The first thing I remember was my mother. Or, at least, I think it was her.
There was a lot of blood and screaming and crying.
Then there was my father, licking me and nuzzling me to keep me warm.
I didn't see much of my mother after the first few moments of my life.
She was hurting a lot, and I learned later that she'd gone to the Stars.
I hope she's happy there.
I like remembering the details of everything.
My mother looked a lot like I do now. Snow white head and ears, amber eyes, and a pelt black as the night, which shimmered in the moonlight, so you saw stars.
My father was a massive silver tabby with eyes so blue you could see the lake itself in them, waves crashing on the shore gracefully.
I think I had siblings. I do remember one. She was a light gray tabby with grass-green eyes.
My parents didn't name her, I think. So I called her Daisy.
I guess she was just too skinny to survive.
I was born in a forest fire. The smoke was funneling itself through my nose.
The second I could move, my father had moved on from me and was now trying to wake Daisy. Her eyes were unblinking, unmoving, as my father had described. My mother was already gone, her bright amber eyes staring up at the stars, glazed over and lifeless. The flames were beginning to lick at her fur. My father noticed that and decided to give up on Daisy.
Frantically, he ran over to me and grabbed me by my scruff harshly. I whined in protest, but he sprinted out of the forest, choosing any clear path he could see. Behind me, I heard a large branch fall on my family, which made me squeal even louder, making him wince. My father's breaths were short, rushed, and panicked. He'd managed to find what seemed to be a path to a barn, sitting on a hill, surrounded by wheat fields and sheep in pens. To us, it looked like a safe haven from the horrors of the forest.
We ran out of the burning trees, and I looked up. Clouds were gathering, and I thanked the Stars. Mainly because my father did the same. I learned later about the use of water to fire.
As my father trudged up the hill, his paws sinking into the mud exhaustedly, I heard a long, high-pitched squeak. I'd squealed myself and began shaking in my father's grasp, trying to get away from the horrible sound I would soon know to be a Twoleg door opening.
My father, hesitant, dug his paws into the ground to assess the situation. He'd described it as an elderly female Twoleg towering over us, with the door wide open, her sympathetic brown eyes feeling welcoming. He'd rushed right in once the scent of delicious food reached his nose. The smell was sweet, like honey, and felt comforting, like milk.
The lights hurt my eyes. It was too white, too bright, too artificial. I'd squealed until my father gave me to the elderly Twoleg, who fed me milk from a Twoleg thing. I managed to calm down after that, and soon I fell asleep.
For three moons after the fire, we stayed there at the barn.
My father would often avoid me, leaving the elderly Twoleg to take care of me, and once I'd been weaned, he would simply leave the barn for many hours and not come back until sunset.
I didn't know why. Once I dared to ask.
It was on my third moon of life, and I'd started going outside the barn after the fires had ceased. The forest was almost completely gone, with trees either missing or leafless and burnt.
I was sitting on the fence, watching the sunrise. The Twoleg was tending to the chickens, throwing the seeds on the ground like tiny raindrops falling. The chickens crowded around her, their caws drowning out her laughs of love.
The sunrise was beautiful that day. Violet and scarlet streaks were painting the sky with pale orange edges. The sun rose slowly, its rays not yet blinding our eyes. It silhouetted the trees that were down the hill, making it seem like a forest of darkness.
Behind me, my father slipped through the cat-sized hole the Twolegs had designed for us and trotted to the gate.
Curious, I scampered over to my father, falling into the tall shadow the sun had cast above him.
"Father?" I squeaked, then cleared my throat, embarrassed.
"Father, where are you going?" I repeated, my voice deeper and smoother.
He did not appear to notice me as he slowly advanced to the gate that was the boundary between the farm and the forest.
Angry, I flattened my ears and hurried my pace, attempting to get in front of him. I was pretty exhausted of my father simply disappearing like this.
That single decision turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life.
He towered over me, his deep blue eyes piercing my amber ones, making me shiver.
But I fluffed my fur up, stared him straight in the eyes, and sounded out the query once more.
"Where are you going?"
When he grabbed me by the scruff, it had been three moons since he'd done it. So, my balance was simply... Off.
Scratch that. I was rolling around, wiggling, trying to get out of my father's grasp. The grasp was angry, and it hurt like seven bees stinging you. He shook me harshly and took off down the hill.
It was that night.
Exactly three moons after the fire.
My birthday.
I knew it had something to do with that.
I was screaming my lungs out as my father took me towards the forest.
The forest of darkness.
Where my mother and my sister resided.
Some of the trees were starting to get new leaves.
And as we reached the first tree, he stopped.
Gruffly, he dropped me. I was paralyzed with terror and shock.
Because, despite the shadow the sun cast onto the forest, some light managed to shimmer through.
It shimmered on the elegant river that was in front of me.
I don't believe I'd ever seen something so pretty. I wanted to jump right in.
So I did. And my father let me play.
For hours, I'd just play in the shallow and calm water, trying to catch fish and sometimes pretending I was one. My father would just lay there, licking his paws impatiently. But I was grateful he'd brought me here.
My father smelled it first. I hadn't, as the water and fish clogged up my low-level senses. His ears were pointed upwards, alert, and listening. He angled his neck, trying to pinpoint and identify the scent.
I noticed this and stopped playing. The river, gently swirling around my wet black paws, was the only thing I could hear.
And then there they were. Three pairs of amber, blue, and green eyes. And as the fish scent began to wear off, and my senses sharpened, I lifted my nose, observing their scent.
It smelled odd. Like fish and marshes.
My father's eyes widened.
Bright green eyes bulging in terror.
Three more pairs staring at us in anger three fox-lengths from us.
He gritted his teeth.
Turning to me, he bounded from his spot on the riverbank and ran towards me, jaws open, ready to take me to wherever he wanted.
But I didn't want to go with him. Not with the new cats either.
So I hopped off the stepping stones, away from the shallow, flat, water and into the current.
I was quickly washed away, no matter how fast my father was.
My father called me Pyro.
Short for Pyromania.
Mainly because I was born in a fire and have had a sort of obsession with it.
Pyromania.
What a wonderful word.