God, I have a thing for writing depressing one-shots, don't I?
Speaking of shots...
Judy Hopps never really liked the cold.
It made sense; She'd been raised on a farm, and cold usually meant they couldn't grow crops, or even just farm, due to the biting cold during winters, and that it makes the dirt roads harder to drive on.
And the fact that she'd lost siblings to it.
But, alas, she did like some things cold.
Like ice cream, although it was a little weird eating something that came from a cow, but she could see past it. Or cold pillows during the summers in the crowded, hot, city. Or, cold water.
Alcohol was good cold, too, but honestly, the temperature of whatever garbage she drank didn't matter when the memories were coming back and the regrets are seeping in about how she never told him how she felt, but how he told her in his final breath and now she just needs something to help her forget all the blood, the sounds of bullets ripping apart soft red fur, soon to become cold and ever the more red. Something to make her seem like she isn't - scratch that - hasn't been broken since he left. But the doe knows she can't just end it all like she's wanted to for so long, because she's an role model, and role models don't off themselves.
But sometimes, she just hopes, prays, even, that everyone would just forget about her, and just let her fade into obscurity so people would be surprised when they find out she was found with a bullet through her brain, and a 44. in her paw.
The cold makes crying difficult, too.
Credits to Combat Engineer for beta-ing this.