Heartache

Lots of times I think back to when I was a kitten, and it is hard to remember, but there's lots of feelings that still live in my memory. I remember the smell my mother had, the same scent as cuddling in a warm blanket on a rainy day. I remember the different tones of mews each of my five siblings had, and how I loved hearing it because it reminded me I had a family. I may not know what happened every morning or the color of my mom's fur, but I remember what it felt like when I was yanked by the scruff of my neck and thrown into a crate. I remember fearing for my life and praying my siblings were together. But then, then there was Emily.

Oh, how I loved Emily, more so than she'll ever know. She was and always will be my person. My Emily. I was a kitten when she found me. The truck that took me away from my mother crashed and my crate opened, so I ran. I ran until I found warmth in a box stashed under a car. In the morning, I was woken to my box moving around–looking up I stared straight into the eyes of something I had never seen before. I was too weak to fight her, and I succumbed to the comfort of being held and pet. In a few weeks I loved this little girl more than I had loved my own kin, she was perfect. But Emily was sick.

Walter did his best for her; driving to the doctor’s appointments, paying the medical bills, letting her be a normal child as best he could, but it took a toll on him too. Emily’s mom died during childbirth, and her and Walter have been on their own since. While Emily may call him dad, I learned from the doctor’s and the visitors that he’s Walter Carmichael. He took good care of me too. I never went hungry, even once when he didn’t have enough money to buy me food he gave me turkey from the fridge. The sicker Emily got though, the more often I was given turkey from the fridge. The doctor’s let me come with Emily anytime she had to stay at the hospital overnight. For a while there were no doctor appointments, no staying at the hospital for weeks at a time, there was just home. There were game nights when Walter would talk about me like I was trying to play on Emily’s team–in reality I just wanted to sit on her lap and be close. We had movie nights where Emily would snuggle up to Walter and I would curl up on him as me and my girl fell asleep. I’d always wake up with Emily in her bed, magically I used to think–but it was just another way Walter showed his love for us. And I loved Walter too, but he wasn’t Emily.

One day I woke up and heard coughing, and Emily was hacking blood into a tissue. I sat outside Walter’s door, scratching, meowing, doing everything I could to make him hear me. When he finally got up Emily was convulsing, shaking and drooling in bed. I was terrified–not of her but for her. We stayed in the hospital for a while after that. Her hair fell out again, her skin got very pale, and eventually, she stopped breathing. That was a hard day, Walter didn’t speak, but he slept with me in her bed–the bed Emiyl had cuddled me in countless times before, the one she read books to me in even though I barely listened to a word she said. And Walter and I didn’t leave her bed the next morning either. It took three days before he got up. I knew Walter wasn’t ready to be alone, so I followed him. I followed and I sat on the mat outside of the shower. There and then Walter began to cry. He cried, and cried, and cried. He didn’t know it but I cried too. Emily was our lives, our everything. Walter and I always had the understanding that Emily was the best thing in the world to both of us. Later that night we sat on the couch and the tv played. I don’t think Walter was paying attention to what was on, but before I fell asleep on him he thanked me.

The next morning I woke up in Emily’s bed like I did so many times when she was alive. It was lonely without her. Before I even made it to his room I could feel that he was gone. I push into the cracked door of the bathroom, and I see the limp corpse of Walter Carmichael–empty bottle of brandy on the sink, knife laid on the edge of the bathtub, and a soft smile on the dead man’s face.

From that moment on, I knew that I lost the best family I’d ever have.

I wandered around town until an older lady found me, and took me to the very shelter I’m in now. The only difference between today and then is eight years of time. I’ve been adopted by many families now, after every ending I come back here. I consider this shelter home. After my Emily died, and then Walter, this shelter was here. After the Vancouver’s adopted me and realized their son was allergic, I was sent here. I only came close to loving one child besides Emily, Daniel. 

Daniel’s parents were going through a rough divorce, and his mom bought me to soothe him in harsh times. After Daniel’s dad won full custody I was hated. His father would throw me and hit me with things for no reason. Just walking into the kitchen, or sitting on the couch. I knew Daniel needed me so I stayed for a while, but eventually Daniel’s dad got a dog. I was already hated and the boy didn’t need me anymore, and I returned to the shelter. 

I had four other families, none of them the right fit for one reason or another. I’m ten years old, ten years. It’s strange how many things can happen in a decade. I don’t expect to be adopted now, or even want to be. The shelter owner has a soft spot for me anyways. Some nights I go home with her–to her small apartment where she lives alone. There’s pictures on her walls of her as a young woman, standing next to a man I’ve never seen–there’s even a photograph of them getting married on her nightstand. She doesn’t talk to me much, just loves on me and cuddles up on the days she doesn’t want to be alone. We’re one and the same, me and the shelter owner. Emily will always be my person, and Walter will always hold a place in my heart–just as that man holds in hers, the man whose ashes sit in half of the locket on her neck. Neither one of us love the other, but going through the motions is a good way to numb the pain.