Tuesday, March 20, 2018

I Won't Leave

Fiction by Jessa R. Roberts, 10th Grade, Homeschool
1st Place for High School Fiction - 2017 Met Awards

Golden toes tip across the rumpled bed sheets. Warm fingers tickle my ears. I crack my eyes open and yawn at the invading sunlight. My old bones creak and complain when I stretch, trying to work a couple cricks out of my back. Days like these I want nothing more than to curl back up on my warm pillow and fall asleep. Beside me he thrashes suddenly, turning onto his back and throwing an arm over his face. And I remember.

My shoulders bend suddenly under the weight of my life. I turn and look at him. The sheets are tangled around his legs, and sweat plasters his t-shirt to his skin. His jaw works, and I can see his eyes flickering desperately under their lids. His expression breaks my heart. No one should look that sad and scared, especially not my gentle little boy. What happened to him?

I look away, unable to look at the labyrinth of lumpy white scars disfiguring his skin. After his mother got sick he started to lose that joyful light that had played in his eyes since he had first lifted me out of that box under the twinkling Christmas tree. He had cried himself to sleep for weeks after she died, and I had been curled up in his arms the whole time. His tears had soaked into my fur, and I caught a chill, but I never left his arms.

He had left, for so long that his scent had leached from his bed, and I couldn’t recall his face anymore. I think I lost that twinkle in my eyes then, too. When he finally came back, dressed extravagantly in brown camo, he seemed to have forgotten me. He didn’t smile at me, or coo over my kitten antics anymore.  He had scars, and his eyes were cold and grey.  They still are.

Beside me his breathing becomes more uneven. I sit up on my haunches and turn back to him. Waking him up is dangerous. The first morning he was back he had flung me across the room accidentally when I poked my nose into his ear, like I had so many times when we were little. But I can’t bear the look on his face. So I stretch out a paw and touch the tip of his nose gently. His eyes would have crinkled at the corners before opening, but they don’t do that anymore. Instead he jerks upright and scans the room frantically with wild eyes. When he finally looks at me they only calm a little bit, settling into the unsteady look of a caged animal. I look into those eyes, wondering if this really is my boy.

Had he ever really come home?

He rolls to his feet and groans. I jump off the bed and follow him into the kitchen. My joints are stiff with sleep, but I move with all the feline grace I can muster.

My food bag crinkles and the cupboard door slams shut. Kibbles rattle into my bowl. I jump onto the counter next to him and poke my nose into the bowl.

“Hey! Do you want me to get fat or something?” I yowl complainingly, “That’s way too much!”

He brushes me aside with one big hand, “Move, Paula,” he says tiredly and finishes filling my bowl.

I crinkle my nose and sniff. That doesn’t make me sad. I sniff again, not at all. When we were little he would have giggled and meowed back mockingly. I watch him pour cereal crisps into his own bowl, followed by milk. I would have knocked my bowl onto the floor and lapped up some of his cereal while he cleaned up the mess. But I don’t do that anymore. Instead I nibble at my food and watch him.

It’s the same every day.

We have a routine. After breakfast he will go sit in his chair, and I will go sit in mine. Most days we skip lunch; maybe he’ll flick on the tv, or pull out one of his many sketchbooks. Today he just sits, head in hands, staring blankly at his feet.  He doesn’t cry anymore. But right now, I think he is on the inside. I curl my tail around myself as a feeling of urgent unease begins to curl itself around my heart. I want to do something. I want to help him. And more than anything I want my little boy back.

My paws land heavily on the soft carpet, and I pad across the floor toward him. His eyes stay unfocused and distant when I look up into them.

“I love you,” I purr, trying to form the words he had whispered into my fur so many times before he had left. He seems to rouse a little. His grey eyes focus on me, and soften. For a moment I think I can see a warm echo of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. I stare at him unbelievingly. Then I look down and rub my cheek against his big stinky toes.

Suddenly I know something.

I know that someday he’ll come back to me. My little boy isn’t missing, he’s just sleeping. He’ll wake up, when he’s ready.

I look back up at him. His eyes have dimmed a little bit, the small spark of hope I feel reflected in my own eyes is almost crushed by fear and pain. But it’s there.

“I won’t leave you,” I meow, reaching up toward his face with a paw and staring into his eyes, “I love you,” I try harder to form those words in my garbled voice.

This time a fragile smile passes over his face, crinkling the corners of his sad eyes, and he picks me up gently. He presses his face into my old patchy fur.

“I love you,” he whispers, and I feel a tiny wet spot soak into my fur.

    

Contributor's Note: I live in Big Pine, only a few minutes from Bishop. I have lived there most of my life, which I have been homeschooled the entirety of. Telling stories that people can think about days after reading them is my life's goal. I have always been fascinated by those who choose to serve our country. With this piece I wanted to touch people and honor those brave men and women. I didn't go into specifics, and chose to keep things subtle. But I wanted to tell the story of the unsung hero, and I hope I accomplished that.

No comments: