Compromises

Hola everyone! This is a small piece that I wrote for a class. I rather like it, but would appreciate anyone's input. I understand if you don't want to take the time to submit a review, but would you mind just rating it?



I am one of the road. Most of my kindred are content to wile away their days in the gilded cages of humans, but never me. I lived in a cage once, but the earth called to me. The smell of wild wind beckoned me to suck my stomach in until I was nothing but a two-dimensional line of fur and could squeeze between the bars of my cage. And I followed my call.


It is cold and cruel outside of the cage, but worth it. The burn of cold steel against a thin coat is a million times worse than the piercing chill of rain. Because you belong to yourself and even the rain belongs to you. In a cage, you are someone else’s plaything, to do with what they please. There is nothing as heart wrenching as the pure energy flowing through your veins as still moonlight flows over your timid form. I will never relinquish the gritty pleasure of sinking your claws into soft, crumbling earth. Even the sharp pain as your teeth meet freezing water is better than the tepid stuff those house cats lap up. That kind of water stings in the back of your throat and drips down to your stomach blandly. At least the pain of drinking from an icy stream is real. Everything about a house cat’s life is fake. From the dry, cracked pellets they choke down to the unmoving toys they rake and bite viciously. The pride of catching your own food far outweighs the gnawing hunger of the occasional days you go hungry.


I don’t know how long I’ve been alone now. Time blends into a mass of the scenes when you’re part of the world. Brief encounters with strangers stick out in my mind, but when I’m alone, everything seems to blend into a single moment that embodies a million feelings and thoughts. The flow of my life has been that of an ever-rushing stream, unhindered by the boulders or fish that inhabit it. I simply flow.
It saddens me on occasion that my life is so hard remember as individual moments. It feels as though nothing I have done has really mattered in the scheme of things. Which it doesn’t, I suppose. That is the curse of the road; its children are doomed to wander until they die, and they know it. We do not lie to ourselves because there is no room for lies when you must fight every moment to survive. But that is the way of the road, and I wouldn’t give it up for anything.


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This house feels so unfinished. Soft echoes of words never said assail my dreading ears each night.  Shadows of the past swim before my eyes like a thin veil of smoke that slowly melts into the background. The words ‘too late’ have been etched into my brain as if tempered in steel. I spend my days desperately avoiding thought, because it’s always the same thought in a repetitive, jumbled mess.
In a way, I am avoiding life. He was my life for so long that I don’t know how to live without him. I am an addict going through withdrawal after centuries of dependence. Our personalities defined each other and now that he is gone, I’m nobody. Just a shriveled shell of a woman who once had thick blond braids that she flipped flirtatiously over her shoulder. But the liquid gold was laced with sprinkles of ash until it faded into a smoky night sky. Time had carved my features as if it was a great wave, eroding the rocks that trap it in.
My body has become an hourglass, serving no purpose but to count the days I have left in this world. I am content to watch the sand fall. My exhausted body might be giving it’s all to give me a few more months, but I do not care. In my mind, I am already dead.


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The rain pummels me like a hefty heard of elephants. I stagger wearily as it strikes my sore body. The pain of the hard, freezing rain is nothing compared to that in my paws. My poor pads have been rubbed raw by the spiny concrete and the frigid water sends jolts of lighting sizzling up my tired legs. My muscles convulse rapidly and involuntarily, trying futilely to warm themselves. Like a newborn kitten, I stagger blindly, feeling as if my heavy coat has been soaked with lead.
The time has come for desperate measures and my feet grudgingly make their way to a nearby set of stone steps. I climb them gingerly, wincing with pain as my feet touch the cracked, jagged stone. I make my way to the top, despite the pain in my paws and that of knowing that if I was my usual self, I would be at the top in one flying leap. Standing rigidly in front of me is the next challenge I must conquer; a heavy, wooden door.


Yowling pitifully and at the top of my lungs, I throw myself at the door, a dull pain throbbing through my body as I collide with it. It remains closed and I repeat my earlier efforts, panting in fatigue and frustration. Trembling meows crawl from out my sore, dust-caked throat until they crack and I’m left wailing silently at the rain. I know I must drag myself to the next house, must try again, but my legs disagree strongly with my will and fold in protest. I collapse daintily and lay outstretched on the porch, trying to maintain some semblance of my usual dignity.
Without warning, the door opens and I leap back as the cascading wind its movement has caused strikes me sharply in the face. Sweet, life-saving adrenaline erases my wounds instantly and I hiss menacingly, trying vainly to puff out my waterlogged fur. My instantaneous reaction fades as I realize it’s only a human, and one that smells of weakness at that. The human blocks the doorway and weaves its head around as if trying to make me out clearly. I creep a little farther back, ready to streak into the house whenever I chance upon an opening (which will be very soon factoring in the frailty of the human and the incredible speed and timing of yours truly.)


