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Scifi and Fantasy Forum: Writer's Showcase: SF/F Short Stories:
Hair of the Dog
Hair of the Dog
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I opened my eyes to darkness. The pain came close behind, buzzing across my skin. I had fallen with a slash, like a blade, severing the air. I lay on my stomach, arms sprawled, hands naked against the chill, my body a crumpled tissue. Dazedly I felt it—the angry, arrogant slice; fire across my cheek. My glasses were gone.
It had been deathly icy that day, the sort of ice that darkened the cement, turning the pathway into an ominous one. It was out of desperation I had made the journey—desperation at the thought of losing my sanity—my reason.
Carefully I pulled myself up, wind slapping against my skin. I looked above, greeted by the unsheathed stars; a mesh of white smears against the night sky. I would have found it romantic if I didn't suspect a concussion. If it hadn't occurred to me that I was still in danger.
My mouth was filled with coppery metallic, renegade blood from my cheek. Disgusted, I spat, watching thick saliva plummet into darkness. I was lost against the cold, the gnawing teeth of winter. Another hysterical old man, another drifting, drowning waif.
In a day or so someone would stumble onto my body. Perhaps a snow mobilier or cross-country skier. My silvery white hair would be matted with blood, woolen coat frozen against my skin. They would call in Christopher to identify the body, and he would deny it was me. He would tell them his father was a scholar; that I was much too smart to die like that.
I am renowned for my intelligence. I have memorized volumes of history, immersing myself in hundreds of maps and cultures. My knowledge of such delves back many centuries, extending into the far reaches of the dawn of time. I was delighted when Christopher told me he wanted to be a doctor. Stunned, however, as I had tried to avoid them my whole life. I was a man of history, not medicine. But I digress; the boy has healer's hands.
I took a few more steps. My vision had begun to betray the woods, blurring it into brambly snarls. Carefully I inched forward, the grip of my rubber boots waning with every steep. Miles of the bike trail awaited me, and I could feel the presence; eclipsed within the darkness.
"Piss," I muttered. My lips were frozen. Two numb rubber slabs. Dr. Anderson has no lips. I smacked them twice. Briskly, I rubbed my hands together, pressing them against my skin; the blood still wet upon my face. I had to keep moving, had to escape my grizzly thoughts: Dr. Lucas Anderson; snowman. Dr. Lucas Anderson; icicle.
"Daley—Daley," I halted a moment, catching my breath. The house was a good seven miles behind me; the outside world a mere four. I could feel the damp against my cheek, could feel the bruises where my body had collided with the pavement; down, down, down, and then the darkness, and then the night.
I had seen the dog this morning. It had been the second time this week. He had been out to greet me, tail swishing wildly, purple collar hugging his neck. His favorite time of the day had always been mid morning, the perfect time to sun himself; mangy black hair absorbing the rays; lapping them up lustfully.
Daley and I have walked the path many times. Especially after Chris moved away, leaving the house empty; forcing me to accept my identity. It had left a bitter taste in my mouth, far worse than the blood. There I was; an old, wifeless man, a retired professor who spent his free time reading and listening to records. So desolate had been my outlook that I felt empty of meaning, devoid of purpose. Dr. Lucas Anderson; insignificant. Dr. Lucas Anderson; a joke. I had spent my whole life trying to make a difference. And now it meant nothing.
"••••! Bloody! Piss!" My second meeting with the ground. A luscious surge of pain followed, jolting my nerves as I slumped over. I was braced by my palms, leering over the ice. "••••," I shouted, letting it roll out into the darkness. How delicious it had felt. A triumph, saying such a nasty, honest word. "••••!" my stomach lurched, expelling its contents.
What an old, ugly man I was. The product of a thrust for knowledge with a humble, isolated beginning. What I had really wanted to do with my life was become an archeologist. To explore the worlds of ancient cultures, unearthing new information and insights. In short; making history. Alas, it was not to be. I ended up forfeiting, staying in my small home town. My dreams of adventure had been relinquished, though never quite dead.
I’ve written articles for the paper. Informative, illustrative commentary on the town history. Mainly the life and times of our founding fathers, and the ever illustrious Native Americans. In other words, puff pieces. They are designed to take up space, spreading ink across our local gazette, providing evidence of culture. I find this funny, as my liver-spotted face is pictured close behind. Nothing says sophistication like a prehistoric historian. Dr. Lucas Anderson; dinosaur.
I tried calling Christopher before I left this morning. It had been two months since I had seen him, seven since he had moved out of the house. A week ago had I found a note, a confession. It had been waiting for me in the study, scrawled across a notebook, in huge, anxious lettering.
“Dad, I’m gay,” it read, followed by an explosion; a collision of dry, stagnant statements of guilt, and a profession of love and gratitude. He had known for a long time. He had known, and he had lied to me. Realization struck. This was why he had moved away, the reason he had insisted upon leaving the house. He wanted to have lovers. He wanted to be a queer.
I was walking again, shuffling along the path. I imagined the look on his face when he saw me, when he realized what he had done. Then he would come back to me. He would come back, and give up these notions of his, fantasies he had been polluted with. His father had gone through hell for him, his father was slowly dying.
I was not to die this way. Though I knew it would be soon. Why else had I seen Daley, out in our yard, tail swishing wildly? There was no other explanation. The dog had come for me, had wanted me to go with him. And so I panicked, hoping it was an illusion; an old man’s mind playing tricks on him. Something curable, tangible. Dr. Lucas Anderson; head case. Better than ••••••, better than a dead man.
I killed Daley a few weeks ago. It had taken two shots, using my pistol grip twelve gauge. The poor bastard had sat beside me as I drove to the place, wagging his tail. He knew the woods well, we had hunted there before. Bang! Bang! And then a sickening thud, and then the silence. The snow had been covered in blood, and I left him there, going mad at the sight. Dr. Lucas Anderson; murderer.
Cancer in animals is nearly untreatable. The veterinarian had offered me alternatives, but I declined. What was the point? It would have been cruel of me to prolong his death. And so I took him out quietly, responsibly. I hadn’t anticipated my emotions, hadn’t realized how much I cared.
I was afraid of what was behind me. I desperately wanted to talk with Christopher, to tell him I loved him, that I needed him. I wanted to escape this fear, this torment. I was not a bad person. I was not a bad father. If I was delusional, if this was insanity, I could stop it. I could find a new foothold for reality, I could make an escape.
“An apple a day…..” the insane rantings of a cold, dying, man. Clearly, my cognitive state had been impeded by irrational thoughts. Yes, this must be the case. Crazy Dr. Anderson was seeing his dead dog, waiting, just beyond the path. I stopped, not daring to move. His large slate eyes studied me, appraising.
"Daley—Daley," I spoke the words gently, coaxingly. He began to pace, midnight mane shining under the moonlight. “Daley,” The dog stopped, turning to face me. Glowering, he bowed his head, baring a mouthful of teeth. My heart rocketed with fear. This was not a manifestation; this was not a cruel production of my mind. Dr. Lucas Anderson; mauled to death. Dr. Lucas Anderson; dog meat.
Thanks for reading.
Posted By:  Aslan Feb 09, 2005 - 12:45 pm |       | Pretty good. Definitely not a pick-me up, though. 
I like your style. The "Dr Lucas Anderson..." is a nice repetetive bit that ties the narrative together stylistically with some humor to boot. It's a good piece about the transition to death. Appropriate tone.
I skimmed over a lot of the stuff about Lucas's career. It just didn't seem relevant.
A nice short! Thanks for sharing!
Thanks
Sigh, I sort of feel as though it might have lost some of it's punch due to the censorship. *sigh.
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