Nostalgic Feli
ComfortThat little girl never asked for much, ever. Maybe for Mommy and Daddy to stop fighting, but even that was a lot. Normally, she'd just sit in her room, chewing on one of my paws as she cuddled me into her. If Daddy came into her room, and ripped me from her arms, she'd cry, and cry, and cry.
The only thing she ever wanted was for her family to be happy. Sometimes, Daddy would leave, and Mommy would fall asleep, cuddled into her torn beanbag chair, with tears stained on her cheeks. It was a reality she never wanted to see.
I was the one that distracted her from it. She'd drag me by the tail into her room, and we'd play games. Tag. Hide and seek. Dress up. Truth be told, I always let her win. It was only fair.
Her and her mom were starting to look like the same person. Same tangled blonde locks, same sad blue eyes, same bruises. That little girl never stopped fighting, though. She never saw bad in anything. She thought her father was only hurting her to make her stronger, that it was some sort of training. She liked the pretty colors of her bruises, and she liked how her hair felt, so what was the issue?
My soft fur didn't irritate those burst blood vessels, and I like to think I kept her warm better than her thin little blue blanket ever did. It was our connection.
I remember the one day it all changed. She and Mommy (me clutched tightly in her arms) left the house to get away from Daddy. They wanted to go to the park, to just spend some family time together, but Daddy came driving after them. He screamed at them from the car. Every time he yelled, she grabbed me tighter, and I could feel her shaking. That poor little girl, who believed that nobody in the world could do any wrong, reduced to a trembling, crying mess.
"Nooo, Mommy!" she shouted, dropping to her knees. Mommy put her hand on her shoulder as Daddy unbuckled his seatbelt and stormed out of the car. A person driving by shouted towards us and pulled their phone out, and as that sweet little girl collapsed over me and pressed me against the ground, everything turned black.
We were at home, her smelling fresh and clean, while a police officer sat opposite to us. "What are these bruises from?" he asked. She simply grabbed me tighter and turned away.
The last I saw of her was in a small, clean room. A lady sat behind a window, tapping at a keyboard. I was on the chair, and that sweet little girl was stacking blocks on the scratchy beige carpet. Two nice looking people came through the door, their eyes scanning the room, and then walked towards her. They scooped up that little girl in their arms.
"Welcome to your new home."
She left me behind in one of those waiting room chairs, and she never came back. I'm not upset, though. I don't think she needs me, anymore. I can stay here, with scared little kids who need a bit of security, and that's alright by me.
