Page 12 of Aftermath
“Perfect. I’ll see you at six,” he said before turning off down a side street I knew led to his house.
We only lived minutes apart, and somehow, I managed to avoid seeing him more often.
I liked it that way, keeping my solitude. I used to enjoy the noise of it all—the busy town during tourist season, the social gatherings, my overbearing, but lovable, brother—but recently, I’d grown to seek the silence.
Three years ago, I found my purpose, and I poured everything I had into that.
A few more blocks, and I found myself outside a little boutique, a narrow alley beside it. I turned down it, making my way to a door at the back.
I typed in a four digit code on the pin pad outside and heard the little click of the door before I pulled it open. Not even two steps in, a set of stairs rose to the second floor above the shop. I hurried up them and passed by two doors of the top landing marked one and two. I kept going up a second flight to the third floor and found the door marked three.
My purse was cluttered, but I found my key quickly and unlocked the door, letting myself into the apartment.
Instantly, I was greeted by a fur ball making its way between my legs. I heard the soft meow from the living room, letting me know the other was on its way.
“Let me in, Birdie,” I said, trying to move forward without stepping on her.
I dropped my purse on a little side table next to the door and hung my jacket on a hook next to it. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror hanging above the table and saw my curls had started to turn frizzy from the humidity. My hands found the clasp on the necklace I wore and unclipped it. It was a present from my mother I reserved solely for work. The large statement gems on it were inconvenient for anything else. My mother had said it complemented the golden undertones of my light brown skin.
I didn’t see it, but I’d never had an eye for such things.
I walked down the short hall to the open space that made up the living room and kitchen. The food bowl on the floor of the kitchen was completely empty, and I quickly realized why the two cats were making such a holler.
“Okay, okay, I’ll feed you guys,” I assured them.
I pulled open the small pantry in the corner of the kitchen and found the bag of food. Both Birdie and Alonzo already sat beside the bowl, watching to ensure I didn’t go somewhere else with the delicious bag of kibble I had just pulled out.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I promised them, holding up a hand in innocence.
I was truly becoming the crazy, lonely cat lady. I groaned to myself.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I said as I poured the food, and Alonzo gave me a sympathetic look, like he knew exactly what I’d become.
Bitter and alone.
The perfect mixture for me to grow old and die alone with my fifty rescued cats.
It was like I was a magnet. I acquired Birdie and Alonzo both within the last three years when I moved to the apartment. Both had made their appearance in the alleyway below at different times.
I had no reason to turn them down.
They needed a home and food. At first, I ignored them, hoping they’d go home to wherever their owners were. But the more frequently I saw them and the rattier their fur became; I assumed they were strays.
I think I saw a lot of myself in them.
That was when I realized I truly was losing my mind.
I related most to a pair of cats.
I figured there was some sort of distribution system, a higher being that knew exactly what I needed. It was like the world knew when you needed a cat and then dropped it one day on your doorstep.Stubborn little things, unwilling to go away until you accepted you were now their owner.
The more the little creatures grew on me, the more I thanked God every day for putting them in my path.
Again, I realized I was spending far too long obsessing over the two little fur balls eating chicken kibble in my kitchen.
I sighed and walked to the only other room of the one bedroom apartment. My room had just enough space for a queen size bed and a dresser across from it. The walls and dresser top were bare of decor. I hadn’t found anything fitting for the new life I had built myself.
I’d been living in the apartment for three years since I found my new job and ran from my old life. The ghosts still haunted me.
