The precious beings of this earth can only take so much boredom, and so much ennui, until they are basically deprived of any excitement.
Waking up day after day, routine after routine, same job, same old spices to keep you from going crazy, gets increasingly tiring the more you stick with the same formula. Quenching it with a vacation every once in a while can do the trick, for a bit, but then you long for your old bed. Missing the things you've left behind to fix yourself.
Then, you go back to the way things were, and it gets boring again. There's a slim chance you have all the money in the world, but just when you think you have nothing left to worry about, you come to realize that hating the rich has become natural. No money? Depending on where you live, invisibility.
Some people, whether they're good at maintaining themselves or not, just hate their life, their essence, their fiber.
People like Lafawnda, however? Take some of that rolled into a burrito, with some "sleep deprivation" sauce and a side bowl of too many questions. As a matter of fact, that's what she was doing right now.
Tossing and turning in her bed, despondent but not afraid, asking herself the same question on loop like a broken record. Why am I such an asshole? Whenever she spoke with her family, she always had this jaded, lopsided attitude, which is the opposite of what she had intended. She wishes she could regulate her tone right for once in her miniscule life.
Creed? Not just a roommate, but her best friend that she wouldn't trade for the world. Even so, she still didn't show him enough appreciation like she should've. Now, she's dispirited. And all she could've done was just not spark that spiteful argument in the other room from her. Creed was annoying and a pain in the ass to deal with at times, especially when she's trying to relax or just talk with her long-distanced friends, but telling him that she wishes he never lived with her? Saddening, indeed.
What she is soon to awake to, however, will be a dreaded reminder of the consequences if she didn't take life by its antlers soon enough.
Slap.
She felt a piercing red swipe shock her awake within an instant. She couldn't see anything at all upon waking up. Kaleidoscopes of blur fogging up her eyes, a bright, shining light from a wall ahead glazing in her direction. At first, she thought she had died in her sleep by some sort of cardiac arrest or, dare she think it, a "broken heart," but when her vision finally became clear, she was greeted with him. The ingrate who stalked her, standing in this dingy, cold little cellar.
Clad with a heavily buckled gimp suit, pointy ears drooping behind his leather-encased, sweaty head. The teeth locked in a wrinkled, gross sneer full of plaque, dirt, and sticky saliva. Whatever this thing was, spoke.
"In all my years of being… here, I'll be realistic with you, I've almost never missed."
Trailing off he went, waltzing around Lafawnda's roped body, and biting his lip at the sheer sight of it all. His fingertip ran down the side of her head.
"Yep, never. I've been poked in the face with knives, yes. Hit with a car, most definitely. Literally strapped down to a bed and mutilated, by a 'fan?' Sure, it happened only once, but I'm inclined to believe it would be just a Tuesday for me, y'know?"
"Even then, I've always found a way to approach the situation with my knuckles cracked. Every situation that I started. You're probably asking yourself why I'm doing this to begin with, are you?"
Lafawnda's breath shot out of her in an instant once that stuffy, hot line of tape was torn away from her mouth. Instead of shivering like most reasonable people would, she rolled her eyes.
"HUFF- mph… I dunno, did your mom have one too many ciggies while you were still in there?"
"Huh, pretty mouth you've got there, Miss Young. Dirty and spiteful, just the way I like it. It'll make this all the more thrilling."
"I wish I was surprised that you know my name, but my ID was next to my bed, so-"
"Far from that, baby. I'll give you a couple of hints. Smart guy? Musclehead?"
At that moment, everything became clear to her. Those two names alone brought back shitty memories for Lafawnda, way back in high school. The loser who worked out just to get ladies instead of focusing on his well-being. The dork who would cry if no one gave him the time of day. It must've been him.
"Catrina?"
Stepping into view, he revealed his unshaded form. Orange and white fur, with a mucky tail, teeth marks scattered in its center.
"Fresh as ever."
