Quiet

"Jeanette!" I called, keeping my voice quiet so, hopefully, no one except her could hear. I don't remember who named her, nor do I remember how we met. Maybe we were both left here, in this tiny little apartment, destined to meet and live and die. Sometimes I wonder what we could do together, a human and a cat, outside these constricting walls. Though the fear of everything and everyone outside is instilled deep in me, I still can't bring myself to patch up that one crack in the wooden boards covering the window next to my bed-- it's not safe, I know, but that exhilarating sight of all those people out there is something I'll never want to give up.

Scratch, scratch!

"Jeanette?" I whisper. The sound was coming from the bathroom. With the light steps I was accustomed to, I hurried over to the dirty white toilet in the corner of the dark and tiny room. Scratch, scratch! The sound came from above me, where a few other boards were, blocking everything here from being visible to the outside world. When I looked up, Jeanette was there, standing on the window ledge and scratching her cute little paws on the boards. I had a sudden urge to tear those boards away from the window and reveal the blue, blue sky, the crowds of people below, and the bright white sun, but I couldn't. I knew the sound would make our room suspicious.

And as I tightened my hold of Jeanette, I wondered: How many years has it been since I'd been alone with her here?

I don't remember.

I used to keep track of every month that passed on the wooden boards covering the windows, but Jeanette's scratches have already covered them all up.

I vaguely remember having a mother, a faint remembrance of the hate she directed at the outside world, at the people who placed her here. "We all commit sins," I think she said. "Why are they only punishing the ones who are foolish enough to leave tracks behind?" She would sit on the bed, next to the bookcase, the wooden boards behind her stressing her every word. It was funny, as she was the one who taught me to keep quiet and only whisper but would always say those words with a growl.

That was basically all I remembered, though. That and the sole principle of the world we live in, unspoken but common knowledge among the citizens: don't draw attention to yourself, or people will target you. The streets are always packed, but you don't want to be a victim.

In this strange world of hide-and-seek, the best thing you could do is act like everyone else. But my mother would always pride herself on thinking of a better idea-- not letting anyone even know you were there. Of course, we needed food, so she asked our neighbors about it. They would provide me with food for as long as I lived, in exchange for her working for them for the rest of her life. Last I heard, she was taken hostage and killed. The neighbors still kept their end of the deal and give me and Jeanette food every Monday

It was Monday exactly 7 days ago. They were supposed to give us food, but, no matter how much I checked, there was nothing in front of the door. We were just surviving on scraps from the food they gave us 2 weeks ago, but it ran out yesterday. I was afraid to go outside, but I didn't want to starve either.

As I peeked through the crack in the window's boards, I couldn't deny I was curious about what happened outside, in the packed streets of our enclosed city. Maybe if I left this room, I would be able to escape. I heard my neighbors talking about that a few weeks ago. It's likely they either escaped or were shot to death by the guards or other inhabitants. But whatever the reason, they weren't here now.

The rational part of my mind kept telling me I needed to leave, but I had never set a single foot outside of that old chipping wooden door, and the mere thought of it sent chills down my spine.

My stomach rumbled. I was used to eating less-- the pain of hunger wasn't anything new to me-- but I didn't want to die. In the past, it was something like a miracle, when I waited for food to come, and it really did. But in the past, it wasn't as silent as it was now. Sure, there were a few silent moments here and there, but, though it was never me who made the noise, there was always some sort of sound echoing through the halls, the familiar shouts and sounds of violence.

The rational part of me told myself that quiet was a good thing. That there was no one outside waiting to ambush someone coming out of an eerily silent apartment room in this overpopulated city. That I wouldn't die, that someone would come, that... that...

I kept my eyes on the door. Had it always looked so weak, so fragile, so feeble that a single punch could probably break through it? Had it always had that much rust on its hinges, that much dust on its old wood, that much dread seeping through the ever-growing sides?

