Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It contains topics that may be distressing to readers.
        α        
        Dear Diary,
        I haven't done this in so many years. I don't particularly want to be doing this, but my therapist recommended it, so here we are. So, what better place to start than the beginning?
        During my earliest years, we were a normal fox family—just another middle-class home trying to make ends meet. The only thing that made us stand out a little was our grey fur. Things were good at one point.
        But then, Mum became mentally ill. I must have been 8 years old. It was very sudden, or so it seemed to me. I came home from school to her being so drunk that she could not get up from bed. I remember some nights being so scared for her that I'd hide her pills in my room. She only said that she loved me when she needed me to take her to the bathroom to puke her guts out. I loved her, but I began to avoid her; it was easier to pretend she wasn't there.
        And Dad. He had never been significantly loving, and there was always something a little off about him—he would look at me in strange ways at times—but his apathy eventually turned to anger and then to hate. Arguments only escalated and became more frequent. He hurt Mum, too. Then he disappeared for days at a time. With Mum off her head and Dad missing, I had many dinners consisting of Froot Loops and stale milk.
        And then, one day, when I was 10, I was taken from school by Dad, who looked oddly upset. He didn't have to explain; I could see it in his eyes. Mum had died. I'm sure it was an overdose, though nobody ever told me. I think a part of him felt guilty for not being better. Ironically, he became worse. We buried her two days later, and Dad was not in his most sober state at the funeral.
        The void Mum left caused a lot of silence—uncomfortable silence. No more arguments. Dad's once-casual drinking habits worsened, although never as bad as Mum's. Nevertheless, he would often arrive home piss-drunk in the middle of the night and wake me up to beat me for no reason at all. He usually used his hands, but he also had an affinity for his belt.
        Over time, he escalated the violence to the point where he brought me down to our basement, beat me up, and kept me locked there for days at a time. Perhaps the most strange way is that he always made me strip naked. I thought that it was a form of punishment, making me endure the night without much to keep me warm, but he always... stared at me before and after hurting me, I assumed, relishing in the bruises on my innocent body. It was odd, and it happened too often. And it is precisely in the basement that he destroyed any semblance of a potential redemption for my childhood.
        I may have been 11 by this point. It was close to midnight. I was already asleep when Dad arrived home. I did the same as every time: I faced the wall with my eyes wide open, hugging—no, clutching my stuffed toy, burying my snout in it and trying not to make a sound, all while listening to the sound of footsteps coming up. I learned to identify the sound, vibrations, speed and rhythm of his footsteps as he made his way to the second floor. Fast and angry was never a good indication, but neither was slow and irregular.
        That night was one of those rare nights where the variables indicated I was safe. Regular steps—nothing that made me think he was in a bad mood or drunk. And yet the bruises throbbing on my skin served as a reminder that I was never safe. Dad climbed the last step, and then there was silence. I breathed heavily into my plush as I squeezed the life out of it, my eyes forgetting to blink as they dried out.
        The footsteps resumed, becoming louder as he approached my room. I prayed that he would go to bed and we would both get some rest. The steps stopped outside my door. I let out a soft whimper as my heart raced, my tail between my legs, anxiously close to my body.
        The doorknob twisted.
        The door breathed cool air into my room. I felt a presence behind me. A part of me had hoped that this was a crook looking for valuables. I was trying to turn around, but I didn't want to face the truth. I let out a trembling, "...Dad?"
        There was no response.
        My breathing quickened. I was scared and confused. My pyjamas were damp with sweat, and my tail now swished under the sheets in pure terror.
        "Is that you?" I asked again, still not looking behind me.
        No response. I whimpered softly again.
        "Let's go", Dad finally said.
        His voice settled the doubts in the worst of ways. I turned around slowly, and I saw his dark silhouette looming over me. He turned his head away from me, looking out the window.
        "You know where you're going", he snarled. "Don't make me drag you".
        Before I could muster up a response, he started walking away. "You have one minute".
        After closing my door, I heard him walk downstairs and go out the front door. There were no tears in my eyes as I hopped into my slippers and followed Dad.
        Stepping out into the cold night, I headed to the left side of the house, where a heavy wooden door hid a stairway leading deep into the earth. Dissociated, I swung open the door, being greeted by darkness. My eyes instinctively opened wide, trying to adapt to the dark, but it didn't help. There was a burnt-out lightbulb above me that Dad never fixed.