Lafawnda smirked. "Well, damn. I wouldn't call you 'fresh,' but I haven't heard from you in like a decade. How's your depressing little fuck-hunt going? Still haven't broken that teething habit?"
The still-nerd felt a shock of hidden disgust rise from his soul, his tail stiffening. Catrina was brought up to be a pathetic little virgin back in twelfth grade, pulling just about any tactic in the book to get some of that.
His personality changed overtime. From being just a lame know-it-all who drools at the thought of coming home to his computer, and munches on his rump for stress relief, to an embodiment of desperation. Mixing archetypes, joining the sports team and barely trying. Nothing worked, not until the preppy Wendy went missing.
Deep down in his mind, he couldn't wait to desecrate and break the reindeer from all over. Giving his sweet thrashings to the feisty ones made his skin flush. He sucked the air between the gaps of his sharp cuspids.
"Hey, it's complicated, but I've been getting what I want! I've found love… a couple of times, but still, I practically reek of it. What have you been doing that's so special? Where's the love of your life, hm? Your birdbrained pothead roommate doesn't count."
"Sure. I'll believe it when I see it-"
Lafawnda's face turned a sickly green once Catrina's finger pressed against her lips to shush her. "I'm gonna stop you right there. You won't get to see it. Not because I'm lying, but there's half a chance you won't even be breathing by then."
The chair that the reindeer woman was seated in suddenly spun with force, stopping in front of a dark, wooden table. Wide and circular, fitting enough for a dinner date. In the center, illuminated by the lightbulb above, sat a Smith and Wesson revolver.
"Remember when you played in the Chess Club, Young?"
"Uh… yeah, what of it?"
"I loved watching you from the back of the bleachers. You were so careful and strategic, so skillful and focused. I take it you love to play games, don't you?"
A moment of quietness.
"I bet you long for something more challenging than playing with a checkerboard. Well, today, I'll be giving you that. We're going to be playing a game that requires luck. A game where you have no choice but to trust your gut. If you die, you die."
"Cool."
"I mean, I can always just stomp your face in right here-"
"Let's play. I wanna go back to sleep."
"...wow, that was quick. No hesitation, no second thoughts. You're just like how I remember you being back in high school. Aren't you afraid of death, sweetheart?"
"I don't know, let's find out. I won't fight you, and I won't cheat my way out of winning. If I do either, feel free to kill me right then and there. At least I'll get rest out of it either way."
"That's the spirit!"
As Catrina untied her, Lafawnda internally taunted herself. She had care for those she grew close to, but not enough of it. She was rude to her parents, rude to her best friend, and on a worse day, ignorant to people she didn't know on a personal level.
She knew that one of these days, everyone would see her at her funeral, mourn, celebrate her life, but will that be the only day she's missed? Does her family genuinely think about her when she's not there? Most importantly, will she ever change her attitude? Probably, probably not. In the end, she saw herself as a mere spec on this planet.
The cylinder whirled. The hammer cocked. The players faced off, knowing how slim their chances are at survival.
"Let's set the stage first. One, you can pull the trigger on yourself. Two, you can aim the barrel at me, but you must turn it back onto you. Three, you're allowed to respin the chamber, but only if you discharge it on yourself afterward. If you place the gun down, you end your turn. Simple, right?"
Lafawnda scoffed. "A monkey would understand this."
"Slow down, smartass. If you think my game is so boring, you are inclined to make it fun. In any plausible way you please. If you have any ideas, feel free to spitball them anytime. Now, are we going to sit here and chat until we rot, or kick this off already?"
The reindeer sighs. Her true fear wasn't shown visibly, but there was still a smidge of it left inside of her aching soul. It didn't quell her anxiety when her scissors were beaten by a rock, that's for sure.
It was her turn. She might as well start off simple, right? Guide herself with intuition, and have an ounce of faith in her thought bubble. She reflected; there couldn't have been a bullet in that first hole. Then again, it might be right under her temple without her knowing.
Her hoof pushed down, opposite fingers crossed in her pocket, and out came a tiny click. No shot. She places the gun back down, not feeling a lick of relief for her tense head.
