The Fox and the Dark

The psychological damage of fucking up.

My mural of a fox

Let me begin by saying that this very short piece is the introduction to the collection of short stories I’m writing about my experiences dealing with psychological damage. I have not yet decided if the rest of the collection will follow this one, as they are based on real, personal experiences from my life. Input is greatly appreciated and will encourage/discourage the publication of the other stories.

There once was a fox. A fox in a house that wasn’t a home and with a father who wasn’t family. The fox saw many things. It spent its life observing. Watching. Waiting. It watched as people lived and it waited for things to come. The fox watched and waited, observing quietly as not to be noticed. For when it was, the fox was beaten. By the people it once watched grow up. By the people who once claimed to love it. It watched a little girl grow up. But now she was bigger than it, so she kicked the fox and laughed when it fell.

The fox learned to never cry. It never expressed its hatred. Because of this, the fox grew violent. It snarled at the people who neared it and bit the people who once hit it. The fox was deemed wild. Threatening. Deadly. People kept coming. When it bit one, five more would come to claim vengeance. The fox once more grew scared. It began to hide. It didn’t want anyone to see what it had become. The fox didn’t want to be hurt anymore. It began to claw at itself, trying to distance itself from the world. It would dig its claws into its legs and leave marks, deeper and deeper as time went on. One day the fox was found. It was held and pet. It was loved. Although the fox wanted to, it couldn’t forget what had happened to it. It would cry when it was told that it was loved. It would cry when it remembered.

The ones who now claimed to care for it saw the marks on its legs. They thought the fox was insane. They thought the fox was stupid. The fox was once again put down and abused. Being hurt in the past had caused more pain to be inflicted upon it. The fox was now deemed crazy. Ungrateful. Suicidal. It was decided the fox would be put down.

“Out of its misery,” they claimed

“For its own good,” they’d say.

The fox wanted again to be happy. To be in a time before it was ever hurt. To be free and to be loved without limits. The fox didn’t want to be upset anymore, but there was no use in trying to be happy again. It accepted it. And finally… finally it was a peace.