Chiaroscuro - Dead End, Ch. 1

Dead End_

Not much of a better feeling than running as fast as you can, watching your sneakers dart out in front of you, laces tucked under your heel so they don’t trip you on the down thrust, sprinting headlong into a rush of wind that blows your hair back and breathes against your dry tongue. Getting intoxicated on the adrenaline and you don’t know when to quit. I’ll fall over before I realize I’m too tired to move. Legs that still pump in your dreams, seems so stupid but you gotta keep moving when you live like us.

I was being chased.

The pharmacist was shouting at me to stop, give them back their over-the-counter aspirin, because no doubt some other guy with a headache from working too hard would need it more, since he had the money, and I’d simply stolen the merchandise. Well, not simply, not without a bit of regret and a bit of fear; that’s something I can’t ever get used to, stealing. I can’t explain to him why I needed the meds anyway. It’s a complicated process that he won’t understand. Well, maybe he will; but even that would be problematic if he did. I can’t tell him.

I keep racing. I’m practically flying. I can feel that rush for the split second I’m held in the air before gravity shoves me back. Then my foot comes down again, the sidewalk like a springboard to my momentum, force working with me and allowing me to go at the speed that I did. Pharmacist Guy can’t keep up with me, and, this being a small town, the police hardly ever get any action in a place like this. Have to keep rolling, they’ll be on me soon, in their blue and white cars with the spinning red lights, sirens raging in my eardrums with their kitten cries.

I break to the left, down two blocks, into the train yard. Chain mail fence closed off with barbed wire, only one way past: up and over. Climb carefully to the top of the scrap heap and spring off, over the helix of metal thorns. Make it - just barely - and land a little sloppily but still upright. Take the blow of the jump, then I’m off again. Into the boxcar graveyard, past the skeletons of trains that lay sad and abandoned, looking for the one where the paint chips off in mustard yellow and has the poorly-drawn graffiti snake winding across in a jet stream of black.

I find it, smell Travis inside. He’s sitting next to her, that she-hound we found in bad condition after a fight that gave her a turn for the worse. He doesn’t look at me when I enter, just raises his hand up to grab it.

“Took you long enough. Give me.”

I hand him the small bottle and he twists at the child lock. I grab the family-size Dasani water bottle and toss it to him lightly as well. “What? No, ‘Hi, End’? No, ‘Thanks for risking your life for the medicine?’” I smirk.

“A thanks? You wanted to go,” Travis answers calmly, as he always does, finally unscrewing the lid and pouring four small white pills into his open palm. “You’re more suited for that sort of thing anyway…”

“How is she?” I ask, sitting on the dusty floor nearby. It’s hot in here so I take off my shirt and toss it against a corner.

Travis sighed heavily. “Her mouth is as dirty as a rat’s, I kid you not. She was swearing up a storm while you were gone, but I think that she’s too tired to say anything else for now. The Tylenol should get her back into that, unless she’s almost there…” He crosses the index and middle fingers on both hands hopefully at me before lifting up her chin. “Open your mouth, please, and take these for me. It’s just a few pain killers; they should ease your suffering, if only a little.”

I breathe in the musty air deeply, only starting to settle down, thoughts losing their frantic speed. I’m back, I’m safe, it’s all good now. “Hey, she only needs two of those. Don’t give her over the recommended dose.”

“I know that,” he snaps at me; unusually irritable, especially compared to only moments earlier. He hesitates awkwardly before staring at the oval-shaped pills. “I… thought I’d take a couple myself.”

My eyes widen with the knowledge. “Not you too,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “Hang in there, Travis, you’re not that old yet.”

“Fourteen’s pretty old for a dog, small or not,” he responds with a shrug. “I’m surprised you haven’t gotten any signs yet. You’re a bigger breed than I am.” He rubs at his thighs irritably. “I felt sore in my hips this morning. I think it’s arthritis. I hope the break down doesn’t last two years, I would really hate that.” He chucks the medicine down his throat and takes a huge swig of the water, spilling out of the corners of his mouths and quickly wiped away on a stained shirt sleeve.

