A story about the Lynxley family.
A rotten robe, misplaced longing, and a brother who will never receive what heâs starving for.
Full English version below. AO3 link included.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
I was not the least bit surprised that our entire family ended up in prison. Not at all.
The things weâve done could form a trail of filth stretching from the center of Zootopia all the way to the vegetable fields on the outskirts; I simply didnât expect this to be the cause.
Prison days are always dull.
The only thing that moves here is time, and even that flows slowly, like water frozen by a bitter wind. There is also Pawbertâs idiotic noise drifting from the next cell. But even here, the robe called Lynxley clings tightly to our family. Once it gleamed gold; now itâs torn, reeking of prison mold and failure. I still donât understand why Pawbert insisted on getting involved. He always did things I could not comprehendâsometimes strange, stubborn little behaviors, as though he were reaching for something I was too lazy to examine. But now I have nothing but time, and I can think about it slowly.
My memories of the past have already blurred, like the endless snowfall around our estateâyesterday, today, tomorrow, all the same. Father forever expanding his territory. Cattrick forever batting at his yarn like a hyperactive child, finding new ways to irritate me.
The image was absurd: a father who wanted to rule the city, a brother who wanted to rule the living-room yarn, and meâthe only lynx who knew what we should have been ruling.
Disgusting, when I think about it now. Time truly began to move only with Pawbertâs birth. He was born in winter. Not that it mattered; that place hardly had any other season. But the sky did clear briefly that day, perhaps to announce the arrival of a calamityâone that would destroy generations of our familyâs wealth, prestige, and status.
Things grew more interesting afterward. With Pawbert as our constant joke, even my fights with Cattrick were less dull. He was always, always making a fool of himselfâat least thatâs what I assumed without question back then. Sometimes I wondered if something had gone wrong in our motherâs womb. How else could he exist in such a ridiculous state? Perhaps he wasnât even a mammal. Perhaps he was a snake. How else to explain his naĂŻvetĂŠ, his stupidity, his pettinessâand his stubbornness?
Then I remembered that damned banquet. Strictly speaking, the disaster didnât begin that night, but the Lynxley robe began tearing from that point on.
Pawbert started preparing for the banquet far too early. I actually thought heâd finally come to his sensesâhe even took off that bizarre green sweater he always wore. He tried on countless suits and practically lived at the tailorâs shop for days. He even ran to ask Cattrick, âDoes this suit me? How do I look?â Cattrick mocked him tirelessly at first, but eventually just let him be.
Even moments before the banquet began, Pawbert was still struggling over what to wear. And in the end, he chose Cattrickâs spare bow tie. That stupid bow tie. I hated that thing. But he insisted on wearing it, even though it was far too tight and he could barely breathe. He wore it anywayâjust like he clung to the Lynxley family.
But, my dear brother, the Lynxley family is nothing more than a rotten robe. It only looks glamorous on the outside. Inside, it is stitched tight with our familyâs fur, temper, secrets, deformities, and idiocyâso tight that loosen a single thread, and the entire robe would split open.
I wear it only so that one day I may claim it entirely, and kick out every creature I despiseâlike you, Father, and Cattrick.
But you? You wear it in pain. It suffocates you. So why didnât you run? Run to your desert burrow, run to your âfriends,â play with your little yarn ball, sniff your catnip?
NO. You stayed. Even if it meant peeling your own skin to use as lining, you insisted on sewing this rotten robe onto yourself.
You did succeed in one thing, at least. Now no one denies that you are one of us. You can even stay beside your favoriteâFatherâall the time. Itâs been ages since Iâve seen him maintain that same perpetual irritation.
Your craving, your desireâ
theyâre more terrifying than a fire devouring carpet.
You want love, donât you?
For that desireâfor that most fragile, most impossible thingâyou used your âpartners,â that fox and that rabbit, as stepping stones. You pressed your will over other creatures, just as Grandfather did for wealth, just as Father did for power.
Youâve learned the purest essence of this family. So what else is there for me to say? Congratulations. By putting it on, you finally became one of us. But tell meâwhen you stitched your own skin into that robe, did you truly believe youâd gain something we never gave you?
That is impossible. Our family has never possessed what youâre looking for. Grandfather will not love you. Father will not love you. Cattrick will not love you. I will not, either. What you want simply does not exist in this household. And the moment you first pressed your will down onto another creature, you pushed yourself out of the only place where you might have been able to loveâor be loved.
This rotten robe was never worn by us.
It has always been wearing us.
The tighter you sew yourself into it, the further you drift from what you truly wantâeven if, in essence, you have already become no different from the rest of us.
Ah. Thereâs no need to think any further.
Because if you keep thinking, even breathing will tug at that thread, revealing the thing you are still desperately waiting for, yet will never be returnedâ
And you shouldnât open your mouth again.
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