        Another step, another jolt of pain. Walking down the steps, the bruises on my ribs ached and throbbed, almost as if my body was preparing me—warning me—for what was to come. The smell of old wood grew stronger, indicating my proximity to my destination.
        Another step, another jolt of pain. And then I was in front of the door leading into the basement proper. I could see the faintest hint of light emanating through the narrow crevices around the door. I felt paralysed knowing what was coming, but I knew that Dad did not like waiting, so I gulped and shakily grabbed the doorknob. I twisted it and slowly pushed the door open.
        Dim orange light escaped the confines of the basement. The entire room was illuminated by only two light bulbs hanging from a wire on the ceiling. I walked inside, and the smell grew stronger. The whole place was filled with boxes full of nothing we would ever use again. The boxes left gaps between them, creating an unlikely labyrinth of narrow corridors made of clutter. Making my way deeper into the cardboard maze, I reached the only clearing, where the washing machine and dryer were located, near one of the far corners. There was also an old mattress. And next to it, sitting on a stool, Dad, facing the wall.
        This was the place where I spent endless nights being punished for a crime I didn't commit. The mattress was heavily stained, dusty, and reeked. Laying on the floor next to it was the one ragged blanket I had to keep myself warm. There was also a bucket nearby.
        I froze a couple of feet behind Dad. He didn't acknowledge me. He pointed at the mattress without saying a word. It always started like this.
        I reluctantly walked around Dad and sat on the mattress, removing my shirt and pants, remaining in my underwear and socks. I wanted to beg him not to do it. Of course I did. But Dad didn't care for complaints. So I just stared at him—or rather, his chest; I could not bear to hold eye contact for more than a second at a time. He stayed motionless and unreactive for a few minutes, which was unusual.
        "Dad?" I enquired. I want to think that I was scared about the strangeness of it, how odd he was acting even for himself, but I am genuinely terrified of the possibility that, even then, I was worried for him—that I still loved him.
        He didn't reply, but he did move at last. I saw his chest rise, and he sighed. He blinked very slowly and rose to his footpaws. He walked towards me, and as he towered over me, looking down at me with anger, perhaps pity, he finally broke the silence. "This is all your fault, you know?"
        I frowned in confusion. "Dad?"
        "Can you stop fucking saying that?!" he snapped at me. I instinctively flinched and covered my face, expecting blows. But they didn't come. I looked at him again with eyes wide open, and he was breathing hard.
        Dad undid his belt. "It's all your fucking fault". There was something... sinister in his behaviour, in his eyes. Something was different today.
        He removed his belt, and a tear ran down my cheek. My nerves were already on fire, anticipating the strikes.
        He discarded his belt.
        I looked up at him and noticed he had also removed his jacket. He was wearing a yellowing singlet stained with sweat.
        "I hate your fucking guts", he said as he undid his zipper.
        I paused. He had left countless marks on my skin, but none hurt like those words.
        His pants fell to the floor, but his boxer briefs remained, which sported what at the time looked to be a massive bulge. Suddenly, he lunged down at me and pinned my arms with his legs. I yelped. His crotch was just some inches away from my face. His intense scent invaded my nostrils—a mix of sweat and piss.
        "Stop! You're drunk again!" I managed to say while struggling.
        He grabbed my face with one paw, making me face him.
        "No", he said, "I have never been more sober".
        I thought I saw a grin. He began grinding his bulge against my snout. I felt the entire shape of his length against my nose as he moved back and forth, first the very tip, then the rest of his thick member and finally the knot. I felt his balls briefly resting on my snout before snapping into place as he slid back. I didn't fully understand what was happening, but I knew it was very, very wrong. I felt so uncomfortable, so confused, so scared. I was used to the beatings, but my brain couldn't grasp what this was about. I whimpered and started feeling sick to my stomach. I tried to protest, but his bulge invaded my mouth.