Maybe you've heard of what we are: half-human, half-dog. Yeah, that's right, humans able to transform into canines at will. We were originally created as beings strictly used as military assistants around fifty years ago, but once we were no longer necessary for war, half-dogs became so far dispersed that it’s near impossible to get rid of us all, and when we're in human form, you can't even tell us apart from a regular person. Gamblers bred us for their own selfish purposes and mass dog fights ensued. Children of the half-dog race are being taught at an early age to hate everyone and everything, to know nothing but a red hot anger that drives them behind the eyes. You see, our canine alter-egos, which we can transform into at will, can only last for a maximum of eighteen years, like a real dog. When this dog body dies off, it leaves the human counterpart alive and working normally. What is unfortunate is that the symptoms of the decaying beasts inside us affects our bone structure, our organs, our mood, our mind, and we have to put up with that until our second half is completely gone. It’s a painful process to have that portion of our lives gone, but I hear you feel reborn once it’s over. It wouldn’t be so bad, except that most dog fighters leave their dogs to die when they’re done with them and the half-dogs never live long after that; both sides die. We found this bloodhound, a female with scratches and bruises freckling her skinny arms, lying face down in a mouthful of her own blood. Her dog side was going to go soon and the pain was making her cry out. Travis and I are looking after her until she becomes fully human.

That’s what we’ve dedicated ourselves to: aiding the dying half-dogs. Of course, that'll be us soon too. Travis is a Sheltie, “pure bred”, and I’m a pig-dog, gambler’s slang for the ugly mix achieved when a pit-bull and mastiff are crossed. Scientists didn't just stop at one type.

My breed was created for the purpose of fighting, and so was I. The dog fight, the tanginess of blood and death blazing in your nostrils, taking you to the peak of fury and telling you to destroy. They plunk you into the arena and hold your head still so that you can glare into the deep yellow eyes of your opponent and study him, increase the tension between the two of you. And then they suddenly release and you race forward with your teeth extended, ready for the flesh to puncture underneath the canines. Grab the skin and tear. Feel the sweat gliding over you smoothly. Hear your heart pulsating madly in your eardrums, a string of howls and barks pouring from your jaws, and the distant clamor for bloodshed from the crowds…

“You alright, End?”

I jump back to reality when Travis’ voice suddenly entered my memories. I was clutching my license tightly and hadn’t noticed, so caught up was I in the past. My old dog collar, the one from my "fighting days", was always strung through one of the left belt loops on my fading jeans. The brown material of the band was starting to wear and the gold-colored circular plate was scratched, slightly dented. There was a name etched into it by a machine. “Dead End”. That was my name then, meant to intimidate the opponent just by hearing it. Obviously that part of my life is over, but I’m used to being called that threatening term and simply go by ‘End’. The ‘Dead’ just sounds too creepy. I don’t like it. It isn’t me. I like to believe it isn't me.

“I’m starving,” I mutter, lying back and folding my fingers together behind my head.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Travis muses.

“I’m fine. But starving.”

“Do you think you can go a night without food?”

“Yeah… I’m not excited about it though.”

“Neither am I. We’ll survive.”

I sit back up and place my arms on my knees. “You know, I get really angry when I don’t eat. Sometimes, I attack people.”

Travis rolls his dark eyes. In fact, we both have very dark eyes, almost completely black but not so that it looks alien. They’re still pretty demeaning though. “Oh, please. Don’t get started with me on-”

“I saw a hamburger place in town,” I interrupt.

Travis flicks his head to my direction. I have his attention now.

“Yeah, that’s right, I said hamburgers. Not the wimpy thin kind either, the really juicy ones covered in melted cheese and bacon-”

“Don’t tempt me,” he smirks, shaking his head. “You know we can’t just leave Melanie here. Not when she’s like this.”

“Oh, can’t we?” I whine back slyly.

“No. The townspeople know your face now. Did someone see you stealing? Then they’ll remember you, and they’ll call 911. Then we’ll be in big trouble. ‘Back to the cages’, I guess you could say.”

“Then you go. I’ll be your pet, and I’ll wait outside like a good dog and you can bring me back something when you’re done.”

“End, we have no money, and I’m not good at stealing. Why do you think I always send you out? I’m no speed demon. I wasn’t built to run.”

“Well, neither was I and I’m not too bad at it. Come on, Travis!” I beg. “Do you remember the last time you had some rare meat? I’m practically drooling just thinking about how great it’ll be!”

Travis tucked some of his brown-red hair behind his ear. “No way. No thanks.”

“Killjoy…” I mutter, flumping back against the wood slates, but he doesn’t get egged-on that easily. I do. I wish I had better control over my temper but I don’t think there’s any way to solve that until my dog side dies. It’s become part of my nature.

“Let’s get some rest,” Travis yawns, lying back and tipping his baseball cap over his eyes. “I'm totally beat. Goodnight."

“Not really night though... Whatever. G'night.” But I’m not tired. Sleep never does come easy for me. My dreams do not take pity on the sleeper. Lately, they are always nightmares...