Chapter Nine
*Author's Note: This is it, Chickadees! Thanks for all the wonderful reviews and helpful critiques (alex!). This shall be my last story to post in 2008; I am looking forward to more fun and Jellicle-ness in the future, but only if you guys continue to read my stuff!! God bless you and your family in the coming year, keeping His hand of mercy and protection over all who travel to be with loved ones on New Year's Eve....now, I'm off to my Fabulous 80s New Year's Bash. I'm going as Cyndi Lauper, fyi. ; } *
They did find Demeter, but it wasn't because of our search—apparently Bombalurina had some ties to Macavity, a way of entering his world and recapturing Demeter. When the two queens returned to the yard, after Demeter's wounds had healed, they brought a little cockney troublemaker along with them, Mungojerrie. I am told he is responsible for helping the two escape.
Demeter was badly beaten, but it wasn't her body that worried me. Her soul had been bruised beyond repair—long after the scars healed, I could see the change in her demeanor. Oh, that this delicate rose had to suffer the icy touch of Macavity's cruel paw! In a small way, I still blame myself for her disappearance.
Sometimes, I go to her house to sit in the windowsill and watch her sleep. It is the only time that her face is peaceful--the only time I feel that I am seeing the true Demeter, the beautiful queen that I once knew. I watch as Bombalurina sleeps beside her, a protective paw wrapped around the black and gold queen. I think I might have been wrong about Bombalurina; I see now that she really does care for Demeter.
I moved back in with Corico. We are now closer than we ever were. Although he still occasionally goes out with the toms, we tend to keep to ourselves now. Since the fateful night of Demeter's disappearance, the other cats seem to have lost their fear of me. I'm still not on the friendliest of terms with the other queens, but at least now they do acknowledge me with a slight smile, rather than turning away in fear.
I can't help but feel that my greatest years are yet to come. I don't know why, but I can sense something new on the horizon—something strange and exciting. No idea what it is yet, so I sit and wait.
Occasionally, I am reminded of the years spent as the outcast of the tribe. I look back on that time with mixed emotions. I wish I had been stronger then—strong enough to face the gossip and the lies, to not be ashamed of myself and to prove that I could rise above the hateful label that had been placed upon me—that horrible name slapped across my forehead with little thought to the cat that lay underneath: Freak. Strange One. Different. Odd. Not Like Us. Outsider.
They are nothing but words. Useless words. I hate that I let such insignificant little letters decide who I was or how I behaved, but I am grateful for the lesson I have learned. I do not let others define me, or even label me—for no one cat can be summed up in a single word; no one life can be neatly bundled up into one sentence; and no one story can be told in a single paragraph.
As for my story, it is still being written. But from now on, I will be the one choosing how it shall end.