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I cock my head to the side and manage to make out a very pitiful looking, hunched over creature. Slowly, I inch forward, my rickety legs sighting softly in distress. Moving a little closer, my eyebrows jump as I realize the thing is, in fact, a very bedraggled cat. Its fur is sticking out at every angle imaginable and has swallowed as much water as possible. Like a hairy sponge, dirty liquid drips from the animal as it streaks by my legs, leaving a sopping tail mark on my wrinkled leather pants.


“Hey!” I shout angrily, slamming the door shut. I look around furtively and notice damp prints on the carpet that lead right to my blanket, under which a small tail seems to be protruding. Slowly and with the utmost discretion, I follow the watery path until I am hovering right above a lumpy patch of the blanket. As if trying to catch a fish with my bare hands, I quickly snatch up the quilt and the fugitive it shelters, who has become tangled in its woven surface. A head pops up from amid the pile of the struggling limbs and two almond eyes regard me haughtily.


“Hah!” I say in response to the creature’s noiseless insult. “Didn’t expect that, did you? I caught you, Mr. Kittycat— make that Ms. Kittcat,” I amend as I catch a brief glimpse of its hindquarters. “—And I don’t intend to let you stay,” I stride to the doorway and begin to open it, but the infernal thing has managed to free a paw from its netted prison and whips its claws into my outstretched arm.
Yelping, I jump back, instinctively throwing the cat away from myself. It somehow manages to twist around in midair and streaks off, claws skidding on the slippery kitchen tiles.


“Hey, you, Get back here!” I yell, hobbling determinedly after the intruder. I make it into the kitchen just in time to see a flash of the blanket disappearing into the living room. I creep to the threshold between the two rooms and poke my head around. Sitting insolently on my couch is the cat, who is trying to untangle herself from the sinister clutches of the evil blanket. I step into the room and her ears and head rise in unison. Panicking, the creature tries to dash out of my view, but is still caught on the blanket, which by now has circled a number of objects and stubbornly refuses to move. Her eyes rolling in fear, the poor thing struggles harder and is only entangled more. I don’t want the cat in my house, but it looks like it’s about to impale itself on my sharp, tableside lamp in its attempt to be free of the quilt.
Sighing, I go back into the kitchen and come out with a sharp pair of scissors. The thing eyes me suspiciously as I approach her and struggles all the more desperately.


“Hey, you,” I say in what I think is a soothing voice (though the cat appears to think I’m threatening her.) “Calm down, I’m going to get you out of there.” Taking care to avoid lopping of one of her jerking appendages, I cut around the blanket and gently lift her paws, untangling them. She is free now, but stays where she is, more trustful now that I’ve helped her out and not attempted to dump her back out into the pouring rain.


I let my gaze suffuse the creature and notice the numerous scars and missing clumps of fur that dot her body. Slowly, ever so slowly, I reach my palm out to pat her wet fur. As soon as my warm skin makes contact with her shivering body, she twitches, as if her whole skeleton is jumping and the skin has decided not to follow. Her lips part and a low, savage hiss slides from between her barred teeth. She is a wild thing all right, a feral cat through and through. Her warning comes to an abrupt end and she backs into a corner, eyes locked on me and glimmering with distaste. I can see that I’ve violated any brief camaraderie between us by treating her like a common house cat.


“Sorry,” I say gravely. “You can stay until the rain lets out. But only until then!” I add sharply, making sure she understands me. Satisfied for the moment, she relaxes into a sitting position, legs folded regally beneath her belly.
“Probably hungry, aren’t you?” I grumble, glaring at her. “I guess I should get you some food or something…” I rock in place a moment, giving the pretence of indecision, then slowly stand up, groaning as fire crawls up my already charred bones. I walk into the kitchen slowly and return with a small bowl of milk and the remains of last weeks chicken. Placing the milk down between us, I run my fingers over the chicken, making sure there are no shards of bone remaining in the rubbery meat.


“Here,” I say when I’m assured the meat is safe and have placed it next to the milk. I retreat to my spot on the couch and watch as she slowly inches forward, not wanting to accept my charity but feeling herself beckoned by the smell of meat. Cautiously, she laps up the milk and nibbles the chicken, glancing my way every few seconds to make sure I haven’t moved from my appointed place. After the cat has finished, she retreats to the corner she has made her own, still not exposing her back to me.


As the moon waxes and the rain flows on in a steady rhythm of stops and starts, I begin to talk gently to the creature, not even realizing I’m doing so at first. The words that have been stuck in my brain flow gently through my lips and I’m surprised as a great pressure in my head relaxes into a gentle pounding, echoing through my ears in time with the rain.


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Its odd, but I almost feel pity for this human. I mean, sure, it (actually she, judging by its smell) did try to capture me (but I escaped quickly, of course) and also attempted touch me (how dare she?!) but she smells like the sour, sudden tug that accompanies death. I have smelt death before, on the prey I kill or unlucky animals that tried to cross a road at the wrong time, but never on something that still breaths.


