Warning for all sorts of abuse triggers, not limited to IPV, DV, substance abuse, animal abuse, blood, gore, and frank discussions of death. All of this is non-graphic, though I might not be the best person to ask. This is Starkey's Story, so don't worry than any of this is between Sam/Jake. The national domestic abuse hotline is: 1-800-799-7233, in case you need it, though I pray you don't. Love should never hurt and there is help out there. More below.
No one here knows my real story. They think they do. The lady with the fine hair that brushes my whiskers, Mom, tsks over me and says how happy she is that Sammy saved me from that awful place. I always glare when she says that. That place wasn't awful. That place, believe or not, what the answer to my every desire. Well. I'm getting ahead of myself. I always do. Boomer says it's because I have poor eyesight, but I say that it's because I know there's a great big world out there. Witch glares at him when he is rude to me, which is pretty funny, because anyone else but her would see that I earned my street smarts, even if I do live in a house on a ranch, with no asphalt in sight. Well, not that I can see from my kitty perch.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
I am pretty lucky, and looking at me you would swear cats have nine lives. I know it, even though I hate to be the one to tell that we are just like you. We have one life, and some lives are harder and more bleak than others, though even those lives have moments of brilliance and transcendence that we only see in retrospect. My mother was the house cat of a downtrodden but amazingly kind, warm, woman. The woman thought she was a good owner, but she wasn't. She didn't have the capacity to be a good cat owner. It wasn't her fault. It never was, and it never would ever be. That, like so much else, had been cruelly stolen from her. My mother thought it was normal to live her life scrounging on garbage and licking up whatever water she could find. I think my mother wanted whatever comfort, whatever joy, she could find in that awful trailer, which is also why the woman owned her. My mother was a comfort to the woman in an otherwise terror filled life. My mother was strong, in a way that I will never be. I still remember how that cracked asphalt felt under my paws as we ran away from the smashing glass. I was born because my mother lied to herself, thought nothing worse would or even could happen in a bad situation.
It did. My mother deceived six kittens, of which three died. I don't know what happened to the other two. We were never given names, except Red. The woman loved Red and wanted to keep her but... Again, I'm getting ahead of myself. You don't need to know that yet. The first memory I have is of warmth. There was warmth all around me, in the corner my mother found safe enough to give birth. I later learned, when my eyes opened, that she was a beautiful calico cat, with the kind of beauty that should have landed her the cover of Cat Fancy. No, there was no magazines in my mother's life, nor the barest bit of hope, and yet, she hoped for more for all of us. In the place where I was born, there was loud voices and the breaking of glasses and the smell of beer and terror. And yet, my mother protected me from the man as best she could. The woman would bring her scraps of food, and beg her to keep us quiet, try to make her understand that the man would kill us, if he knew. My mother would raise her tired head, look down at the nursing brood, and make a promise she could not keep with her eyes. She would look at us, then, and there was a warmth under her fear. The woman would give us another towel, and Mom would lick us. I would spend the next years of my life looking for the same warmth.
Ironically, it was the warmth that told me something was wrong. The trailer was often freezing cold. My brothers and sisters and I would cuddle up together to stay warm. I knew that it all was changing when we were put into a box with a warm towel, and some real cat food. We rarely got that, and I thought it was a treat. How stupid I was. The man was screaming at the woman, and I can't bear to think of the words, or how he looked at her, or how he touched her. Mom said for us to stay down, stay back, be small and safe, but that wasn't my way. Scrambling from the box, I tried to calm the man, tried to do something, anything. I found out later that he'd thrown me against the wall, knocked me out, whatever. The worst part was that the last thing I saw was my mother's face as a bottle flew my way. I don't want to talk about the details. They're my burden. Telling you about the pain, the terror, won't help you any, and I'm not one of the people that can get something good out of revisiting pain. When I think about it all, my leg aches, and I can't eat for days, or I can't get enough food, and I throw up on Boomer's bed.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
I woke up on the side of the road, bleeding. I didn't know what blood meant, but I knew it was bad. I remember crying out for something, anything. I think I prayed for death. My leg was bleeding, and I couldn't move. My sister, Red, tried to help me, until she didn't wake up. I don't know how long we were there. Later, I thought and thought, and the recesses of my mind pulled up the man throwing the box out of his car, with the woman crying, but not being able to stop it, knowing that it was, as the man said, her fault. In years later, I would do my best to hate her. I would try to blame her for the loss of my siblings in the desert, for not knowing what became of the ones that I didn't know had died, for not being able to love my mother, though I ever truly could muster up hate for someone I saw as incredibly strong, and incredibly oppressed. In time, though, I saw that she abused and terrorized by the man. We were in good company. I hope she left the bastard. I hope he's six feet under toasting old, inedible, marshmallows with the devil. No, I cannot not hate her. I empathized with her, cried for her. I had gotten out with only my leg as collateral. That woman, when she was forced to leave us on the side of the road, sacrificed a piece of her soul to that monster. I mourn for her. I lost part of my body, but he tried in vain to steal parts of her humanity, and what's a leg really matter to your psyche?
