The Madness of the Fox

John Junius drives his creaky old Taurus down Jasper's bend, which is also called called County Road 15, according to his outdated GPS-- the one with the tinny British accent.

She declares: "When possible, make a legal u-turn."

"No,

Shut up,"

He unplugs her. He does not want to go home.

Anywhere but there.

He tugs the corner of his beard, nervously, obsessively.

He feels a bad hair.

It bothers him-- a dull ache. It feels oddly dense, like a horse hair.

It’s wrong, it doesn't belong.

He plucks it. He knows he shouldn't but it is too late.

He places his disobedient hand back on the wheel.

He drives but his mind occupies an emptier place, a place of drifting trees and tail lights and snaking roadlines-- dashes in his high beams.

This drive is to settle his nerves. Any time life dumps a truck load of steamy shit onto the flat of his bald head, he drives.

He needs the distraction— the escape.

His fingertips rove through that corner of his beard.

Trichotillomania-- compulsive plucking. It only flares up when he’s overwhelmed.

Still, often enough to leave him a repulsive, patchwork beard.

He thinks of his wife, Joanna. Whom he still tries to love.

He plucks another crinkly beard hair.

He thinks of her and hurts.

She’s still beautiful. But he no longer enjoys her.

He used to joke that their names made them sound like a fairy tale couple: John and Joanna Junius.

Now their names sound so tedious to his ear.

He does not want to go home to her.

She will tell him their lives are falling apart.

She will say banking in the red is too much stress, and she'll say that she never thought her life would end up like this.

If he goes home, he will hear these condemnations.

She'll make him feel weak.

Worthless.

And he'll withdraw, so she'll resent him all the more.

And he'll wonder why she can't see how hard he's working.

He'll think: it's because she's entitled. It's because she's an idiot.

And he'll resent her too, all to give his masticated ego a break from perpetual self-gnawing.

He tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

Maybe if he'd worked a little harder and kissed a little more ass he wouldn't have been first on the chopping block when his bosses started cutting hours.

He thinks about the bulge in Joanna's belly, he regrets putting it there.

And that thought skewers him with the chill of guilt.

He'd always wanted to be a dad.

But they're too broke for that bulge.

He cannot provide. He is not enough.

He groans, and stares at the lights beaming towards him.

Oncoming traffic.

How easy, it would be... to tweak the wheel towards those lights, and just bring his struggle to a crashing end.

He stays, the lights pass him by.

He doesn't want to hear her interrogations: 'how many apps did you send today? Did you get any calls?'

His resume is trash and his psych degree offers no help.

He hought he'd done a good job on the writing, but there's only so much polish one can put on a turd. Maybe some recruiter would read and think 'hey, that guy's not bad with words.' but the next thought would undoubtedly be, 'too bad he's mediocre.'

They'd keep his application "on file".

John knew.... that was only ever a polite way of saying, "don't you fucking dare reapply. We don't want you!"

But whenever he'd try to talk to Joanna, she'd berate him for giving up too easy-- for having no gumption.

Once, he'd told her he'd sent manuscripts to publishers, he'd thought she'd be proud. Of him. For daring to dream.

Now it's embarassing to remember his own enthusiasm... it fells like an alien organism-- distant, beyond comprehension.

The pain of rejection is still palpable too-- bitter and astringent.

Not the rejections from publishers-- that he'd been prepared for-- but the rejection from his wife.

He looks out his side window, to the darkness and the wilderness beyond.

And his reflection looms, a dim-lit ghost rising out of the night and the weeds, wide eyed and pleading.

He hates his face.

He looks away, back to the road, but he cannot drive away the memory: telling his wife he wouldn't give up. Her sigh. Her hand on his chest... her voice, "But let's not put all our eggs in one basket. For every writing submission you send, you really should finish four regular job apps."

She had to have seen him wilt. "I'm just being practical. You're a good writer, but lots of great writers never make it. They all work regular jobs. Let's be realistic."

So he had killed his dream, swallowed its broken body down deep, buried it in his gut.

He no longer writes. His manuscripts lay in the dark.

John thinks about Joanna's bulge, he watches the headlights bear down on him.

Finally he jerks the wheel-- back into his own lane with a tremble.

He can't go out that way, that would destroy some other person's life-- that other driver might still have hopes and prospects.

He must go out clean, his exit must harm no one.

He thinks again about that living bulge and knows he can't go out at all.

A harmless exit is impossible.

