left. Fox always left. That happened in real life, but what made the dreams worse was the fact she perpetually relived the moment in her mind. It came as a phantasm; a living vision that consumed her memory by memory, emotion by emotion. Once Krystal had been reduced to nothing but a husk, it would feel full.

It would be satiated, belly stuffed on the remnants of Krystal's sanity...

But then and only then.

The meds were supposed to take it away, but they rarely worked. It was better than nothing, she knew. Without the medication, without the treatment for her PTSD, Krystal would have taken her own life by now. Yet… she was tempted to do it anyway. Things weren't getting better. No, the nightmares had only grown worse.

But they said… they said…

Bullshit. It was all bullshit, Krystal told herself. Fox was gone. Star Fox was done. She was alone and cold in her barely furnished apartment, wrapped beneath sheets that were drenched in a cold sweat. She jutted upward and launched her clawed fist at the nearby alarm clock, smashing the front-facing LCD screen.

"Why!?" she screamed.

There was no response. Krystal screamed again, this time kicking over her laundry basket. Dirty clothes flung around the room, raining in a blizzard of shirts and socks. She made her way to bathroom, trying to catch her breath. Water, I need water, I just need some cold water on my face and I'll snap out of this…

But that was a lie. There was nothing to snap out of, aside from truly grasping the isolating, lonely existence that had become Krystal. She made her way into the bathroom, almost ripping the door open in the process. A cool sensation of nothingness coiled up her spine. She coughed, gagged, and darted for the sink.

Nervous paws spun the handles of the faucet. Icy water poured from the spout, swirling into the sink's drain. Krystal cupped her hands and collected a small pond of tap water in her palms before throwing it on her face. She felt a quick numbness wash over her complexion. The brief temperature change was enough to distract her, though it didn't last for longer than a second.

She gripped her paws along the edges of the white, ceramic sink and exhaled. "I'm okay," she managed, "I'm okay. It's okay."

The mantra was repeated in a hushed voice, each syllable a little softer than the preceding. Her heart had begun to settle. Krystal lifted her head and gazed at the mirror, a face of worry and horror staring back at her. For the first time, she saw the emptiness in her eyes, saw the hollow void that become her soul. Nothing twinkled back.

There was no shimmer in her lonely, desperate face.

She closed her eyes again, snapping them shut and squeezing her lids so tight she thought capillaries would start to burst. That had not happened. Instead, she was greeted by a flash, a quickening blink of some memory, some vision that made her feel like vomiting. Krystal wanted to scream as it played again in her head.

It was Fox's voice. Fox's face.

"I'll never leave you," he had said.

She shook her head. "No, stop it…"

Another vision. She saw him laying in her bed, curled up next to her with doting, romantic eyes, the kind that proclaimed love and endless eternities. The vulpine had something to say, something to croon to her in whispered words. She knew it. "Don't," she sobbed.

"I love you. I'll never leave you. Together…"

Then Krystal remembered what she said next –

MAKE IT STOP

- remembered the way she pressed her lips against his.

"I love you, too. I'll always be with you."

Krystal's eyes shot open again. She screamed.

Howls of agony and pain exploded from her face, bright white fangs bared to the mirror. There was no one in there, no one to assault, no one to scream at… except herself. And that's who she plead with, who she unleashed a torrent of furious anger and depression unto without much care of any consequences.

Unable to withhold her rage, she shot her fist forward and shattered the mirror. The first shard of glass split part of her backhand and the next embedded itself into her elbow. Krystal fell backward onto the tiled floor, gasping. The impact knocked the wind from her sternum, a sharp pain crawling up her spine.

Tears still stinging her eyes, snot still pouring from her nose, she managed her way back to the carpeted floor of her bedroom. She wailed and howled, unable to reconcile the flood of emotions and memories that were rushing through her head.

"Make it stop!" she shouted.

Yet it did not stop. Krystal felt her energy began to deplete, felt the will to carry on and fight the torrent of excruciating, despondent nostalgia vanished. Finally, she was at the bed. Unable to stand, she leaned against the side of her mattress and plucked out the glass from her arm and hand.

The wound was still fresh. Warm, red fluid spilled from the gash. She reached for the nightstand and pulled out the only first aide kit she had and sought the cotton wraps, the bandages, and antiseptic. She wrapped, wrapped, wrapped some more, and wrapped again until pressure alone had ceased the bleeding.

Krystal knew she'd need stitches to mend the wounds. She'd need to clean the carpet, wipe down the bathroom, and throw away whatever towels she used to mop up the crimson blood. That was okay. The red didn't bother her, nor did the gore.

But the memories kept coming, kept teasing at her with a sick malice that only her deepest inner demons appreciated. "Make it stop," she muttered.

"I love you," Fox had said again somewhere in the back of her brain.

"Make it stop," she said again.

Fox, or rather the memory of Fox, only repeated how much he loved Krystal. He continued, reciting the verses and promises to never leave her side and the swears to always be with her ad infinitum. Krystal would tell him – it – to stop every time, though her words had lost any weight.

The powerful rage and cries of defiance against her flashbacks had been muted, reduced to whimpers. As she sat on the floor, cradling the wounds on her arms and tending to the scabs on the flesh of her elbow, she stared.

She stared at the blank wall ahead of her, panting quietly to herself. Eventually, she realized night had ended. Lylat's sun had risen, casting golden rays into the room. Morning came. Never did it ask Krystal if she was ready to face its harsh daylight, nor did it particularly care if the blue vixen was prepared or not.

She wasn't ready to start the day, wasn't ready to feel what she felt, wasn't ready to recall and remember everything – no, Krystal wasn't prepared for anything at all. So instead, she sat and bargained with herself. Maybe, if she kept repeating it, it would stop.

So that's what she did.

"Make it stop," Krystal said.

"I love you," the memory replied.

"Make it stop," Krystal said again.

"I'll never leave you," the memory cooed.

"Make it stop," Krystal repeated.