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
I hated that time in the desert. What, you want me to tell you it was a picnic packed by that British chef Jen likes so much? Okay, I'll lie. It was an oasis, if you don't mind the wildlife. If the snakes don't get you, the hawks will, provided you don't die of exposure or thirst. I had it figured out, okay? I knew where I could lap up a bit of water, and find a bit of food that Red had left by the box, though I could barely move. The hours pulled and pulled, like carding wool, more and more and more until I would have done anything to get it to stop, get the whoosh whoosh of cars passing me by to do something to make it stop.
There were so many cars, in my mind. That's how I knew what time it was. Time has a rhythm, just like the trailer court had. No car stopped for me, and for that, I was glad. If the cars stopped, I thought, so would time. I had seen enough death in the past few days to know that that's all it was. Your time was up. A car stopped, and part of me, the silly part thought it was her, come back to save me, save us all. It wasn't her. It didn't mean it was my time to die either. But you knew that. You're not as stupid as I was.
No, it was a woman, who scooped up the box, and made a phone call. I tried to prove I was alive when she said I wasn't. I didn't look that bad, surely. I had inherited my mother's beauty, if not her placid temperament. She laughed, and said, "Thank you, God!" when I meowed in protest. Next I knew, someone was patting my head in a bright room. There was a pinch, and I was a goner. After that, the next thing I knew, I woke up in a steel cage, with something dripping into me, and my leg gone. I hadn't eaten in days, but I admit, I threw up when I realized my leg wasn't there. I could still feel it, still feel the agony that its mangled and bloody form had given me. How could something not be there when I still felt it? That lesson would come back to me later, as they always do.
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There was a sound from the door opening, and someone took my temperature, and clucked over me. When she saw that I was awake, she said, "Those people did a number on you, didn't they, little one?" Yeah, yeah, they had. They had taken my leg, for Pete's sake. She continued, "We were getting worried that you wouldn't wake up, but I told them you were a fighter. You listen to me, cat." Something in her voice made me look at her, crack an eyelid and wince in pain, "You fight. You prove them all wrong, do you hear me? Fight." She wiped a tear from her eye, and ran a gentle touch under my chin. "You deserve to know that there are good people in this world."
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I soon discovered that there were good people in the world. The people who gave me food, and patted me when they changed the bags on my IV were good people. They were good, even if the things they did sometimes hurt. I heard other animals. There was a dog two crates down getting something done, and he whined and complained the whole time. To me, this was paradise. There were meals, and clean water nearly on demand. It was only in the dark of night, when my senses are keenest, that I felt the guilt eat me alive, because my brothers and sisters were dead. They were all better cats than I was, and they were dead. I had been the only one to survive, and for what? A three-legged cat wasn't going to go very far. Red should have lived. Not me. She was pretty. Sometimes, I thought I was. I knew better. I'm calico, but I'm rangy and warn down as only a hard life will get you. I figure I've lived more in my years than most house cats would in five of their nine lives. That's a total myth by the way. We have one life. One, and I knew what that lady meant. Sometimes, living a lot isn't always good, but you have to do what you have to do.
Sometimes, they encouraged me to scramble around while she waited for the doctor, and I found that I could walk, even if it was the oddest experience of my life, including some crazy stuff I had seen at the trailer court. I found that they looked happy when I moved, so I tried to do it more than I could. Even in those days, I was something of a people pleaser. Now, I can hide it. I was more vulnerable then than I realized. Had I known how raw I was, then, I would have never left my cage.
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The next time I was in a car, I clawed the nurse. I was so glad to hear her yelp. I ignored her gaze of sympathy. I did not want to get in the car, I would not go. I would not go. But, as I said, how fast do you think a three-legged cat with barely healed lacerations can run? In case you're a dog, and therefore are naturally dimwitted, I'll tell you. It wasn't fast at all. I remembered this car ride. She told me that I was going to make lots of friends, that I wouldn't be there long, but it would be just like college, or Girl Scout Camp. She said, "You'll love the cats, Starkey."