The dork held in his laughter, a snarl crawling over his face like an insect. "Heheh, we're off to a wonderful start. Gimme that."
Catrina's crooked, eager fist yanked the revolver from Miss Young's direction, and he jammed the barrel into his humid, soupy mouth. Same physique as her, but his mind echoed, pleading for him to make the right decision.
Pull it. No, pull it on her first. No, pull it, then spin. Stop it, Catrina. Make up your damn mind.
Click. An ill breath shot out of his lungs once he dropped the firearm. His annoying chuckles filled the room, bouncing back to the pair. Lafawnda eyed the barrel with revulsion, the tip now soaked with his slobber. Only God knows what sort of diseases must be flowing through his DNA.
Her turn came up, and she winced. This time, she held it slightly away from her pterion.
"Oh yeah, forgot to tell you! If you're gonna respin the chamber, shut your eyes first. If you look, close it and blast yourself. I'm not gonna let you play dirty."
Catrina's ears twitched in excitement, just musing on about possibly getting her cadaver early. Whispers of those he had wronged reigned through his ears like fine music, but he never let it get to him. Not even the voices of his first friend.
His fingers curled tightly around his leathery collar, after about a minute of Lafawnda's hesitation to think of what her next move would be.
"Well? What are you waiting for, your birthday?! Hurry up already-"
"Learn patience."
The gun turned right up to Catrina's nose, and he'd cringe at that pinprick-sized metallic hole, nothing more than a slot machine, deciding their fate for them. Click, nothing. What a waste of a shot, all because the poor deerie tried to act tough.
Click again. Nothing. Lafawnda moaned, wondering if there was even a bullet in this chamber since she got here. She didn't care if she died at this point, she just wanted the game to be over. Rid of its piercing trepidation.
Onto Catrina, yet again. Just as he was about to shoot, he stroked his chin, wiggling his eyebrows in his opponent's direction, before shutting his eyes. With his thumb on the release, he flicks the revolver by its handle, unloading its cylinder.
It spins, randomizing the chamber. Click, no shot. The fox sighs a perverted wheeze.
"I bet you find this tedious. Monotonous. Mm-mm, I bet, I bet, I bet. Well, keep in mind that I'm willing to make it more fun, like I said. That is if you give me a proper suggestion."
"Don't tighten your mask too hard, gimp. I decide when I want to."
"Hey, just throwing something out there is all!"
Click after click, spin after spin. Six whole minutes of playtime flew by like a comet. The more their turns progressed, the more tired they became. Catrina was struggling not to pry his teeth out from the boredom, while his opponent had a more pissed-off look.
It was her ninth turn already. Lafawnda's teeth grinded against her wet lip, wrestling her urge to just quit and let him kill her right then and there. Though there were some slight differences here and there, every turn felt like the same thing. Winding in a big circle.
With all the thinking she had left, she paused before she could fire in her skull. She caught notice of a small lump in the slicker's handmade zipper pocket. A small, dirty object comparable to a rod poked out from its top.
The realization hit her harder than a truck ever could.
"Fine, let's make this quick."
Catrina snapped awake. "Gah-huh? Wha-"
"Empty your pocket. Right there, on your hip. Everything, on the table."
"Woah, I don't know what stunt you're pulling, but you can save it for when you give up if you want."
"I said empty. Now."
"Fine, damn!"
One at a time, the fox's fingers dipped into his zipper, and pulled out a small object, one of which he stuck back in for safe keeping. There was barely anything in there, but from what the deer could see, he had exactly what she was looking for. Hoping for.
On the table lay three items: a small bar of chocolate fit for a trick-or-treat bucket, a burner phone, and the ultimate communicator. A second cylinder for the revolver.
Right before Catrina's very eyes, Lafawnda popped open the gun, keeping the chamber out of her view like the rules stated. She felt around for the second cylinder, before shaking its contents loose.
