King of Cats
I don't remember much from my childhood, except gazing out the big living room window at the tall, ancient cherry blossom tree, my mother checking my wrist numerous times each day, and a collection of books I'd sneaked from a dusty box in the attic. They all seem faceless to me, without a title, and without words, except one.
It wasn't too thick, and the edges were old and worn. The image on the front was a faded green, seemingly once vibrant in it's better days before the big attic box. It was of a tree, with many leaves, and a branch with four cats perched upon it. Nothing unusual, really, because without staring too closely, one wouldn't notice the wings lying flat against their backs. Before I learned to read, I would just stare at the cover, wondering why in the world these cats had wings, and what I would do if I did.
Many days were wasted staring and daydreaming, until I could finally understand what was written so boldly on the front cover. 'Catwings'
It was too simple, and I remember getting so mad that I'd hidden the old book away for days and forgot where it was. Then, I remember searching desperately, because even if the title wasn't as amazing as I'd imagined, I yearned to know what the yellow crinkled pages read.
It turned up behind my mother's giant potted plant, and I thanked the heavens she hadn't found it. It was the only thing I had left that she hadn't broken. ("you don't need toys, honey, you have me") So finally, I locked myself away in my little bedroom, gripped the old pages between my fingers, and forced myself to understand what the words were meaning. I read from lunch to dinner, and secretly -with a flashlight under the covers- after bedtime. By morning I was reading the last few pages, and I was forced to hide it and wait until it was safe again.
I don't remember how it ended, but I know the four winged kittens escaped the city, leaving their mother behind, and I cried thinking of what my own mother would do if I flew away from her. I decided that if I wanted to be a winged cat, my mother would have to be a winged cat too. So that's what I would imagine as I stared out the big living room window: Me and Mom with catwings, flying away from the old ladies that glared at us through the shrubs, mean family leaders who said we were monsters, and daddies that never called or wrote, and said they'd never forgive me for ruining my mother.
With catwings we could out-fly mom's tears and all the pills she had to take, and with catwings we could sail above the clouds and forget about the terrible things people would say about me. Maybe.. with catwings.. It wouldn't matter that my mother was afraid to touch me, and never said she loved me without that fake smile on her face.
Then came the day that we traveled to the train station. We weren't flying on catwings, but she said things would be different now, and that no matter what, I should know that my mother loved me. The rumbling and voices had distracted me, and years later, I wonder if I was paying attention, if I could have stopped her from flinging herself into an oncoming engine. I don't think I could have, but it was just a thought, hanging guiltily in the back of my mind no matter what I do. I should have done something. God, I'm so useless.
I think if I would have been given a choice, I wouldn't have attended the funeral. Don't get me wrong, I loved my mother more than life itself, but the things that were said that day.. I just stood there in shock. My father refused to sit with me, and so did everyone else. While they were weeping and mourning, I was sitting alone, feeling like I would soon vomit out my churning insides, as snide remark and snide remark was whispered behind my back. ('I heard the little bastard pushed her'.. 'The monster isn't even crying at his own mother's funeral') and I guess it was then that I realized why cats didn't have wings. Cat's weren't allowed to fly away.
Later, as everyone was leaving, I tried to follow my father, but he pushed me back, exclaiming that he'd never let something as disgusting as me into his home. I was a murderer, and I deserved to be killed. So I wondered aimlessly, shoulders stiff and eyes trying so hard to stay dry. Finally, away from the many hateful people, I let myself break down, and I guess that's where Shishou found me. I was such a mess of tears and anger, and I'm sure I lashed out at him. Cats weren't allowed to fly away; cats had to stay and pick up the pieces.
He just smiled and let me be unreasonable, and one way or another, I ended up staying in his home, eating his food, and burdening him for as many years as I could, and I forgot about catwings, and the ancient cherry blossom tree outside the big living room window. Looking back, I'm now thankful that me and Mom weren't flying cats, running away from our problems like cowards. I guess, in a way, the old book led me on because.. Cats always had to stay and pick up the pieces, but sometimes, there were people there to love them, and help them through the pain.
Regardless, I sometimes still catch myself staring out the window at the tall, tall trees, imagining what life would be like had we escaped.
fin
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'Catwings' is property of Ursula K. Le Guin.
The title, 'King of Cats', is a reference to Tybalt's name in Romeo and Juliet.