I forgot to tell you how I got my name. I always forget the most important things until they very last second. The vet named me, telling me I couldn't be Kitty or something silly, not with eyes like mine. I took her for her word. I wasn't named for a having the stars in my eyes. I was named for a school, somewhere in Virginia, where the vet's mother had learned that there was a great wide world, full of amazing people. I think the vet had hopes for me. I don't know. It sometimes hurts to think of her because getting my name changed everything for me. I was something. I had something that was mine, now, that defined me, and made me me. It was amazing, and sometimes, I would repeat introducing myself to other cats, my head held high, but only in my cage. I didn't know any other cats, but I would be prepared for when I did.
The nurse dropped me off at this place, and I was let into a room filled with other cats. They were loud. Some wanted to know my story. Others didn't care. I had nothing to say, once I told them my name, with some pride. I went to a kitty condo, the likes of which I had never seen, and tried to block it all out. What did they want from me? I was alone, up in the world again, while all my brothers and sisters had died before they knew what fake mice and kitty condos were. They deserved these things more than I. How could I keep going on, moving up when they were gone?
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
It took me six months to meet her, but by then, I'd taken the lay of the land and I knew how to work it, living at the shelter. By then I had the respect of every cat in the room, only because they knew nothing about me and made up grand stories. One day, I was a purebred cat. The next, I was a washed up stunt cat who'd gotten hurt on the job. The farther they were away from the the truth, the more I enjoyed it. They couldn't imagine that I was just like most of them, with the same story of loss and abandonment, just like them, because I had lost a leg. I was their queen, mostly because they wanted to know, and I refused to tell. Today, I was an escapee from an animal testing lab. I talked about what little I know about chemistry, just to play along. It gave me something to do, and made them all happy. What can I say, I've always wanted to be approved of. They didn't approve of me, they were in awe of who they thought I was, but it had to be enough. It was all I had.
She made a great life at the shelter even better. She tossed my tinkle ball and let me crawl all over her. She told me about things I never understood, like painting and alternate uses for kitty litter. I liked her. I've always liked girls. Not, like that, or whatever, but I suppose it's safest to say that I've always felt safer with women. Most men, even the director of the shelter, reminded me of the man in ways that caused my leg, the one that was gone, to throb. He didn't mean to, and it wasn't his fault, but part of me cried out when he shut the door, wondering if he was leaving us all there to die. Of course, I never said as such to the other cats. A girl had their reputation, after all.
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Today, they said I was the long lost cat heiress to a fortune, because I was lying about in my kitty condo. No one else used this cubby but me. It was the warmest space I could find, and I would keep what little warmth I had, come hell or high water. I've never understood that expression. They're the same thing, after all. But anyway, the rumor today was that I was a cat heiress because I was lazy, like the white cat in the fancy feast ads. One of the residents asserted that his arrival here was all a mixup, and he'd be home eating his fancy feast instead of bargain tinned food. I don't have the heart to tell him that his owner died. You can't really understand death if it hasn't come knocking, and he would find a new home. Many cats did. I knew I wouldn't. I was disabled now. Sam said that she knew something about being hurt. I could see her history in her aura. I'm not great at auras, but there's a white wall in the room. If Sam's upset, I can totally see flares of color. One of my brothers could tell if you'd met your soulmate. Anyway.
I was disabled, and sick. My head was spinning, like the time I'd sipped the awful stuff from the man's glass. I know his name. I won't tell you it. It doesn't matter, really, and all it would do would be to poison you against people with the same name. He was a discredit to it, and it doesn't matter, not like I once thought names did. You'll see why, or at least I hope you will. I was so sick, and so the man at the shelter let the vet look me over when the dogs were getting their tick powder or whatever Frontline is. I think it's different for dogs. The vet got real still, and petted me. I know that pat. I've seen that look on her face. I figured that I'd come in the world, had more of a life than Mom ever had, no matter who would judge her for my upbringing, and that's all she ever wanted from me. When you see so much death, you not only get numb to it, you also know that there are really things worse than it. Sometimes, allowing the natural ending to the book is better than an author pulling out another 150 chapters because she just can't let go. I knew the look. It didn't mean that I was cool with seeing what I knew happened next.
