Twisted Solace
"What?" I asked, uncomprehending. "I needed to know," she repeated, a fervent whisper creeping in. "Lucas couldn't... couldn't live with what he did. It destroyed him. I needed to be sure... the person he hurt wasn't destroyed too. I needed to see you... living. It became... my only reason to go on." Her words chilled me. "So you watched me?" "No!" she said sharply. "Not watching. Observing. Ensuring you were okay.
I know it sounds mad. I know." Her hands covered her face. "I told myself I was just being neighborly. Quiet, helpful. If you needed anything, I'd be there. But I had to keep distance. I couldn't intrude. That would ruin it." I remembered her excessive politeness, precise instructions, maintained perfection. This apartment was a confessional. She, the prisoner seeking redemption for her son by guarding his victim.
Snowball
"And Snowball?" I asked. His name brought a subtle, almost tender shift in her expression. "Snowball," she echoed. "Lucas... he was sixteen. Saw a litter of Persian kittens in a pet shop window. He begged me all summer. Promised to handle everything – cleaning, feeding. I refused.
Childhood asthma, though gone... I worried about the fur." Her voice softened, drifting. "After he died... about a week... I found myself back at that shop. The litter was sold, except one. White, huddled in the corner. The clerk said it seemed frail; buyers hesitated." She looked at me directly now. "I brought him home. Named him Snowball. Caring for him... became my only reason to rise each morning. He's quiet. Like Lucas was." Understanding dawned. Her love for the cat was transferred. She wasn't just feeding Snowball; she was nurturing the care she could no longer give her son.
NEXT >>
"What?" I asked, uncomprehending. "I needed to know," she repeated, a fervent whisper creeping in. "Lucas couldn't... couldn't live with what he did. It destroyed him. I needed to be sure... the person he hurt wasn't destroyed too. I needed to see you... living. It became... my only reason to go on." Her words chilled me. "So you watched me?" "No!" she said sharply. "Not watching. Observing. Ensuring you were okay.
I know it sounds mad. I know." Her hands covered her face. "I told myself I was just being neighborly. Quiet, helpful. If you needed anything, I'd be there. But I had to keep distance. I couldn't intrude. That would ruin it." I remembered her excessive politeness, precise instructions, maintained perfection. This apartment was a confessional. She, the prisoner seeking redemption for her son by guarding his victim.
Snowball
"And Snowball?" I asked. His name brought a subtle, almost tender shift in her expression. "Snowball," she echoed. "Lucas... he was sixteen. Saw a litter of Persian kittens in a pet shop window. He begged me all summer. Promised to handle everything – cleaning, feeding. I refused.
Childhood asthma, though gone... I worried about the fur." Her voice softened, drifting. "After he died... about a week... I found myself back at that shop. The litter was sold, except one. White, huddled in the corner. The clerk said it seemed frail; buyers hesitated." She looked at me directly now. "I brought him home. Named him Snowball. Caring for him... became my only reason to rise each morning. He's quiet. Like Lucas was." Understanding dawned. Her love for the cat was transferred. She wasn't just feeding Snowball; she was nurturing the care she could no longer give her son.
NEXT >>
Share Your Thoughts