FSE

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I drop acid and when I arrive my world erupts into light.

The music flows into me, saturates me, until each beat is a perfect extension of the self. I meet it at its resonant frequency, vibrating at an exponentially greater amplitude with every passing bar. I am the kick, I am the snare and now I am the synth.

Euphoria blossoms in the moments between the notes and the space between shaking asses. An instant of perfect clarity. Music is nothing more than the soul reaching out to the Great Nexus that homes us. We are all one. We are connected and always have been. Love is the only answer that has ever mattered.

The walls are dancing with us, bobbing back and forth to the song of unity. The music itself is dancing, projecting from speakers and bouncing off walls and bodies. The waves of sound that were once invisible have taken life as translucent lavender jets of auditory glory.

I see him there, leaning against the wall near the hall's entrance, and my world grinds to a halt. All the dancers freeze in place.

Between their frozen parts I make my way to him. He is as beautiful as the day we met and more than I've ever deserved. He is everything.

My tail tingles, a preternatural sixth sense warning me that I won't like what happens next, that I should turn back, revert to real time. But it's too late. He's noticed me.

His ears swivel and he lifts his gaze from his phone. He frowns and my heart sinks. His tail whips once, then stops dead. He puts a paw on his hip, his nose flares and his whiskers twitch, but all I can focus on is his red fur, dyed blue by the dramatic lighting of the rave hall.

I put up a feeble paw in greeting. He brushes a stray strand of hair out of his eyes and stares right through my soul.

“Hi," I say, the word drowned out by the single droning note of music that persists within the freeze. I try again, louder, and get through. “Hi Bren!"

His mouth half opens and his eyes narrow. No words are formed and I wonder if he's frozen too, but his next attempt comes loud and clear.

“You fucking lying junkie cunt." His voice pierces the drone like a bullet through wet paper. “You're high again aren't you?"

There's venom in his voice and tears in his eyes.

Life plays out in fast-forward around us. People move at unreal speeds to make up for lost time and the music follows suit, whizzing by at a comically high pitch until their world and ours are back in step.

“Bren, I- Look, it's a rave. It was only one tab. I know I said-"

“That you were done with this shit."

“But, come on! It's a party."

His fur bursts into brilliant blue flame and I take a step back.

He stops and starts and sighs and shakes his head, mutters something beneath his breath, beneath the music. I don't hear it, but feel it: God, this hurts. Then, loud enough to hear: “That's it."

“That's what?"

“We're done."

I close my eyes and inhale through my nose. Behind my eyelids is a world of colour, its saturation pulsing in time with song. I drift in orbit around it for a moment before remembering myself. I exhale.

“Please don't say that." It's a plea, a prayer.

He says nothing. When I open my eyes he's gone.

I narrowly make it to the nearest bathroom before vomiting. From here, all that's left is bass. The floor and walls pulse to the rhythm, off-tempo with the pounding in my skull. The resultant vibrations rattle my brain against bone until it's emptied of all thought.

The toilet lid I cling to is sticky and damp, I want to get away but I'm practically glued down until the urge to throw up subsides, until I'm empty-stomached and light-headed. Assaulted by the stench of sick and shit and sweat, I push the lid hard and crash back against the stall door. The sudden contortion of my spine is agony, but I grit through the pain and fumble for my phone, forcing my twitching fingers to type.

Where are you?

I watch the screen for minutes, but Bren doesn't respond. He doesn't even open the message.

None of this is right.

I slam the side of the stall with a clenched fist, lift my crumpled body, exit and don't stop walking until I'm home. Even blocks out from the rave hall, hearing nothing but the ringing in my ears, the streets still throb in time with music.

Everything in my flat has an odd red tint to it. My fur, too, is soaked crimson. In the bathroom I scrub my paws. The red runs off and into the sink, but all the other colour that makes up my fur runs off along with it, leaving me a pure and luminous white.

The next thing I'm aware of is talking to Bren over the phone.

“I'm leaving in the morning," he says, deadpan. I can picture him crystal clear in my mind, his head propped on one paw, staring sideways at nothing. He's frowning, his ears drooped. He's given up.