They put me back in the room, and I went back to sleep. I was so sick. I knew it, and so did the other cats. One called me by name, that's how bad it was, alright? They'd never used my name. Names don't matter any, not really, except when they did. The next I knew, Sam was putting me into her truck. She'd told me all about it. She was in art school, and her father had insisted she needed her own truck. She felt badly about taking it, but I figure she works hard enough on all of her cases, she still does, even now that... Well, getting ahead of myself, again. She won't let her dad pay her, not even now. Again, I'm getting off track. She put me in the car, and cried. I heard the pain in it, felt the uncertainty and the sorrow in it. I longed to comfort her, though I could not. I sat, still in the confinement that was the kitty crate, and watched as she drove along the roads, stopping at a house so grand I felt like a feline cinderella.
She took me upstairs. There cat that lived here had recently died, though there were two dogs. One bounded up to her with a cultured, "Wie geht's?" I think it was German. A cat came in, once, and spoke a bit of German. He was adopted quickly.
Sam replied, "Hey, Boom! I've got a friend for you."
I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything. The dog probably thought I was rude. He turned on his heels with the precision of a knife blade, and stalked into a room that contained a bed. I had never seen a bed like this, one that didn't fold up or lay on the floor, and I wanted desperately to lay on it, and sleep the day away. No one need know that I had a weakness for warm, soft places.
Sam introduced me then, to the man. I was shocked and surprised when he let me out and proceeded to help me, me, down the steps. He spoke to Sam kindly. When she woke him up, he didn't even call her stupid, which was as nicest that the man had ever been to the woman. He didn't tell her she was going to get it if his breakfast wasn't right. He didn't say she was fat. Instead, he looked at her as though everything she did, from bringing me around to the food she put in front of him as they talked, was the absolute best thing he could have had in the entire universe.
It was the most surreal experience of my life. Sam told him what for, and didn't end up with a split lip and a torn blouse. He picked me up and must have felt that my heart was racing. It was. I'm not going to lie. Abuse, any abuse, not even the extreme forms of it I grew up around, are not a joke, and if you feel unsafe or belittled, please, get help, please. If I could tell you one thing, I would beg you to understand that this isn't your fault, and tell you deserve respect and safety, no matter what anyone says, even if they tell you they love you. Words are empty. Abuse is not funny. I can't even think about it without wanting to curl up in a ball. No one in the trailer court thought it was normal, either. The cops were called, all the time, and just as often as the man went to jail, the lady went, too, as though her situation were her fault. The cops never saw that the man had complete control over her, and this ability to twist everything so he came out like roses. The good ol boys trivialized her experiences because they could never understand what it meant to be so abused, to have no power. They had all the power in the world. I hated cops, and with good reason.
"Come on, Jake. Please?" Sam said, turning off the stove. I could see her from the side of the chair on which I was perched. I tensed, as the man had placed me on his lap and was passing me bits of egg. His name was Jake. Jake. Jacob. May God protect. Jacob. I froze. His hand was gentle on my body.
"What antibiotics, now?" He asked, and that was that. My heart did not slow for hours. The terror must have been plainly evident as the dog looked at me, commiseration in his eyes, when he saw the look on my face.
His accent was precise as he said, "Keine Sorge! The man will wrap it in peanut butter or bologna, and you will hardly know. Come now, if you wish." He looked at my stump. "I will help you around."
I was sick, and it had nothing to do with my leg, "Hey, buddy." I said it like I meant it to sound. I grew up in a trailer court, for heaven's sake. This guy wasn't my buddy. He sounded like the Count von Count on the Sesame Street that played in the shelter waiting room. "Piss off."
He stalked away. Good. I didn't need help. Except I did. I was always something of an explorer, but I couldn't get around on the furniture. I could get up onto the chair, but not get to the windowsill. I just wanted to sit in the sun, so I had to try. I fell a few times. Jake saw this, and he stopped talking to Sam, and pushed the chair to the left so that I could climb up onto the sill from the back. The next day, the entire living room was rearranged. The next week, there was a soft and cuddly kitty shelf on that same window. I hardly knew what to think of it. The man had made grand gestures, too, when he was sorry, and when he swore he'd never hurt her again. That's how we ended up with tinkle balls. He threw those out the next week, saying we were all sorts of awful things that I won't repeat. I hear them in my head enough, sometimes, though not as often anymore. You don't need those words there in your own heads. Better you think about how nice Jake was to me.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
It hit me like my tail had been stepped on. He was a cop. I had to leave the house. I could not stay here. I bolted when Quinn opened the door, and he didn't know that I wasn't supposed to be outside. I had planned my escape well. I met Witch that day. Unlike many others, she didn't see my missing leg. She thought I was an overly small horse, and encouraged me to stay with her. She was a bit silly, but she was nice. I liked to stand under her belly. There, and snaking around her legs, I found the warmth I hadn't felt since the towels I still dreamed about.