He makes no bother to wipe the tears that trickle down into his ragged beard, but he does pluck another hair.

How good it would feel to quit.

He issues a kind of pitiful groan, it claws its way up from the pit of the stomach and buzzes behind his teeth.

He has to find another goddamned motherfucking job.

But what if nobody will hire him?

What if somebody does?

Then, a dangerous, secret fantasy occurs to him. What if he just loosed anchor, for... a while.

He's too tired too provide and too broken to be a dad, so what if he left, to heal?

A slumming sort of sabbatical.

If he just walked away from it all, took a year to wander with no obligations... Leaving Joanna would be a blessed relief.

He could heal himself.

But...

Could he ever come back?

Other dads had left-- driven away by the weight of it all.

Did they ever return? Could they be received?

Could they be forgiven?

Deep down he knows: the shame would keep him away.

So he has to stay, tough it out, man-up, hunker down, weather it all.

John shakes his head and tightens his weary knuckles on the wheel but the muscles in his arms still feel loose and liquid and weak.

"Snap out of it, you fuckin' pussy." He bites the inside of his cheek. "Depression isn't a real thing you fucking baby."

His countenance blurs, and his eyes flare.

The unfairness of it all pumps a little blood into his veins.

He grits his teeth.

Time to head home.

He'll send one application... and, fuck it all: maybe an old manuscript!

He hopes Joanna is asleep.

Then, he hopes she's not and he hopes she's horny.

Not for any special love of her-- but for a need of his own: to take control of something soft. A power-fuck could be the cure for feeling so immaterial.

Then: a metallic ping under the car, and a jolt on the steering wheel-- a bump. Just like that, he remembers... he's driving.

He swerves to shoulder and curses.

What if there's damage to his piece of shit car?

Worse...

What if he's hit somebody's pet.

He lets out a little groan. He does not want to know but he needs to look.

He lets out a wild, flailing prayer to the universe: Let it be a branch. Not a pet. Not a pet. Not some poor kid's pet!

He gets out, uses the flashlight on his phone.

There is a shadow, behind his car, there in the nighttime mist.

There is fur.

He admits a feeling of nausea.

"No, fucking God."

He knows he must look closer, but he hates each step.

He inches.

He flinches too.

And in the light he sees a cat-- no, even worse: it's a small dog.

"Please not a puppy."

He groans, rolls his eyes, wishes a way out.

He swallows, with effort, against the dryness in his mouth.

And he shines the fullness of the light.

It's reddish fur stands clean and plush, but there is blood on the asphalt.

A leg twitches, the poor thing tries to rise.

It falls.

John feels the bile frothing in his gut, he runs back to the car, leans against the tail light and heaves onto the red-lit road.

He looks back, the animal is squirming.

He thinks about calling a vet.

But he can see the ruined torso from here. This animal has no hope, it needs mercy.

He thinks about calling the police. But they'll take time to arrive.

This dog can't be left in agony-- John needs to do something.

He goes to his car to look for a knife or hammer.

All he finds is a screwdriver.

He picks it up and it is heavy in his palm.

He walks back to the tortured creature.

He hesitates.

Is this really his call? Even if putting this dog out of it's misery is the right choice, is it his to make?

He needs to check for tags. See if there's a way to call the owner.

He sets the screwdriver in his pocket, returns with the light.

But he sees no collar. It must be buried in the fur.

John's lip curls in disgust-- and apprehension. He needs to look closer, he needs to look with his hands. But this panicked, dying dog might lash out and bite.

He looks at its snout and at its ears and realizes why there's no collar.

He leaps back-- that's not a dog! It's A Fox.

How hadn't he realized?

John looks at the moon, he looks at his tail lights, he curses the dark, and he shines his phone light again.

The Fox is looking right at him, with a piercing, defiant glare.

"I'm sorry."

He says it and he means it, but The Fox accepts no condolences.

There is a little blood, gurgling out of The Fox's mouth-- the bubbles crawl down Its muzzle.

And John realizes he can hear each crackling breath.

"Holy shit."

He takes the screw driver back out of his pocket. There's nobody else to lean on-- no owner, no cops, no vet. And this animal doesn't deserve the agony of a drawn-out exit.

He draws close, The Fox tries then, to reach him with Its teeth.

But somehow, duty has bred confidence:

John positions one hand at the base of The Fox's skull, gently pinning It down. He clamps The Fox's scrambling legs under his knee....

He fields a vague thought: fox-blood on his trousers, and probably ticks or fleas climbing between them.

