I don't know why everyone thinks I'm so strange.
They all look at me like I'm some sort of freak. My own mother looks at me like I'm going to die any second. I wish she would just stop. I'm not going to die. I'm not.
I guess sometimes the other kits are nice to me. There's a ginger kitten that likes to chase leaves with me; I rather like her. And then there's the other, a brown tabby. He plays rough – so rough, that sometimes it's hard for me to tell if he's playing or not.
They're both good friends, though. The ginger kit even lies with me in the patches of sunlight outside the den. Not jumping around, or anything – just sitting still and tasting the air. It means a lot to have her by my side, just there. The way she holds herself, completely relaxed, tells me so much more than my mother waving her tail around madly, trying to get my attention.
But even those two act strangely around me. I can't ignore the way the ginger kit sometimes turns her nose up at me or the way the brown kit's fur bristles when I watch him. It's like they want me to do something, but…I have no idea what.
They're like every other cat: they open their mouths, to breathe I'd guess, and look at each other expectantly, like they've given the other a cue. I can't see what they're trying to do; breathing isn't a great way to get another cat to do something. And they think there's something wrong with me! If anything, there's something wrong with them. Why don't they just use their bodies to show what they want? Isn't that more obvious?
And yet, they all somehow get along just fine. All of them manage, except me. It makes me feel really left out; they can all…breathe to each other and understand, but they're blind to what I'm trying to show them.
I just don't understand....
The more I watch them, the more I feel like an outsider. I can scent them all, tell that they're my family. And I can tell more from their scents too:
The other kits are just as confused as I am.
My mother is afraid.
The two big toms, one ginger and one golden-brown are concerned.
The white she-cat that sleeps in the den with us pities me.
I wish they wouldn't. I don't want to be pitied; there's no reason for me to be pitied!
I can see the forest just like they can, and I can scent all the little creatures crawling around outside. I can watch the leaves fall, and I can feel the warmth of the sun on my fur. And when I curl up next to my mother, I can feel her heart beating, just the same as mine.
So why does everyone treat me so differently, like I'm some fragile little newborn? If I could just learn what the breathing means, I'd be just the same as them, right?
Right…?
A/N: Stated again, this is a short look into Snowkit's mentality before he was snatched by that darn hawk. (Poor Snowkit....) It's more of a character exploration than an actual story, but...eh.
This was written really quickly on a whim. I almost feel a little guilty uploading this now, since I haven't distanced myself enough from it to really judge the writing, but…I want it done. I'm in the middle of two other fics right now, and I really don't want to think about this any longer.
So, pardon the shortness/possible mistakes, if you can. And as always, reviews are loved. Thanks!