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It took me a long time to stop thinking about Jake being like those cops I'd known, long ago. It was actually one of the most memorable nights of my life. He came in, one night, and sat, staring at the wall. I knew that look. I crawled into his lap, even though I was still sometimes wary, and he said, "The laws in this country suck. He should rot in jail. She should be given more help. All I can tell her is about PFAs. I can't..." Jake lifted his shaking hands to his face, even as I could not believe what I was hearing, "I want to do more. I have to do more. She was bloody..."
Jake would never understand what it was like. He would never understand the mental control, the endless rounds of "I love you baby, I'll never hurt you again!" and the dynamics that came with those lies. To him, it was easy to tell a woman to leave. Yeah, sure. It was easy. Sure. Where would she go? By this point, just like the man had done, her ties had been cut off. She'd been made to look like a flake and a liar to her own family, because of his abuse. Jake would never understand that leaving wasn't so easy, and neither was letting go.
He told me every detail of that case, and many others that came after it, both men and women who were hurt at the hands of their abusers. It hurt, at first, but slowly, I grew to understand that what I knew could help him, and maybe others, one day. I saw how the realizations changed him. I heard him slowly start to change the way he talked about consent and autonomy. I heard him tell Sam that he was choosing her, that he loved her, that he respected her above all others. I saw it, too, in the way he treated others, in the way he treated me. Talking about it was worth it, and that's why I'm talking to you.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
That was my life with Jake. He welcomed me into a warm family. The dog was always going on about him and Sam getting together, but you can't rush these things. I tried to tell Witch. I wasn't surprised, years later, when there was a big family dinner and Sam's hand was adorned with a ring that made accepting her attention a bit funny for a few days. It might have been her fault. She couldn't stop lifting her hand, and staring at it with a dopey expression on her face, even when she was supposed to be petting me.
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The dog walked around as though he were the King of the Universe for weeks. He started talking about seating arrangements. It seemed that every animal on this ranch had wedding fever. Sam and Jake planned, over the next few months, a small wedding that Sam's Grandmother called shabby chic. I called it silly. Presently, I was lying over the gift book. Did you know you had to write down every gift you got when you got married, and write a personalized note that read, "Thank you for the ugly vase. It's number 73." Except you couldn't say that. Max came in and moved me, gently, saying, "Best pack your tinkle ball, Starkey! Are you excited about moving? I'm sorry you have to go, you know." She smiled, as though I was the butt of some joke. You're smart, think about how it felt to finally trust someone, someone who had broken down so many barriers within my soul, only to be tossed out again. Jake could just choke on a hairball.
She was off in a flurry, talking to Gram about where all the guests were sleeping for the wedding next week. I was heartbroken, then. Who wouldn't be, after getting told that they were getting tossed out with only a tinkle ball to their name? I tried not to be angry. I had come so far, and I was only borrowing time. I mean, a cat like me, in a lush life like this? Cats like me don't get Starkist tuna packets on a weekly basis forever. I tried not to get sad. I tried not to get angry.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
I did get scared. I'd never tell anyone. Remember, lies keep me safe. A few days later, Jake took down my cat bench, and put it in a box. My kitty post went into another box. The next day, Sam came around, her hair all done up in big rollers, her skin glowing, and took those boxes someplace after demanding that she had to talk to Jake, now, right now, right this very second. She seemed a bit unglued, but she wasn't my favorite person right now. She was pushed out the door because Quinn said there were no girls allowed tonight, after he swore that Jake wasn't there. No one seemed to notice that I was a girl. I tried not to be offended. I knew I wasn't much to look at, but geez! As the room filled with human men, I began to understand why Sam wasn't allowed around. Women got hurt when men drink, right? No matter how much I told myself that these were good people, kind people, ethical people, I lost it when the started pulling out massive quantities of beer. I couldn't stand the smell. It made me think of my mother, living and probably dying in abject poverty. I thought of the look on the woman's face as the drunk man hurt her, as the blood pooled on her skin from the broken bottle he'd assaulted her with, a bottle that she was expected to clean up if she didn't pass out, and even if she did, it was still her first job. I remember one time, she could barely hold the tweezers as she plucked shards from the shag rug, blood dotting the orange fabric. I bolted from the room, and one of Jake's brothers made a joke about the cat being faster than he was.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
I hated that I could not hide my vulnerability. Drinking scared me. I tried to hide under the sofa, in the den, but the smell wafted out there. Remember, I'm a cat. I can smell things. I tried the bedroom. It was worse there. The door was locked and I couldn't get out to the barn. So finally I hid behind the toilet in the bathroom and licked the condensation to soothe myself.
