This story that I am about to tell you took place years ago.
My disease's squirming on the floor to reach my feet, to climb my body, to infect it once more. And finally, I am writing again. It feels nice, like being alcohol clean and, after years of not having it, now a bit feels better than a bottle. It's so sweet.
I can taste it properly.
I can savor it. However, on that particular night, I didn't need to do it. He was standing right in front of me. Alive and real.
Writing has some special tools, one tool to be exact. It has something unusual with no limits. It doesn't require skills or training, plus it's only yours. Despite that, not everyone has it or can access it. It's like a condition you're born and learn to live drained by it.
But what happens when something disturbing reveals itself right in front of you? and you have the skill to write about it, every single thing you saw, feel, and think. What happened to me on that day made me feel even sicker of this disease.
I knew that I should close the window and return to my kitchen chores. However, my body moved without any anticipation of what was about to come.
Everything started on a Friday evening. It was an ordinary evening. I was consuming a good, hot meal by myself when I heard outside what sounded like a street cat. I like eating in a comfortable silence so I can easily catch sounds from outside my window. Maybe something happens, and I am a witness for a crime or robbery. Silly, I know, but it keeps my imagination wild. Nothing out of the ordinary happens here.
That's what I thought for a long time.
Back at the suffering being, I don't ignore a hungry animal, so I get up to open my window to see what's outside. Hopefully, I can help.
That's how I met that beautiful cat. Its yellow eyes fascinated me. The black fur was shining from the lightbulb that extended on the street at a small right angle.
When the cat acknowledges my stare, she froze for a bit, waiting to see what I want. I'll assume she's a female because male cats often have a substantial, rounded face. Meanwhile, female cats have a look with a longer snout. I stare at her for a bit. Then, I snapped my fingers to make her come closer. It did work and, in a matter of seconds, I finished my food faster so I can give her some too. She was still there, waiting whenever I checked.
I throw my leftovers to her, looking patiently at how she slowly approach it, smells it, and takes her first bite. I watched until she finished all of it to make sure that my neighbors don't scare her.
The next night I didn't believe she'll show up at all. I finished my dinner hours ago, but I keep them anyway. I was studying to become a graphic designer so, late nights working were usual and often. It was almost midnight when I got the urge to take a small break and reward myself with a dose of cold soda. I turned on the light, and in an instant, I heard cries from outside. It was standing in the shadow until I snapped my fingers again. Her silent steps reached the light spot, waiting. She was tapping her tail softly on the cold street in an odd manner. It gives me the feeling of someone's hitting his fingers on the table, bored but gentle.
I feed her, close the window, and get back to work. I wasn't thinking much about it, but that night she seemed a little different.
Like she understands too much, in a way, only a child would.
I didn't sleep that night.
I think two weeks passed were this nightly routine got a cozy spot in my life. Sitting on the best chair, that I keep it for something else. I find myself thinking if someday, she'll let me pet her, or at least meet when we're both on the...