        He got off my face, leaned down, and shoved his mouth against mine. The rank smell of cigarettes invaded my maw, his tongue intruding down my throat. I tried to push him away to no avail; my arms were weak from the beatings. I felt his tail wagging in nervousness—perhaps excitement—as it brushed against my thighs. He must have made out with me for a good three minutes before he pulled away. I filled my lungs with air before letting out a scream of pure terror and agony. Dad made a remark about his ears before smacking me across the face hard. I think I lost consciousness for a few seconds. Everything spun, and I tasted coins in my mouth. As I slowly came back to, Dad was now openly masturbating on top of me in the same position, looking down at me with an indescribable facial expression.
        His red knot was engorged beyond belief. It looked almost alien to me; thin veins ran along its length like tiny red strands. The tip glistened with precum that dripped onto my nose. It throbbed and pulsed rhythmically in his paw, and his balls rested against my chest.
        "You two are so alike", Dad said as he pushed two fingers into my mouth to pry it open. My eyes must have bulged out when I felt his cock slip into my maw. I tried to scream again, but only a whimper came out around the invading force. The tip of his cock reached the back of my throat. I tasted his musk and tried to cough as the reflex kicked in. His knot slammed against my lips.
        "So moist and tight..." Dad uttered as he throbbed. He picked up the rhythm, sliding back and forth.
        He roughly humped my mouth, moaning and saying things to himself that I couldn't quite hear. With every thrust, I clenched and tried to cough. My eyes watered, if not from the despair, from the pure invasion of my senses. My jaw started hurting not long after.
        I could not believe this was happening. He may have beat the shit out of me, but he had never really hurt me. I'd thought he'd loved me. But nobody does this to someone they love. It takes something primal, something beastly, to do such a thing to their own kit—an abomination, a monster.
        "You really suck at this", Dad said, removing his dick from my mouth. I gasped for fresh air, tasting a mix of blood and musk in the back of my throat. He grabbed my neck and squeezed softly. "Lucky for me, there's always plan B".
        He hopped off me and ripped my underwear and socks off me. I did not resist but cried as he handled me with no care whatsoever. He stood up and played with himself for a brief moment.
        "Lay on your front", he demanded. I noticed a slight shake in his voice.
        Trying to compose myself, I moved my arms and then my chest, allowing me to turn to one side. Once I'd turned over, I noticed a red stain on the mattress. I touched my lip and saw bright red on my fingers.
        "Hurry the fuck up!" he growled.
        Scared, I complied, resting my face against the cheap, yellowed pillow. I felt Dad kneel behind me, and I thought that the sexual assault was over, that he was about to whip me. I prayed for it. I felt his touch on one of my legs as he lifted it and gave a deep sniff to my footpaws—yet more confusion to my young mind. Then, to my unlucky surprise, he spread my legs apart. He again muttered something to himself before I felt wetness against my tailhole. I recoiled slightly, cringing. Dad growled again.
        I felt his tip probe my hole as he started pushing it in. My sphincter started accommodating his size with a shocking pain, which caused me to yelp and try once again to get away, making his cock slip out. Dad did not appreciate that; he grabbed and pushed my head against the pillow and aimed at my hole again.
        "So fucking tight", I heard Dad say. His tip struggled to make its way inside, slipping out every time. After countless attempts, he found a good angle and pushed hard. His length ripped its way into me in a swift thrust, stopping only at his knot. The wind was blown out of me as my eyes widened, and I tried to scream.  
        "Fuuuuck," Dad said. "You are so much tighter too".
        "Please", I managed to utter in a grunt, my hole burning and my insides accommodating for the overwhelming size inside me.
        "I need you to stop", I begged.
        Dad slid back a tiny bit. "That's not happening", he warned before ramming it back in, once again stopping at the knot and causing a strange, painful jolt somewhere I couldn't quite place inside of me. I cried and cried into the pillow.
        "Get ready, boy". I had never heard this tone of voice before. There was anger in it, yes, but there was also something off about it. I thought something must have taken over him. He may have been a terrible father, but this was not him. It couldn't be.
        And then he fucked me unrelentingly. His hips guided his massive cock in and out of me rhythmically, painfully. He laid on top of me, making it even harder for me to breathe. His grunts and moans echoed right behind my ear as his shaft bent my colon in unnatural ways, poking at my diaphragm. His knot pressed against my hole, threatening to rip me apart.
        I begged him to stop over and over—pathetic pleas amidst yelps, cries and complaints. It was all I could do, hoping that he would have a change of heart. I wonder if he could even hear me at that moment.
        He traded some of the speed for strength in his thrusts. He grabbed my tail and yanked it backward with every thrust.
        "I'm not done just yet", he growled. "You're gonna take it all".
        He kept at it for what must have been several minutes. I felt his sweat drip on me. And then, with an almost deafening, wet pop, his knot went in. I can't tell you exactly what happened immediately after—I passed out.
        I must have regained consciousness shortly after. I woke up to him still ravaging my hole. His knot was slowly and forcefully going in and out of me. It took great strength from him; I could feel the resistance at my entrance, feeling like my guts would spill out. I couldn't even scream anymore. My body was so exhausted from the pain.
        "This is it", I thought. "I'm not surviving tonight"—a recurring thought that had never felt as true as that night.
        I didn't have any energy left in me. I only made uncomfortable grunts as he raped the innocence out of me with every thrust. I wanted it to end. His grunts became more laboured, and I felt him tensing up.
        "Fuck, I'm gonna cum", he told himself, his moans becoming louder as he approached his orgasm. I lay broken.
        "I'm gonna cum", he said louder this time. I felt warm liquid dripping down my balls with every thrust.
        "Oh, fuck. Fuck, I'm gonna cum". He kept saying this over and over. It's almost like there was disbelief in his voice. I struggled to breathe against the pillow.
        "Oh, God. I'm gonna—" he bit my shoulder hard as he thrust his knot into me one last time, easily sliding in at this point. I thought for sure he had ruptured something inside me.
        "Fuck!" I think I heard him say while he sunk his teeth into my flesh, groaning, moaning. I felt an uncomfortable and sudden warmth inside me as he shuddered every second. He collapsed on top of me. It was over.
        I felt his cock throb against my intestines. He panted into my fresh bite wound. Then, his jaw unclenched. We stayed like this, me softly sobbing, broken, marked, ridiculed and traumatised, him breathing heavily, being awkwardly quiet.
        Not long after, he gathered himself and began pushing out. His knot had swollen even more after cumming, and it took force to remove it. We both cried out as it popped out. It felt like razor blades. I felt his cum leaking out of me onto the mattress. He spread my cheeks to, I presume, inspect the damage he had caused. Then, he sat on the mattress next to me for a while.
        With a massive effort, I flipped onto my back. I could breathe again. I was humiliated to see I was hard. Despite going through the worst physical and emotional pain a little cub can go through, my body betrayed me. I felt so ashamed and disgusted with myself.
        "Come on," Dad said, rising. "Let's give you a bath".
        He realised I could not move, so he carried me to the bathroom. He filled the bathtub with warm water and soap. He softly sat me down in the water. The warmth stung badly against my ruptured tailhole. I whimpered softly. He did not console me, but he was very gentle as he cleaned me well. This was the best he had treated me in years. Why did it take him raping me?
        After cleaning me, he took me to my bed and let me sleep. The emotional exhaustion took over me, and I succumbed in seconds.
        Eventually, I ran away from home and didn't look back. I never saw him again after that.
        It's been some 15 years since that night. Things have gotten much better, but I will never forget it. It will remain a part of me until I die. At least it proved a worthy lesson on how not to be a piece of shit.
***
ψ
        Up a step, and then another step. I climb the stairs quietly, slowly, so as not to make too much noise. Once I am at the top, I make my way to the right, and I reach the door at the end of the hallway. I bring my paw up, and the door handle and the doorknob gives, silent. I am greeted by muted morning light coming in through the drawn curtains, fragile.
        The clothes he wore yesterday are on the floor. He once again didn't put them in the laundry basket. His desk is to the right—right beside the wardrobe—with his laptop, a small lamp and some books on it. The window is directly in front of the door, with a nightstand below it. And to its left, on his King Single, Arlo sleeps peacefully on his tummy. His Paw Patrol blanket covers only his legs, with half of it resting on the floor. He is such a restless sleeper—he makes adorable noises as he tosses in sleep.
        I walk forward, careful not to make any noise that may wake him up. I sit down beside him very slowly and take in the view of my adorable kit resting peacefully.
        His grey fur is messy, with loops and spikes shooting off in all directions from his onslaught of nightly stirring. His darker, pointy ears stand upright and flick now and then—a tick he has while awake, too. I sit down beside him with the utmost care.