Miss Young smiled from ear-to-ear, wide as can be. Clink. In went a second, brass-coated, .38 special. One extra bullet, just for the two of them.
The chamber cycled oncemore. The glimpse of that closer chance of life or death made the sweating bastard nervously guffaw. His clenched mitt whammed against the wooden table they sat in front of, the stained walls reverberating his unpleasant, shivering laughter.
"You can't be serious! You… h-heh, you are an idiot! An idiot, I tell you!"
"That's it, keep talking…"
Lafawnda muttered under her breath before two clicks were heard. One aimed at her challenger. Luck must be in the air of this room tonight, because no shot came out. The revolver slid over, its grip tapping against his knuckle. Her fingers tightly gripped onto the back of her shirt. Wringing, hoping that everything works out the way she wants.
"Huff… your turn, fuckboy."
First assumption that Catrina had made was the likeliness of the next pull being empty. Pointing the barrel at himself made his whole body shudder. With a face that said, "I hope you're proud of yourself, you sadistic bitch," he was about to squeeze, but stopped when he noticed Lafawnda looking down at herself, her breaths getting heavier by the minute.
She read through her mental notes, reminding herself of all the times she wasn't a dick. The moments where she actually helped her family, or Creed, or even her friends online when they were falling under hard times. Whether it be trying to search for a new occupation or just feeling hopeless.
Just because she isn't what she used to be a decade ago, doesn't mean she can't change for the better. Her emotions surely will be mixed by the time she makes progress, if she lives.
If she doesn't, then at least she died with worth. Finally receiving what she longed for the most. A simple change of heart, in spite of her imperfections. She wouldn't ask for flowers or prayers. Finally getting a good night's rest is all she'd ever want. Yet all that the gimp ever wanted was more thrills. To quench the languor. That chronic void of boredom, even if it takes pouring his blood and sweat into trying.
Catrina growls, believing he just found the perfect way to exploit his dirty tactics. No attention, no distractions. One quick peek to his side, entirely unfocused on anything else, the empty hole was beheld.
Click.
Brittle giggles shot out of his throat, slowly turning into cackles. A single tear shed from his pinkened eye. Lafawnda's hawk-like stare gazed through his heart, as her lips curled into an even wider smile. One that was unbearable to ever think of putting on again.
"Hey… Catrina?"
"Heh, hoho… yep? What's wrong, scared?"
"Why should I be? You're the one who forgot his own customs."
"H-hah, what the hell are you talking about?"
"Think about everything you said to me one more time." Lafawnda's sneer weakened, and she carefully placed her palm on the table, inching towards Catrina's side of the barrier. "For one, you forgot to clarify a few things. Patch a few holes, if you will."
"Share them, then!"
"You are so goddamn gullible… point the gun at you? Ace. Point it back on me? Gotcha. I listened to everything you said, point A to B. However, you didn't say we HAD to end our turn after our attempts, right? I could've squeezed the handle on you twice if I could've, but no, you said you didn't want me to play dirty. I obliged."
"Ugh, you know exactly what I meant-"
"Speaking of playing dirty! I fucking saw you peek at the chamber, moron. Not only did you go against that… but you told me that once you place the gun down, that's the end of your turn, am I not wrong?"
Squeeze. The hammer is reeled back, and one vacant click is unloaded, her smile fading into a relentless frown. "Look at what you did."
The entire room fell silent, as the barrel was pointed directly at Catrina's ugly mug. Lafawnda was emotionless, unfeeling toward this ordeal, but the gimp? Fuming with rage. He could've easily not emptied his pocket, but he was certain that she might've still fucked him over in the end. His lungs were ready to explode.
Lafawnda raised an eyebrow. "Ready to see what 'playing dirty' feels like when it's not on someone else?"
Catrina yanks a small, rusted key out from his pocket and chucks it at Miss Young, full force. "You… heheh, you think this'll all go out how you want it, huh? You- Y-YOU SSSSSLUT?! Congratulations, you've got me. Big fucking whoop, but this'll haunt you for the rest of your life, and you know it will…"
"Uh huh."