Hours later, I'd told myself that it was better to leave the house than go through this again. The door was pushed open after I'd closed it, and I shut my eyes. Hello. I do not to see humans do their business in their toilets. Why people couldn't use litter boxes was beyond me. Three of Jake's brothers were hauling him into the bathroom. One turned on the shower, and tossed him in it, clothed. "Quinn, how drunk did you get him?"
The shorter man laughed as his little brother moaned in the cold water, "So I spiked his beer. Come on. Tell me Sam's not having fun."
Seth, the one that always gave me eggs, shook his head, "She's having a painting thing. Come on, she asked you not to let him get smashed the night before the wedding. Now, he's going to cry that he misses her, and I..."
The room smelled of beer, and, now according to the retching and the laughter, vomit. I mewled weakly, my missing limb aching. This Jake was no better than... My mind rebelled, and I thought about every time he'd told me, shown me, what caring actually was. He was better. He couldn't be lumped in. I yelped partly from water hitting my coat, and partly from sadness. There was a slur, " Ya 'ucks got my cat wet. I 'ope y'all...sic mah dog on y'all. Where's Sam? S'alright? She safe?" He broke off, "S'was just where...there...Where's Sam?" He was pulling himself up, then, as his brothers laughed, and he tried to get up in the tub, asking repeatedly where Sam was. I raced from the room. There was only one reason I knew of that a man would ask for his wife when he was stone drunk.
I couldn't think the next day. There was a flurry of activity, and no one came looking for me. I didn't care, or I told myself that I didn't care, days later when Mom bundled me up and put me in my carrier, the one that Sam painted just for me, and took me to another house. Sam and Jake, they hadn't been around for days. Mom said they were in Portland, wherever that was. I'm not good with direction, and it wasn't until later that I realized where I was. I moped around for ages. Finally, I hid in the bathroom in this place, and tried not to miss the dumb dog. You know, he still thinks that I'm just as educated as he is. He thinks my pop culture references are very important. He could just watch MTV when no one's home like a normal person, but no. Apparently my knowledge of E!News makes me special.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
I heard the door twist, and I heard feet come up the stairs. I heard the dumb dog, and I tried not to yowl when I found I couldn't move. I was stuck behind the toilet. There wasn't enough room. I had to get out. I did not want to face Jake. They had probably patched it up for now. I couldn't stick around to watch it get worse, watch the life drain from Sam. All his words and efforts to raise awareness for domestic violence had been nothing. He'd even started a campaign for the area cops. I was so proud of him, so proud of his using his voice in ways I couldn't, but...my history didn't lie.
They came into the bathroom, and I tried not to look. "Sam!" Jake called, "She's stuck behind the toilet. I'll have to move it out a bit. Hey Stark." Jake knelt down, and I tried to claw away from him. "Want to come out?" No, no thank you. I baked away, but hit the wall.
The dog was saying, "Calm, calm, cat! We will not hurt you." The dog had just about ticked me off. I was so on edge I couldn't imagine not clawing his nose to shreds when I had the chance. Jake didn't smell like beer, and I tried not to curl into him as he freed me from the confinement.
Sam was there then, patting me, taking me from Jake. "You're not our favorite person. She's mad at you."
I about meowed in agreement when Jake asked, "Because I got drunk..." Sam shifted towards him, and Jake frowned, and reached out to rub Boomer's ears.
"I still haven't forgiven your brothers." Sam said, tickling my fur in the way I really liked, "You could have ruined the entire wedding. My grandmother tried to pull me aside and tell me not to have expectations because you were so drunk, and I wanted to die." I don't understand a lot of the things they tell each other, but I knew Jake was in trouble. I was reeling. He was being called to the carpet for doing something wrong. It wasn't Sam's fault. She was...fine, I decided, better than me. Was all of this in my head?