I didn't realize I was touching the door until I noticed the streaks of white my fingers made, wiping away the dust caked there through the years. I jumped back immediately, but the motion made me trip over and hit the bookcase. It rattled, the books tumbling down before I could stop them. No, no, no. They couldn't be. They had to stop. Please-- please-- stop, stop, stop! It felt like time was moving slower than ever, but I couldn't do anything. I could only watch, watch, watch as the books came plunging down on me in slow-motion, one by one by one, creating the biggest but slowest crash I had ever heard, louder than screams, than bones breaking, than that one unhuman screech I had made after my neighbors gave me my mother's finger as a sign of their twisted "kindness."

I closed my eyes.

My palms were sweaty, my heart was beating so fast it felt like I was going to die(I probably was-- if not by the books, then by the noise), my mind was in shambles, but I kept my eyes squeezed closed.

Maybe, like in the fairytales that were crashing down on me, maybe someone would come save me. Maybe I would wake up outside the tall, menacing walls of our city, out of the reach of the prisoners in here and the danger they carried, in the place they called "heaven." But I wanted to live. A book hit me in the middle of my stomach, making me feel like throwing up. Another thudded on my head and bounced onto the ground. The avalanche of books was never ending, and dread seeped into me as the bookcase loomed over me, tipping over slowly.

And one... two... the bookcase crashed down on top of me. The pain jolted my eyes open, and I couldn't think of anything but fear. With ragged gasps, I imagined the everyone finding me, their eyes on me, their horrendous faces with "CRIMINAL" tattooed on them laughing and snatching me away to the place where my mother is now, just to get a little bit of fun in their everyday life. But I could only see black. Black and bloody red. I couldn't get up. I couldn't feel my lower body at all. But my sight slowly cleared out, and, though I was still a mess, I managed to sweep my bloody hands out in front of me. My left hand landed on a soft, tiny journal, my right on a sticky mash of fur I presumed to be Jeanette. No. No, no, no. I didn't want to look there, didn't want to think about her, didn't want to remember the days and months and years we spent together. My tears, from both pain and sorrow, flowed freely down to the ground. I was going to die, I knew that. That sound would bring suspicion to this apartment, would bring all the tattooed ones here.

I focused my sight and mind to the journal, one that I had never seen before, even through my hours of reading and sorting everything here. The cover was a pretty maroon color, with a golden C. C... I couldn't remember anything important that started with C. Maybe it was the brand. Hands trembling and vision blurred, I flipped it open to the first page. It was blank. I flipped to the next one. It was still blank. I sifted through the pages until I finally found a page filled with words.

11/20

It's been a week since they moved me here, to the cursed city of criminals. I'm surprised I haven't been killed yet, especially with a noisy baby crying 24/7. I miss the outside world. It's one thing to voluntary be in danger, and another to live in a place surrounded by danger and without a single safe space, except maybe in this little apartment with my darling and a cat I adopted yesterday(I couldn't resist). I miss the world outside these walls. It's way too crazy here.

I flipped through the pages, reading more and more and more, my eyes straining from the effort, but my mind in ecstatic happiness. There was a world outside? And you could live there? I thought of the rare white bread the neighbors sometimes gave me. I thought of the books scattered on top of me, picturing what I always imagined was the utopia you could get to in the afterworld, as long as I stayed quiet. Was that what it was like out there? I couldn't think of being able to shout and play and run around everywhere without a rasp giggle escaping.

The outside world. I wanted to live in the outside world. My breath became ragged as I imagined playing with Jeanette and fifty other cats, yelling and running and eating my heart out-- heck, even meeting someone else and falling in love like in those books I read a million times over.

I couldn't breathe. My vision was blurry from crying, my nose was blocked, and my chest hurt every time I took in a breath, but my mind was still sprinting everywhere, imagining everything.

I turned my head around, facing Jeanette. I wanted to smile, but ended up choking on a sob and only managing to push out a faint grin. And then I closed my eyes, slipping quietly towards her and my mother.