        I can't help but smile when I look at him. I love him so much. I have devoted myself to his happiness, well-being and future. His joy is my own. I live a normal childhood vicariously through him.
        I must have been staring at him for five or ten minutes now. I raise my paw and softly place it on his back. I can feel his peaceful breathing and the rhythm of his heartbeat. I move my paw down his spine as gently as I can, and I think I hear him softly moan in his sleep.
        My paw reaches his butt, covered by his adorable white briefs. I very softly squeeze it. It's so firm. He definitely gets that from me.
        I give it a couple of soft pats.
        "Arlo", I say. "Time to wake up, buddy".
        His eyes fight to stay closed, but after a couple of seconds, they yield to wakefulness.
        "Morning, Dad", he says with the most adorable smile on his face.
        "Morning, sweetheart", I reply. "It's Monday today. You have to get up and get ready for school, okay?"
        Arlo sits up and rubs his eyes with both his tiny paws as he nods.
        "Good boy", I say, patting him on the head, which makes him giggle softly.
        He only recently started the second grade, and while he likes school, he has separation anxiety, so I make sure the mornings are supportive and focused on his comfort so he can have a good day.
        "Come down when you". I playfully look behind me and lean in close. "You'll never guess what I made for breakfast", I whisper.
        Arlo's ears instantly perk up with a twitch, and his eyes widen. "Waffles?" he exclaims.
        I nod with a sly smile.
        "With chocolate ice cream?" he says, raising his voice further and standing up on the bed.
        I nod again.
        "Yaaaaay!" Arlo yells out as he storms to the bathroom to get ready.
        I chuckle and head back downstairs and serve us both, then read the news on my phone while I wait for Arlo at the table. His mother, a fox just like me and as is tradition, no longer lives with us. He didn't take our separation very well, but he is happy with me, and I am with him, so we make do.
        A few minutes later, Arlo comes down, brushed and dressed, tail swishing excitedly behind him, and joins me for breakfast. We have a quiet meal together—he enjoys his food without disturbances—and then I let him watch cartoons on TV for a little before it's time to go to school while I do some cleaning around the house.
        "Alright, Kit", I say some twenty minutes later. "We have to get going now. Do you have your backpack ready?"
        "Yes, Daddy!" he says energetically, getting up on his paws and turning the TV off. "I'll go get it now".
        "Atta boy", I reply, giving him a soft pat on the bum as he walks past. "Come to the car when you've got it".
        Yes, I drive him to school. I have never liked the idea of letting him take the school bus. Public transport is dangerous, and I don't trust other people's driving. Not to talk about the bus drivers themselves—creeps, the lot of them.
        I turn on the ignition and the radio, and I lose myself in the music for a minute. Today is so overcast. Days like today feel so gloomy to me, but nothing can ruin the joy of spending time with my son.
        Arlo gets in the car just a minute later. I ensure he is wearing his seatbelt, and I begin our short journey to school.
        "Rock today?" I ask while glancing at Arlo in the rearview mirror.
        "Yes!" he says, his eyes lighting up.
        Music is one of his passions, and he has a great deal of knowledge for his age. He listens to a wide variety of genres, but rock is his favourite by far.
        This town has grown slightly larger since I was a cub, but it is still the same small rural community. We arrive at the school not ten minutes later, and I let Arlo finish singing the song that's playing before he goes into the building.
        He hits the final note, and I lower the volume, then lean in for a kiss. He returns it.
        "Alright, Puppy", I say, petting him softly between his fuzzy ears. "You go have a great day. I'll be waiting here when you finish".
        "Love you, Daddy!" Arlo says as he hops out of the car, closes the door behind him and sprints into school. He disappears into a small crowd of cubs, and I can't help but smile. He is my everything.
        Once the school bell rings, I turn the ignition back on and start driving my way back home. I enjoy the peace and quiet of these barren roads, my mind wandering. I'm off work today, so I have all the time in the world to myself.
        It takes longer to get home this time around. I park outside, get out of the car and head inside. The wood has lost most of its colour, and the entirety of the house appears to be falling into disrepair. I open the door, and a sudden smell of dust hits my nostrils. It's so overpowering I sneeze a few times. I roam around, memories flooding my brain as I remember rooms and furniture.