I hopped down from Sam, and walked out to find the dog. He was sitting next to my kitty post. What was that doing here? The dog read my gaze, and said, "We've moved. This time, all my people came with me. Isn't it exciting?"
"Yeah..." I said, not getting his enthusiasm, "So. Uhm. Is Jake a drinker now?" I arched my back in preparation for the answer.
"Starkey." The dog sat down and looked at me, "I am not dumb. I know, though you will not tell me, what happened to you. I promise you, Jake would not hurt you. He would not hurt Sam. I know this. You do, too. If it makes you feel better, know that I would not allow you to be hurt."
I nudged my tinkle ball not bothering to reply. I know Jake is a good man. I knew. It's just hard to let go of the past, sometimes, when the little things set me off. It's nothing to do with anything, really. Feelings aren't always rational. The dog continued, "Many people do not like me, because I am a police dog. They do not know me, but when they see that I am Boomer, and I like my squeaky, then, I am just a dog. You must give Jake this same respect. See the person beyond the man, and if you cannot, we will talk. He is your Jake, not some other man."
I nodded, but Boomer didn't understand. It was harder than that. He would never understand. You wouldn't either. So I guess I have to tell you, even though I swore I would never speak his name again, that I would take all of that to my grave. The man's name was Jake, too. He never liked being called Jake, but the woman did, sometimes, when she had asked what happened to the boy she'd loved, or when things were really good. That Jake, though he wasn't my Jake, though, and that made all the difference. My Jake was a good Jake, who gave me tuna and never made me feel anything less than who I really am. Maybe I have to let go of that other Jake, but I know I never will. I want to remember him, just to remember that even though not all people are good, not all people are bad at first glance either. I want to remember him because I want to remember, for all that being given a name was the biggest moment of my life, the name I carry doesn't define me. What I do with my name defines it.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o
Please, don't be sad for me. I've got a good life that I like to think I am blessed with, maybe even my mother does, too, and the woman. Part of me wonders if I will ever be able to help people like Boomer does, but maybe, helping myself is enough for now. And, in telling you what I've told you, I think I have. I'm really happy in life, and I don't spend every second thinking of my past, not when I can hang out with Witch and sleep in my kitty condo. I don't dwell on it, but I sure learned a lot from it. While I know that I wouldn't wish my story on anyone else, I'm happy to own my past. It's paved the way for a good present, and unless I miss my guess, a pretty tuna-filled future. Now, that's enough of that. Apparently I've got a new home, and I want to have a look around.
Oh. Wait. I forgot to tell you the most important thing. This is the only thing I want you to remember. The woman. Her name is Ruth. If you see a smiling woman with warm hands, and a guarded smile, hug her for me. Never forget that she, too, has a name and a life and a story worth telling, no matter how she might seem on the outside. It is her story that I hope to tell, and as long as I live, I will never forget her name. Ruth gave me a shot at living, and for that, she's the real heroine of this tale. Without the courage that is her survival, you might never have met me. Men like the Jacob will be forgotten, but Ruth's strength and courage will live forever.
The Upstairs Hallway, Little House, Three Ponies Ranch, Darton County, Nevada
"She's scared of me." Jake breathed into Sam's shoulder. Sam shuddered as she felt his teeth scrape gently along her collarbone. She leaned back into the wall outside the bathroom door, glad that it was holding her upright.
"She's adjusting to a new home. She's been bounced around a lot." Sam replied, feeling like her knees were jelly, "Did you put up her kitty bench on the window?" Sam tried to soothe his feelings. He knew that Starkey had her history, her own story, they all knew, but Jake worked so hard with her to prove himself trustworthy after everything she'd endured. Her kitty bench was soft and warm, and would make her feel secure.
"Yes." Jake breathed into her skin. He knew that Starkey deserved to know that there were places and spaces in this world where she was completely safe, and people who would insist that she stayed that way. He often found himself wondering what he story was. He pushed the thoughts away and focused on his wife. After so many years, calling her by that title was amazing.
Sam tried not to tilt her head so as to allow him better access. "We have to stop..." The last word wasn't very coherent.
"Why?" Jake asked, pulling away and Sam could have laughed at his tone. He said being married made intimacies better, but Sam thought that was just his way of being sweet. Sam knew it was something else altogether.
