I wrote this for no fucking reason, is it any good?
I was making fun of Wolfaboos, and then I wrote this in a YouTube comment section (Link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HqUPtufOJLI ) for no fucking reason. I'm pretty certain it's full of cliches that populate Wolfabooo and Furry fiction, but you never know.
I know they just needed food. I know they had fear in their eyes. I know it was because it was because he was twice their size. But I know that what I know isn't true. The wolves were out for blood, and not the blood of anyone, the blood of a friend. The mountain lion- no, the friend, Stevix, is who they were after. They just wanted blood.
My parents felt no empathy. I am part of a legendary breed of the feline many call "housecats" and this breed has magic powers and a rich, strange culture. I was taught to be proud and never cry because of my heritage, but I just didn't feel it.
Over time, I started to believe the things the wolves' defenders said. I myself believed that they were "hungry" or "intimidated." I had a belief that it was okay for one to kill, eat, and skin a being of a different animal family if they were threatened, or if they found it dead. I had also coped with it by getting obsessed with bad TV shows and video games, and talking about why they are bad.
The number one thing I had to cope with it, though, is this: I met a fox in a forest only weeks after that fateful day. It was one year old at most, and it was just sitting there. I took it in, raised it in my beliefs, and it- no, he was happy. I had raised him from the ground up, and I was too concerned with his happiness to think about Stevix. Don't think that I raised Terry as if he was a son, because I didn't. I was not an 8-year-old dad. I always saw him as a friend who lived with me. And this kept things cool, because after Terry turned 1 and 1/2 (wow, foxes mature fast) I didn't need him to think of me as an authority figure.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago, or around 6 years after I found Terry. Two Mondays ago, Terry and I were at the mall because he needed to pick out new clothes because he outgrew his old ones. On our way home through the forest, I thought I saw some familiar eyes, ones that brought sadness. I didn't know what though. I shrugged it off, remembering that they found him intimidating.
One Friday ago, Terry and I had been hiking (which is what Terry liked to do; I'm more of an indoor cat.) It was then I had cried. I saw the sign. "Now entering Pita Village." I warned Terry about them, and I cried while I did it, but he felt that there was no way they found him intimidating and if they did try to kill him, the village was small enough that he could just run through. Terry had never been more wrong. They caught him, and as I went to see, they had the same look on their faces as they did when they killed Stevix. I could see it clearly now, though. I saw into their eyes, and it was of pure violence. They killed my friend- no, brother- no, son- no, my friend, brother, and son. They killed it all. And the excuses weren't relevant this time. When they killed Terry, they also killed a Canine. They didn't even promptly eat or skin it afterwards, which let me know that they weren't going to eat or skin it, because one fact about wolves is that if they are going to use something, they use it instantly or drag it. They did not do that. They killed him for no reason. I ran. I cried. I even got my parents to care despite my proud heritage.