But all is secondary, this creature is suffering, and John is the only one who can help.

The Fox tries.

But it cannot escape and there is no where for it to go, and though it does not understand John hopes that this terror-- of a man looming close-- might be some mercy.

He lifts the screw driver, resolves to make it quick.

But it isn't.

The tool is dull, it takes force, it requires his full weight to puncture The Fox's chest.

And when the screw driver pierces that living leather, there is a sound like scissors cutting through raw chicken.

But nothing happens-- John missed the heart.

The Fox flails harder and John's hands are now slippery with blood.

"No, no. Please. I'm trying to help. Please"

It scrambles, wrenches free-- a terrifying burst of power from such a small and injured Thing.

"Please just die. I'm trying to help."

It twists Its neck, It lashes out. It jaws snap down on John's hand.

He yelps and pulls back and runs a few steps away. But even in his pain, John cannot bring himself to abandon the Suffering Fox.

He draws near once more, to retrieve the screw driver, to try again.

But The Fox sputters, one last ragged exhale, and The Body relaxes, Its eyes still glare but already they pale.

A beautiful creature wasted! A life, destroyed!

John gasps, he sputters.

He needs to pluck. He reaches for his beard but remembers the blood on his hands.

His groping fingers fall through the empty air and he weeps.

John cannot move, cannot step.

He looks at The Fox and knows it in the pit of his soul: he has murdered his own brother, same way he murdered his dreams.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm...."

He slumps to his knees, places a supplicant hand on The Fox's warm, wet fur.

It is a soft comfort to his finger tips and to his soul-- but a comfort undeserved.

John's guilt washes down his face in torrents-- a deluge of tears.

"I'm...sorry," He looks at The Fox's face, thumbs away some of the blood on Its muzzle.

He scratches behind The Fox's ears, but this can not soothe his wretchedness. He wishes he could take it all back.

He thinks if he hadn't killed The Fox, maybe he could have brought it home and nursed it back to health.

He thinks of the bulge in his wife's womb and doubles over for grief.

It's Joanna's fault he's even out here.

Then he sees: cloudy eyes-- glazed over but focused on his!

John sways, The Fox stares.

It can't be alive-- but... it is watching him.

The Fox's eyes dig like claws, deep into John's ragged soul. And John stares back.

He sinks.

Deeper, and they are like cold water. He gasps and he stares and trembles.

Some time later, John rises.

The Fox radiates life. John scoops It against his breast, coddles It and soothes It with gentle strokes of the fur and he doesn't feel guilty anymore.

It is stiff and still, but Its eyes are full of cosmic promise and truth and reassurance.

He brings The Fox home, to the garage-- but The Fox deserves better.

It must be tended.

It demands a better place. A sacred space.

He sets It on his desk-- where he used to write and dream.

He cleans Its fur, he lays out fine blankets, he makes The Fox at home.

John thinks of his life.

He thinks of the bulge in his wife's womb.

He weighs his fears.

And when he worries, his plucking fingers roam and he stares into the eyes of The Fox... and there he swims until he finds and lays hold of those cosmic reassurances.

***

In the morning, she pokes her head into the darkness of his den and asks without looking: "Did you even come to bed last night?"

He stares at The Fox. Grey clouds peer back at him, from under the hem of a soft fleece.

The Fox reassures him: he will be great.

This is Joanna's last chance to see the dream.

He answers "No. I'm... writing. Leave me alone."

And she scoffs. "You were up all night-- writing? I thought we talked about this, John. Did you bother to send any actual job apps?"

She places a hand on her pregnant belly, wrinkles her nose. "What's that smell?"

She is a distraction. She does not understand. She never will.

John does not wish to bear her any longer.

But he no longer has to leave. The Fox told him so: Joanna and the bulge can leave.

He can make them....

"Go away."

She gasps. "Are you fucking kidding? After you wasted all night writing-- when we have a baby on the way? You're so fucking lazy. Pathetic!"

Her voice is so much water, rolling down his shoulders, washing away the last of his hesitations.

She can no longer hold him, The Fox has been telling him what comes next.

And now he is cleansed.

Now he is ready.

John looks at Joanna, and she flinches as from the eyes of a stranger.

***

***

Author's note: This was fairly experimental. Originally intended to be a long, slow burn. I trimmed a book length idea to less than 3,000 words-- so I'd love to know what worked or didn't.

Here's some music:

Iggy Pop- Paraguay

Hozier-- Eat your Young