A boy and his cat

Author’s Note: What to say
about this fic? Well, first off, this started off as
another class assignment. Our assignment was to write a list story. At first I
was really strung out about it. I’ve never written a list story and I didn’t
know what it was all about. This was a base attempt and I still don’t know if
this counts as a list story or not. That’s what started it, but once I started
brain storming it became… personal. At first I just wanted a really romantic class=SpellE>yaoi tale, since it’s what I do in my fanfiction
but I have yet to do for my class and only my friend knows that I write class=SpellE>yaoi, but once I started writing it turned into this
bittersweet thing. Why? Well, when I was young, I got a parakeet for my
birthday. I loved that bird so much and she lived for eight years. When she
died, it tore a hole in my heart and I can’t think of her without crying. That
wasn’t my first brush with loss, my cousin died of a brain tumor when he was
eight and I was three. Sure, I was too young to remember much, but what I do
remember is very painful, but my bird was mine.
So, writing this story was sort of an artistic mind dump for me. I’ve never
written something like this, especially for a class. I’m just glad I don’t have
to read it out loud, because just writing it was hard. A few more notes: class=SpellE>Treis is pronounced Trey and is a testament for my need for
non clichéd names like Tom or Suzy. Though, I think that Treis
may be the first one that is completely made up and just popped in my head. The
second note is this: no, pet ‘semetary’ is not a misspelling;
it is a shout out to Stephen King, my favorite author of all time. If I weren’t
a lesbian, I’d probably be called an obsessed chick with a crush to my friends,
but for now, let’s just call it a ‘man crush’, ok?

style='mso-spacerun:yes'>        style='mso-tab-count:4'>                              style='mso-spacerun:yes'>       A Boy and His Cat

          It is the
glimmer of the crystal vase in the moonlight. It is the smell of the red roses
that my hand curls around delicately. It is the knowledge of twelve years past.
It is the sound of silence on the darkened streets. It is the feel of my lover’s
hand as he guides me forward toward the winding dirt road. It is the familiar sounds
of birds fluttering in the woods along the path. It is the feel of class=SpellE>Treis’ green eyes on me, the thing that gives me strength
as we walk on. It is the feel of the little furry fish in my pocket that jingles
with every step I take. It is the smell of the pet semetary
with its dark dirt and ancient wood. It is the sight of tiny wooden crosses and
slabs of rock with childish scribbles of chalk and permanent marker. It is the
sight of old empty bird cages and plastic water bowls. It is the feel of the
moist dirt through my worn jeans as I kneel at my own ancient, childish cross.
It is the etching: Sprinkles, the best cat in the whole world.’ It is the remembrance
of everything that leaves. It is the pale moonlight shining on the white,
wooden cross and rusted cat carrier. It is the release of roses, vase, and cat
toy on the soft dirt. It is the memories of lazy afternoons lying on the couch
with a book in my hands and a furry creature curled up on my stomach. It is the
phantom feel of soft fur on my leg and the smell of tuna. It is the remembrance
of the best friend I ever had, the best listener I ever had, even if I never
got a response more than a nuzzle on my hand or a lick on my cheek; it was all
I ever needed. It is the feeling of tears on my normally stoic face. It is class=SpellE>Treis’ hand on my shoulder, tight, but good. It is the
nature of the bond, the relationship, and the remembrance. It is the emptiness
and the pain, just as important as a lost child or dead parent. It is love.