Afterimage
After the incident, Cabanela comes to learn that the greatest changes are the ones he never noticed.
True transformations cannot be seen when they take root. They are born in silence, where no eyes can spot them; they crawl, undisturbed, through the crevices of the years, until all is quiet enough for them to resurface.
By the time he spots that one in particular, it has already turned into legend. An expectation, almost. He cannot see how he could miss it, but it is too late to wonder – Jowd's good luck has become proverbial in the precinct.
Rumours of bullets that never met their target, no matter how accurate the shooter. Mysterious injuries caused by fallen objects, straight on the bones of his attackers.
It sounds as if he went through hell more times than he can count, and yet came back without a single scar.
Cabanela never paid attention, not at first. Today he tiptoes through his memory, in reverse, to hunt down those bloated bits of information he used to dismiss as gossip.
Sure, no one was there to see when Jowd was saved by a miracle. Not even he could get there that fast. A hint, though, a feeling of connection – it dances in his guts from time to time, with the rare infallibility that only belongs to him.
He has no idea if or how it started. Still, as far as he knows, it didn't use to be like that before.
In the middle of some dead afternoons, when Jowd takes long breaks at the coffee machine and his colleagues think he cannot hear, their whispers jump around the desk like maddened insects. Cabanela's long legs fold elegantly, shaded by his coat. He says nothing, but listens much. It is interesting.
Some swear these must be the workings of the gods. At this point, it might be. But whether Jowd is blessed or cursed – that is something he really can't tell.
There are the nightmares. There are also, mostly, the nightmares, and he would go for the best option, if only he could forget about them. The sound of Alma's voice is too clear to let him, though – those late nights they spend on the phone, with tales of her husband screams in his sleep, have forever etched doubt in his heart.
It is palpable either way, all around him. Jowd watches over the world from a glass sphere, untouched and unreachable. No one he knows of could explain why.
His distance from life is written all over his face. Everyone sees it, with different intensity. But the causes – whatever they might be – are so indecipherable, from his obstinate shell of laughter, that Cabanela always forces himself to believe he imagined it all.
He is not the type to give up, except when he really has no other choice. He can only wait. He reacts the same way every time, and everything does, predictably, stay the same.
Until the day Jowd dies, but actually doesn't.
All he knows, in the split second when it happens, is that the scream makes him feel like his soul is pouring out, and his pulse shakes the ground harder than an earthquake. He knows that this is it, the one thing he cannot hope to remedy, that it is over and no, no, no.
To rebuild the picture after that is even harder. Cabanela is forced to link breath and thought together. Breathe in, breathe out. Speeding car, driven by an accomplice. Supposed to knock Jowd down seconds ago. Speeding car, crushed. Giant concrete block, fallen from above. Released. By what powers, only the gods can guess. Jowd, safe.
Safe.
Few are the things in life that leave Cabanela breathless, and making sense of his figure, standing and planted on his feet and unharmed, is enough to take away all he has left of his contact with reality. He sleepwalks towards Jowd, led by an a trace of memory – traces of sprayed blood, horror, regret. He does not understand, but moves on.
Jowd is smiling his strong, determined smile. His calm does not make sense at all. This man, an echo within him says, must have gone through everything.
"You… you were a goooner, baby." The words move on their own accord. "After this, you… shouldn't be alive."
Something moves in response, behind his gaze. Something quiet and deep and dark, the depths of a well. It moves in a balanced manner – as if it were, somehow, carefully contained and hidden. It terrifies Cabanela beyond words.
Jowd is still smiling when he talks, but it doesn't sound like it. His voice is a whirlwind of unreadable things.
"You don't have to worry about me."
He walks to the patrol car like that, with nothing more to add. The silence that hangs in between, with sirens and yelled orders in the distance, will never be quite the same.
Cabanela has had the glimpse of an abyss, and he is not letting go.
Two hours later, at the first touch of dawn, Cabanela finds himself and his morning coffee nestled in a most unusual place.
He only puts his coat at the slightest risk when he is tired beyond recovery. To share a backseat with a full cat basket, complete with local precinct mascot and penetrating yellow eyes, is definitely one of the rare events.
What he sees in cats first is their fur, and its traces on his clothing. Sissel was born soaked in a moonless night, or boiling coffee – the combined image, along with the concept of stain, is enough to make him shiver.
But the morning shine is still dimmed, enough to bring out the glow of those twin gems. Something in them captivates Cabanela without escape. He is attracted to its contents like he chases after the truth – he can almost picture the convoluted cat thoughts behind their gold. Much wisdom, much diffidence.
This creature, he curiously thinks, is way too smart for a little kitten. A kitten that never seems to grow older, for that matter.
It is a bizarre thought, a passing shadow in the clear row of his steps. It is a coincidence, and yet it is not. It reminds him of things he never knew. By their own accord, as they never did, his fingers move towards the soft, well-groomed coat.
Sissel retreats. No surprise. Since Cabanela can remember, except for rare occasions, he only ever let Jowd touch him.
It is the first time he wonders why, though. Not truly seriously, he gives himself an answer.
"Are you the bleeessing, then? You little gift of the gods?"
Cabanela does not understand what he just said fully. It was half a joke, half a question of infinite importance. But the confused rush of his emotions – calm, playfulness, lowkey curiosity – has no more consistence than a long-forgotten dream.
There is a world in those eyes. A glimpse of an abyss, open for a second. Twice in one night.
The connection sinks him deep into thought and worry. It is Sissel to break his reverie, just as he began it.
A week meow resonates deeply in his chest. He is saying a lot – with all the mysteries hanging in the air around them, Cabanela has no doubts about that, at least.
He smiles, just for the two of them, and dreams of finally tying the loose ends.
If only cats could talk. That would be great.