“What do you mean you're leaving?"

“I mean: seeing you like this is depressing. My tenancy agreement is almost up and I'm not gonna be here when it's through. I'm going home to my parents. I'll start again. Far away from you." A pause. “Whatever we had-"

“Don't. I love you Bren. Where is this coming from?"

“Where is this coming from?" His repetition comes as a snarl, and there he is - in my head - leaning into the receiver, baring his teeth. “You can't be that stupid."

I close my eyes and he's in front of me, we're outside. My paws are running through his fur, dappled carmine and burgundy in the uneven light of day, as I tell him how pretty he is. He giggles, tells me it tickles, tells me I'm pretty too. I lean in, bite his neck. He moans approval into my ear.

“They're only a bit of fun, Bren. I know you don't like them, but isn't this extreme?"

“A bit of fun? Really? Have you seen yourself?"

“Calm down! Stop treating me like an addict. I love you."

Nothing but dead air. I open my eyes to near-pitch black. He's gone. I'm in bed, staring at the ceiling with the lights off. In time, fragments of noise fill my vision. First a sickly, pulsating blue, then a harsh, static red. Together they drift and dance to the ghost of half-remembered song.

If I don't do something soon, I'll never see Bren again.

I call him three times. He doesn't pick up. I call again. Nothing. But I can't give up, not while we're still dancing.

In a frenzy, I check tomorrow's flights to Dublin. When I find the earliest one at Heathrow, my screen flashes blue. This has to be his flight, it has to. I'll get there early, wait for him, stop him.

After all, love is the only answer that has ever mattered.

/

Three hours later I rise, having barely slept. Shutting off my alarm I contemplate taking a shower, powering through a killer headache and aching joints as I struggle to decide. I check the clock. There's time, Heathrow is only half an hour away by tube, but I don't want to slow down. I can't risk it, this is too important.

Rushing to get dressed, I wrestle at clothes with trembling paws. God, my tail won't settle and whole body is shaking. I can't go out like this. Bren would kill me, but I don't know what else to do: I take an edible. It won't hit for a while, but it'll calm my nerves when it does.

There's a speed and urgency to my step as I plough toward the station. My head is pounding the whole way there and my paws can't stay still. I'm rubbing my knees, grinding my teeth, running hot, sweating. Underground, the lights are too much. I'm squinting out the train window as soon as I board, staring at nothing. Every crying baby is an ice pick to the brain. I'm trying to decide what to say to him but I can't fucking think with all this noise.

When the tube rises overground, minutes later, the world develops a warming glow, colours sharpen into focus. Swiping greasy hair out of my eyes I am struck by the beauty of everything, the idiosyncrasies of every tree and every paint job on every fence, every cloud a different sign.

There comes over me a numb serenity. I exhale a thousand worries and let them dissipate into air. What happens will happen. I let that acceptance propel me from my stop to Terminal 5, where it promptly vanishes. I find the place Bren will need to drop off his bags and I wait, eyes wide, with my head on a swivel. If I miss him, the world ends. If I fuck this up…

A palpitating heart, a wracking cough, a groan. I shake my head until it clears. I check my phone in vain hope. No messages, no calls. He'll be here soon, if I was right. If he wasn't lying about leaving, trying to shock me into movement. Well, here I am, moved. But he could be on any flight to Ireland, I merely decided it would be this one. I check the flight schedule. There's another to Dublin two hours after the first, and another three after that. Fuck.

I take a seat next to a bored feline couple consumed by their phones. Watching the entrance for Bren, thinking over what I should say and failing to get past the first five words, it only half registers when they relocate ten metres away. I clench and unclench my fists, waiting, hoping.

An hour later, colours start to dim and blur. Acid didn't make me a prophet after all, I got the flight wrong, but that doesn't mean he won't be on the next one. I stay the course.

A polite, portly wolf in a red uniform approaches and asks if I'm waiting for a flight. I tell him I'm waiting for my boyfriend. He glances over his shoulder, as if appealing for guidance, then offers an artificial smile and a shrug. “Alright, just let me know if you need any help."