"You're gonna have to live with the fact that you murdered someone! You're gonna have to live with the cops on the hunt for YOU! You're going to live knowing that I'm someone's baby! Someone's pride! SOMEONE'S JOY-"
Bam.
The pop rang out. It wasn't enough to escape the house, but the noise definitely drove a few birdies outside to scramble in fright. Catrina's back slammed against the frigid, rough wall, and he quickly slid down to his bottom.
No final breaths taken, just his head slumping to his right. His diseased fangs scattered and infected the floor further, his lifeblood pouring out of him like a raging river.
Lafawnda holstered the gun in her sweatpants, hiding it under her shirt, but not before checking for stains. Her hope was answered when she found only a single droplet coating the tip of her foot. She sighs.
"If you're gonna die, then die. Don't meander."
It took her a few minutes to check the place for an exit, but imagine her surprise when she discovered where this place was really located. Upstairs, she was greeted with a decrepit, wooden door. Then, upon being opened, a bookcase that she soon ended up tilting over.
Some poor lady's house, huh? What a spectacle. Surprisingly well-decorated, with a pretty rose carpet, a little square TV, it had everything that a classic home could ever contain. She felt bad having to defile the floors, but she had to ensure that her prints aren't identified. Good thing there's a clean rag next to the sink for the doorknobs.
One hour passes.
Lafawnda steps into her apartment, and she finally feels pure relief from today. Her own home, sweet and memorable. Her laptop sitting on her rocking chair like it always is, the TV on 50% volume, Creed lazing about watching daytime television, it was perfect.
No more fears, no more tears.
Shortly after hiding the revolver under her bed, she seats herself next to Creed, and an awkward ambience fills the room. The only two sounds audible being the ceiling fan, and That '70s Show blaring from the small screen in front of them.
"Where have you been? I didn't think you had places to go this early in the morning."
"I… didn't think I was getting enough exercise lately. That really pretty nature trail just opened up a couple of miles away. Thought it would enlighten my spirits a bit."
"Wait, did you run all the way there? Damn, no wonder you smell like wet dog."
"Hush."
The crow and caribou didn't even feel like chuckling with each other right now. That argument from last night sure did a number on the two. He must've been devastated by what she had said.
Still surprised that he was even concerned when she walked in, Lafawnda does the only subtle thing she can to convince him. To show that without him in her life, her misery would skyrocket.
Her arm wraps around his shoulders. "Um… I didn't mean what I said. Like, at all."
"I know. Why do you think I stuck around? You're all I've got right now, man. I don't really like my coworkers."
"They aren't at the shop to make friends, Creed."
"I wish they were. I wish. Oh yeah, sorry for getting on your nerves, by the way-"
"Don't apologize… you don't need to."
Their weary gaze was suddenly averted by a breaking news report. Watching it, Lafawnda couldn't help but feel warm on the inside.
"FLASH! Investigators have announced that the infamous gimp-suited serial killer of Weltschmerz, coining the name "The Leatherbelly Slasher" by users online, and being well-known for the murders of several young, adult women, has been found dead this afternoon in what appears to be a hidden cellar."
"He has been identified as 29-year-old Catrina Bowen. According to Catrina's biological mother, Angela, she arrived home from her daycare job to find her foundation flooded, with every doorknob wiped clean, likely of DNA."
Poor Angela's tear-sodden face showed up on screen, microphone held by a reporter out-of-view. "I-I don't understand, we went to church every Sunday! He was such a sweet boy, he had so many friends at that ministry?! He kissed me goodnight… h-he kissed me goodnight! And I didn't even ask him for it!"
"To the families who have been affected by Catrina, and to his family as well, we can assure that justice has officially been served, and your worries are over. May your loved ones rest well..."
Creed tilted his head back and let out an exasperated groan. "Finally! It ain't much, but it's one less monstrosity off the planet…"
Lafawnda gently beamed. "God, a gimp suit? He must've loved himself a lot."