Hurt

I wait until the early hours. When the moon is perched atop the black sky’s highest ledge. Then, I move quickly. Swift and silent. A ghost’s shadow.

I find the mouse in a dusty corner of the man’s workshop. It’s long dead, just a husk, but hunting's damn hard when you’re deaf. My old ears will be the death of me, but it’s the gesture that counts. The mouse, I mean.

It begins to snow as I make my way toward the dark house. Snowflakes melt on my whiskers and cling there like dewdrops on spider strands. Bad news for a scavenger, this snow. I’ve waited too long to move on.

I’m cautious as I climb the steps of the front porch. It’s closer than I’ve ever dared go. I drop the mouse quickly, eyes on the door.

“Goodbye.” My voice crackles on the soft mew. It’s rusty. The man is the only one I’ve ever spoken to, and he hasn’t come outside much since The Worst Day.

I was passing through their property the morning it happened. There were three of them then—the man, a woman and a small child.

It was warm, and the air smelled of drying rainwater. I’d just woken from a nap, stretched across the oak tree’s crooked bough. The woman was at the front door, the man was in the drive. The little girl was in the yard.

“I’ve got some things to do in the workshop,” the man had seemed to say.

The little girl toddled after him.

“You’re going with Daddy?” The woman thought the man had heard her ask.

The man thought the child had gone back in with her.

A mistake of a moment. A mistake of a lifetime.

The child played for a while. Plucking bits of grass. But then a bird landed in the road. Bright blue and beckoning.

I was too far away to stop her.

It’s a busy road for farm country.

That night, the man and woman yowled so loud that my stubborn old ears heard every cry. I smelled their grief as it shrouded the house like a fog rolling in from the hills.

I almost left.

I don't stay anywhere long when humans are near. I know what humans are like. What they do when they corner you in the barn, laughing at you with dark eyes, a tiny cage in one hand and a pellet gun in the other. The dream of a well-worn armchair and a crackling fireplace isn’t worth the risk.

Except this time, I stayed.

Even when the woman left, I stayed.

I made a home for myself beneath the man’s forgotten workbench, and for many days and many moons, all was quiet.

Then, yesterday. The man had emerged at long last, gaunt and unkempt, paler than my white coat. Sorrow had hollowed him the way a harsh winter hollows a deaf barn cat.

I followed him, keeping to the shadows, but he spotted me.

“Hey, fluffy guy,” he said. I couldn’t hear his voice but I understood all the same. He bent, reaching out and rubbing his fingers together.

“Are you okay?” I asked with a tail twitch, then aloud so he’d understand. A soft mrowl, emphasis on the inflection at the end.

His response was a chuckle. A slow staccato purr.

“You look hungry,” he seemed to say. “C’mere, I won’t hurt you.”

Hurt. I knew that word. Anna’s hurt! Michael! She’s hurt, a car just—oh, God, she’s—

I turned and walked away. It’s a bad word, hurt.

He watched me go, and I knew it was time to leave. Humans can’t be trusted, even sad ones. Especially sad ones.

Besides, the snow was coming.

In the morning he’ll find the mouse, and he’ll understand. Thank you for the shelter of your workshop. Thank you for not hurting me.

I slip away, silent as the snowfall. Halfway across the empty road I look back, and I give the dark house one last slow blink.

I don’t hear the car until it’s close enough to feel the rumbling in the pads of my feet. Old ears will be the death of me. Yellow lamps like owl eyes fly around the bend.

I leap out of its path—these legs still have a bit of spring in them—and dive toward the frosty chickweeds beside the road.

I’m not quick enough. The car clips my back leg and I feel the bone's snap ricochet up my spine. I land in an undignified heap, just an inch shy of the chickweeds’ shelter.

The car is long gone.

I lay in silence for a long time. It hurts, but not like I expected. I’m glad to know this. I’m glad the child didn’t suffer. I’d wondered.

Then I realize: The child. The man. He’ll find me this way. He’ll find me just like he found his little girl and it will be a cruelty.

I try to get up but my back leg is deadweight. I lay back down.

I can see the house, dark and still.

There’s a sound—lonely and mournful, like the humans on The Worst Day. Distantly, I realize that it's me.

Soon, I’m crying louder. Mewling, wailing into the night, pathetic and alone. I wonder if an armchair and fireplace would’ve been worth the risk after all.

“Please,” I cry. “It hurts. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do.” My voice is fading. I let out one last yowl and it feels like purging all the loneliness I’ve collected these many, many years. I rest my head against the icy pavement and I wait. There are worse ways, I suppose, for a useless old stray to die.

Then, in the house, a light blinks on upstairs.