With every passing minute my mood diminishes and my cravings grow. I feel inside my jacket for something, anything. All I can find is a little plastic bag, empty but for the barest dusting of white - barely worth gumming - and a crumpled cigarette. I rush outside and have to ask four people for a light before a vixen raises an eyebrow and, clutching a cigarette between her teeth, lights mine at arm's length.

It's three minutes later, smoke in my lungs that I spot him.

I lift my free arm and call out his name, expelling the word in the same breath as a cloud of smoke. He either doesn't hear me, or doesn't care. I take my last drag too hastily and end up choking on chemicals while I stub out the butt and dispose of it.

Bren moves inside, rolling a large suitcase behind him, his tail low and still. He's barely a breath away as I reach the end of my coughing fit. I stumble in after him, heart hammering harder with every step.

Inside, nothing exists but Bren; I chase him through white void, his red fur my beacon, and place a paw on his shoulder. He snap-turns with such violent immediacy that it shatters my illusions. Reality reinstates itself around us in a vibrant, confusing explosion of colour and life.

“I can't fucking believe you," he says. I expect bared teeth, but he's crying. He isn't surprised to see me; he must have known, as I did, that this was destined.

“Bren, don't leave. I- I know I fucked up." I have to force myself to regurgitate the words, they leave me queasy. “I want to be better."

“You-" He cuts himself off and shakes his head. His shoulders slump, his tail lashes, he runs a paw through the red fluff on his neck. When he speaks again he is measured and calm. “The first time you said that, I trusted you. But life has taught me that when somebody shows you who they are, you should believe them. You're a liar. Whether you're lying to me or to yourself I don't know, but you're a liar."

“But, Bren-" My heart pummels at my ribcage, desperate for release.

“What did you take this morning?"

“What?"

“What are you on? Don't bullshit me."

“I just smoked a cig, but-"

“I saw. Don't give me that."

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I really think this muscle in my chest might kill me.

“Only an edible, Bren, I swear."

He nods, his nose wrinkles in disgust. “It's always only an edible, only a tab, one last line. Parties are one thing, but yours never ends."

“You said you loved me."

“Things can change."

“I can change. I will change."

“I'm not sticking around on a prayer."

“I need you, Bren." The words are agony as they claw their way free, lacerating my insides. “I can't get better on my own."

His brow furrows, his nostrils flare, his teeth - at last - bare. “For fuck's sake, it's not on me to fix you! I won't be held hostage, and I won't- I won't stay here and watch you kill yourself."

I fall to my knees, prostrate. “Don't go. I'm so sorry."

With one exhalation all tension leaves his body. “Me too," he says. “Build yourself a better future, please."

I bow my head.

“How can I do that without you?" It's no longer an accusation, but a question.

Bren sniffs, wipes his eyes with a sleeve, straightens up.

“Have you seen yourself?" He asks, tone level.

“What do you mean?"

I close my eyes, concentrate.

“Go into the bathroom, look in the mirror and ask yourself who you see there. Ask yourself what you want to do about it."

I wait for more, none comes. “And then?"

When I open my eyes he's gone.

I'm biting back sobs all the way to the bathroom. With a ragged breath I grip the edge of the basin, stare into the mirror and see myself through Bren's eyes for the first time.

Grease slick, clumped fur alternately juts in random directions where it isn't stuck down by its own viscosity and weight. Emaciated, with skin pulled tight over protruding cheekbones. Bloodshot-red, bleary eyes, surrounded by bags obscured by fur but aching like bruises. A sickly brown stain on the chin left over from last night's vomit, never washed off. The whole body trembles, not entirely in control of itself as it reaches a paw out, places palm to palm through reflective glass, trying to find itself and failing. Both it and its clothing are coated indiscriminately in dirt and stains of unremembered origin. It reeks of sweat and of smoke, but mostly it just reeks.

And now it is crying. And now it is bawling, not holding back sobs any longer, not holding back anything. It knows now, as it never has before, what it is. That knowledge is a deep-set pain pushing up and out and through, it is the shattering of beliefs and the disintegration of futures, it is cataclysm.

It asks itself what it should do about the apparition in the mirror and finds two answers: incineration, rebirth.