        This is not my home. Not anymore.
        I inherited this place, and I'm still unsure what to do with it. I could sell the land or renovate it. Yet, that didn't feel right. I make my way upstairs and to my old bedroom door. I open it with some hesitation. Most of my belongings are no longer here, save for my old bed and drawers. I don't have it in me to walk inside, so I close the door again. I explore the rest of the house for a little. Once I'm satisfied, I leave through the front door and sit on the steps, gazing up at the grey sky. It might rain. I should start thinking about what to make for dinner tonight. I can probably make a quick stop at the supermarket before heading home—my real home.
        I come here sometimes. It's... serene in some strange, twisted way. I don't think it's nostalgia. I don't understand why I do this, but I also don't need to.
        I stand up. I breathe heavily, processing the strange mixed emotions I feel every time. But it isn't time to leave.
        There is one final place to visit.
        One foot in front of the other, and almost subconsciously pushing aside the feelings, the memories, the fear, I find myself in front of the door. The rotting wood suits the dark pit I'm heading to.
        Swallowing, I throw it open. The stairway disappears into the darkness below. Has it always been this dark? Is it the lack of sunlight? Are basements meant to be this deep?
        I snap out of it. I climb down a couple of steps in a hurry, closing my eyes. The door creaks shut behind me, and I see the faint light in my eyelids fade into complete darkness.
        I feel dampness in my armpits, and my hands tremble slightly. I keep my eyes closed. My senses compensate for the lack of vision, and I can smell the moisture in the musty air emanating from the house's deepest entrails.
        I find the courage to continue climbing down. With every step, memories that my brain has fought to hold back for so long fight to surface. I push them down.
        I must be halfway down now—another step, another jolt of pain. I wince as I can feel the blows on my ribs and the whippings on my back.
        I continue my descent to madness as I can feel sweat building on every crevice of my body, every inch of my skin. My fur feels uncomfortably wet. Salty water slowly drips from my chin. Another step, another jolt of pain.
        Despite how long it's been, I still remember how many steps there are. I don't know the number, but my legs do. I instinctively wipe the blood dripping freely from my nose with one hand. There is no blood, and my nose isn't broken. The smell of damp wood and dust is almost overwhelming.
        I freeze. I know I'm in front of the second door. I hear my heart beating hard against my eardrums. I hear my blood flowing. I'm breathing as though I've run a marathon and trembling like I downed the entire coffee shop.
        I open my eyes. I see the faint light coming through the door's edges and hinges—a treacherous sense of security. It never gets any easier, but I calm myself down. I always do.
        I steady my right paw with my left and open the door slowly. The light blinds me a little, and where I expect to see dozens of boxes, there are but a few.
        The door closes behind me. The stress and fear dissipate, giving way to a hardening discomfort in my groin.
        There are some things that I couldn't bring myself to get rid of down here. There are some records, paintings and other memorabilia spread about. Most importantly, that old, disgusting mattress is still here. It didn't feel right to throw it away, for some reason. The memories come to life in my brain. I expected Dad to be waiting for me, but Dad was long gone. I expected every muscle and joint to ache as I walked, but the only pain was in my soul. I expected to find a cub lying on that disgusting mattress, battered and broken, with no fight left in him. I found precisely that.
        Lucas has been waiting for me, and now I am here.
        My footsteps must have woken the raccoon boy up. He is only nine years old. He looks at me with a pleading, teary eye—the other one seems too swollen to see through. Bald patches of fur reveal his bruised skin. He is completely naked, but I was kind enough to let him inherit my old blanket.
        I unbutton and unzip my jeans, and I see Lucas cringe hard. He looks so gorgeous like this. So pure and corruptible. I remove my jeans and shirt and walk to him. Chained and on his knees, he looks up at me with an expression of pure terror, whimpering quietly. I give him a nurturing smile and a soft head pat right between his ears.
        "You are perfect", I compliment him.
        He whimpers.
        "Why are you doing this to me?" he chokes out.
        I can't contain my laughter.
        "Oh, Lucas. Don't you know?" I say, pulling my throbbing cock out of my underwear, a string of precum hitting him on the nose, making him flinch.
        I grin at him. "Only monsters hurt their kids".