A/N: This was originally written, in a slightly shorter form, for the Cats Drabble Contest. It came last, unsuprisingly, but I thought I'd stick it up anyway, to help get us a bit nearer that 1,000 mark. Basically it's from the point of view of Pouncival, who as we all know tends to fall over and play the fool quite a lot. Angst warning!
They say pride comes before a fall. A strange expression – as if the pride were somehow a consequence of the impending fall, and not the other way round. But I, who have no pride left, cannot agree. Before the first fall, yes. For the resilient, perhaps before the second, but before each and every grasping, stammered, stumbling, misjudged, shamefaced, pleading, humiliating, pathetic fall? No. What's left cannot resemble pride.
That has been taken from me, bit by bit, with every mistake I make. Crushed with every tiny failure. Eroded with every snatch of stifled laughter, every pitying glance.
I had ambitions, once. One day, I'd be a fearsome pirate, whose name would be whispered to kits to make them go to bed, and sung in songs on moonlit nights. One day, I'd be adored like the Tugger. One day, I'd move smiling among my peers, with assurance and easy charm. One day, Munkustrap would look at me as an equal, or just without condescension in his eyes. One day, I'd do something right. One day, I'd be a figure in the background, unnoticed, and no-one would look to me for entertainment, turn to me with laughing faces, expect me to play the fool. But the last remnants of hope have long been battered into nonexistence, and in their place is only a hollow cavity which aches while I cover it with smiles, groans as I pick myself up laughing from every bruising tumble.
The others don't hold my falls against me. They laugh kindly, accept my buffoonery without criticism. And, pride broken and hope gone, I throw myself into every jape, exaggerate my weaknesses, because for anyone to see past my facade of thoughtlessness would be the last, fatal blow.