"Because." Sam replied, pulling up the shoulder of her cardigan primly, "In thirty seconds, Max is going to come inside, she won't knock, then she'll turn beet red like she's just walked in on us. She doesn't need to know that she might have done just that."
Jake frowned, "It might make explanations easier." He grinned. Sam's stomach flipped, from him or something else, she didn't know. No, that was completely him, darn him.
"Explanations! Do you know I had to make myself out to be..." Sam trailed off as they turned from the bathroom, glad that the cat had wandered off for parts unknown.
"Insane?" Jake prompted, thinking about how fast she'd had to move to come up with a good reason to avoid alcohol, even going so far as to dump her single glass of champagne into his glass. He'd made sure to keep the bottle for later, though. It was the same vintage they'd had at her parent's wedding. Jake preceded her down the stairs. If it wasn't logical and sweet, Sam would have wrung his neck. In Portland, he'd practically told every waiter they ran into not to serve this or that. She had to kick him a hundred times before he blurted out the reason, but of course they all figured it out, even before she'd had a chance to see a doctor, though she knew. Just because they were sure didn't mean that their waiters had to be, too. Jake said he was only trying to help, but Sam knew he was excited.
"Ugh." Sam articulated, "Do you know that Gram tried to tell me not to be uneasy about later..." Sam laughed, thinking of her Gram's assessing gaze and matter of fact words just moments before she walked down the aisle. She continued talking as she wandered around, fixing the little things on the wall, "and I wasn't uneasy. I was nauseous." Her flowers had made her sick. Sam sat down next to Jake on the couch, "We're so lucky."
"What, that you figured it out hours before our wedding, and left the house in your curlers to come find me?" Jake put his feet up on the coffee table, and removed them when Sam glared, "Yeah, I'd say. Wyatt was in the next room going on about bad luck that I was seeing you." Jake thought he was pretty darn lucky, actually, and was just glad that he and Sam had been able to talk for all of three minutes before her father had hauled her off, mumbling. Jake had been dizzy, and distracted, not thinking, mind elsewhere, when his brothers had plied him with too much beer. Had he not been thinking about the look on Sam's face when she'd told him, he would have been present and aware of his brother's antics. He'd found out the next morning, that no, he had not said anything unusual, and why was he asking?
Sam looked over at the cat, sitting on her window bench, and smiled, "That, and..." Sam broke off quickly, changing her train of thought, "Here comes Max..." Sam said, seeing her out the window, "Keep your trap shut, okay?"
"I said I would..." Jake affirmed, but he neglected to notice the look that passed between the cat and the dog. Jake was glad that they were finally one family, one family that could take care of each other. He was also glad that his mother's actions were fairly predictable. Otherwise, she would have seen far too much. It would have been a handy explanation though.
He paused, trying not to laugh, even as Sam did, when Mom knocked. She could see them clearly through the window. It was only seconds later that he realized that she'd knocked for Starkey's benefit. He did smile then. Starkey had her family. She would never be alone again.
Never thought I'd find the road to freedom
Never thought I'd see you smile again
Never thought I'd have the chance to tell you
That I will always be your friend
You are not alone
You're not alone
You Are Not Alone, The Eagles
That was pretty emotional to write, and I hope you understand that I'm trying to treat this subject with all due sensitivity and authenticity. However, it does need to be talked about. Talking about people's stories are one way to erase to stigma that comes with the cycle of abuse. Starkey's story is all too real, as is Ruth's. My points are this: a) We don't know what someone is carrying inside of them and b) People's stories are their own. From that, it was important for me as I wrote this to consider how something so normal as a bachelor party or a simple act throughout our daily life that we don't even think about can be really difficult and triggering for someone, and how our past experiences can shape our current perceptions. We never know how our past shapes us in the moment, and it is working through these things, as Starkey is doing, that gives people insight into how resilient they are and how far they've come, how powerful they truly are. I also wanted to talk about how abuse effects everyone in the family in ways we might never imagine until we've been there. It is something that needs to be ended, not just for the people being subjugated, but everyone in the community. One person or animal enduring abuse is one person or animal too many. You can make a difference. For example, check out the ASPCA and your local shelter for survivors of DV for ways you can help and empower people in your community.
Good news: I'm replying to reviews and PMs tomorrow! My semester is over for three weeks, as soon as it gets to be 12:00 AM! I'm going to sleep for a week, I think.
Opal: I'm so glad you picked up on Boomer's distaste. He's so polite about it. I'm glad you're getting something out of this story. Thanks for reviewing.