She almost reminds me of myself, strange as that sounds. Perhaps we are both in a state of semi-life, the invisible moment when neither moon nor sun is reflected through the clouds. I am trapped in this limbo because I face both life and death everyday. My life is a constant compromise, as I must both come to terms with my immanent death while still working every second to keep the blood flowing through my veins. Something about her smell, or maybe in way she moves, reminds me of that compromise. I have chosen this life of in-betweens, though, while she looks like she has been thrust into it.


For the first time, I notice that she is speaking softly, her words directed at me, though they feel as if they are meant for another. I let the throaty tone of her voice sink into my skin, soothing my tired muscles. I don’t need to speak the same language to understand that her words are those of sorrow and tears. Padding closer, I notice her eyes are closed, but still the words flow on. The sound makes me want to wail out in the pained cry of a kitten who has lost her mother.
Silently, I make my way through the shadows and jump up next to her, creeping slowly onto her lap. This is a totally alien action to me, but I feel as if I have no choice. Shivers creep down my spine as her fingertips trail lightly across my fur, but I resist the urge to flee. She pats me repeatedly, as if stuck in an infinite loop, until the feeling of her warm fingers is almost comforting and my thoughts ebb into darkness.


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The still wind loops noiselessly through the long stems of wheat and they bow slightly in response. I stomp indifferently through the vibrant golden field, my heavy footfalls leaving the fragile plants untouched. I am inside my body, feeling my muscles ripple and move with ease, but am also outside it all, viewing the scene as if it were a movie. It is a curious feeling, being trapped and free of yourself at once. The me who is outside makes a note to remember it.


I trudge on thoughtlessly, not knowing what my final destination will be, but being perfectly certain that I’ll get there when I should. My march takes me through a strange array of places that meld flawlessly into the next. From the cheerful field of wheat, I travel on to a misty shore where the water brushes my feet like the silky wings of a moth. My toes leave damp prints on the cool sand and then on a spongy dirt road. I feel a tingling sensation on the back of my neck and realize that the sun is shining directly onto me through a light canopy of vines that have replaced the endless sea. I keep walking at a steady pace, my legs never growing sore. When I reach the end of my journey, I have traveled through a million landscapes, each dramatically different, yet with a slight sense of familiarity about it. The last one is the most breathtaking; a high cliff overhanging a magnificent spread of flower covered pools.


My feet invariably stop at the cliff’s edge as they know they must. The me inside of my body waits peacefully while my outside self starts to shiver from the ominous silence. Neither of my selves has any control over the situation, despite what they may feel, and they wait helplessly for whatever is going to happen to happen.
The warm wind creeps stealthily beneath my nose, carrying a scent that pitches my whole being into chaos. It is him. It has to be him. Nobody else could bear that warm, tangy aroma which is a peculiar mixture of vanilla and cayenne pepper. I miss that smell so much. Every morning, I bury my nose in what was his pillow, just so I can pretend for a second he’s still lying beside me. I open my mouth wide, sucking in the scent so I can burn it into my soul forever.


But the thieving wind robs me of my gift just as suddenly as it offered it. I cry out in pain, feeling his loss as I never have before. Instead of pushing away the memories, the pure agony, I immerse myself in it. And I cry. I let my tears run down my cheeks until my face is covered in the pearly liquid of my sorrow. For the first time since he died, I truly mourn, truly let go of all my sanity.


In this state of semi-reality, it is easy to let go and float away. I can never do this on earth. I’m too terrified that if I let go, I will never return. I’ve kept myself captive in a place between life and dreams. The prospect of life without him scares me and the thought of joining him horrifies me equally. But right here and right now, my heart can scream its sorrow until satisfied. And maybe when my two selves have merged into one again, and when the cliff vanishes, leaving my unfinished house, I will feel a little better. I promise myself that I’ll go outside tomorrow and remind my neighbors I exist. The wind whispers its approval.


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I awake slowly, my eyelids ungluing themselves to let in the misty light of a clouded sun. I jump off of the human and she grunts softly as my extra weight vanishes. On the floor, I stretch, snarling in primitive delight at the feeling of my claws ripping into the carpet. I breathe in the air, my nose twitching in surprise as I realize the smell of death has faded, leaving only those of the morning.
I would like to stay a little longer, maybe experience that uncanny yet lovely feeling of human hands again. But I can hear the road signing to me; spinning mouthwatering tales of naïve birds and fields of long, whispery grass that will gently brush against my flank. I glide over to an open window and perch on it for a minute, taking in a last whiff of the human’s smell.


I am one of the road and can never go back. But maybe every once in a while, I might return to a place like this and shiver with delight as an open palm caresses my spine. The human in this house smelt of death last night and life this morning. If she can return from the in-between place, maybe I can also. Perhaps I am not caged by either life or death. Perhaps the sun and moon are shining together in perfect harmony.