this is a separate piece
just a little something i wrote for whumptober
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song — love and hate by michael kiwanuka
"Love and hate, how much more are we supposed to tolerate?"
There lives a cat in the neighbouring establishment. A chubby chunk of golden fluffiness oozing charisma, I usually take it on myself to caress and play with her.
In the beginning, she does not appear too keen on garnering my attention, but as time goes by, every time I make a move to scratch behind her little ears, she will readily tilt her head, putting her head rather eagerly into the palm of my hand. Then, she will happily revel in the attention as I proceed to rub beneath her soft little chin.
In all honesty, the cat does not leave a lasting impression on my mind. When I am elsewhere, I do not think of the cat. Nor do I mention the cat in the conversations with my friends.
Not once, even in passing, does the cat flash through my mind as I go about my day. Nevertheless, every time I return home, or whenever I cross paths with her on my way out, almost always, I will indulge the creature.
There are times when I am in rather a hurry. Believing that I am about to shower her with belly rubs and ear scratches, the cat tends to meow expectantly at me every time her obsidian, marble-like eyes lock onto me. On such days when I have a lot on my plate, I will whip past her with only an acknowledgment thrown her way, often even forgoing the gesture and disregarding her existence altogether.
Even though I have no place for the cat in my head, I wonder if the cat on the other hand thinks of me otherwise, or perhaps it is possible that she, too, enjoys the moment while it lasts, but carries me in her mind no more beyond our few interactions.
It gets me ruminating on the subject.
What if, contrary to my earlier assumption, the cat does in fact look forward to seeing me every day?
How will she feel, I ask myself, when she realises that despite her calling for me, I have wilfully ignored her?
Will it hurt her to understand that she is as important to me as a piece of fodder?
Before now, I have no way of knowing.
But, I think I have come to understand how the cat may have been feeling.
I am presently living the life of the cat.
While she has only but quenched her own thirst by humouring me, I have been a fool to mistake a fleeting fancy on her part as an everlasting craving.
Only the most foolish of fools could have dared harbour the feeble hope that someone who thinks nothing of them, someone who have no place for them in her life would waste her affections on them.
Such fool is me.
Who else can I blame but myself?
Turning a deaf ear to my brain's cautious reminders only to naïvely pursue my juvenile heart.
"Do you think sweetmeats are meant to be consumed on a daily basis? Do people?"
She has asked me out of the blue.
"I don't think so. My confectionery receives familiar faces but only once in a while."
My eyes have moved from staring straight ahead into particularly nothing onto studying the valleys and mountains of her face.
"I do however have one patron who frequents the shop. I find it peculiar because she doesn't strike me as someone with a sweet tooth."
"Looks, little one, can be deceiving. Do you still remember what I've said to you during our first meeting?"
"How can I forget?"
"Contrary to what my appearance likes to suggest, I am not immune to pretty things. Nor am I unsusceptible to sweet stuffs." so she has said.
"Ever since your first visit, you have come here almost every day. And yet, to this day, I've never seen you ingest anything close to sweets. It only fuels my suspicions when I find you one day throwing your purchases away."
"Hmm...so you were aware. One may declare themselves a possessor of massive sweet tooth, but can they confidently say that sweets are all they need to survive? After all, not only can too much sweetness do more harm than good to your body, they also do not give you any real sustenance. They are merely titbits to occasionally indulge oneself in."
"This is no longer strictly about the sweetmeats, is it?"
"Ever the brightest girl."
"Lady Medarda, why exactly do you keep coming here if not for the confectionery?"
"Don't worry your pretty little head. It will change after today. In fact, everything will. But, to answer your question, do you really have no idea?"
"What do you mean?"
"I am going away."
"What? Where? How long?"
"Far. Indefinitely."
"And? Why are you telling me this?"
"For once, I don't have an answer. I think when all is said and done, I want you to at least be aware that I am not here for the sweetmeats, but for the person who is behind their creation."
"And will knowing it change anything?"
"Frankly, I don't believe so. As pretty a sight as sweetmeats are to feast my eyes upon, I must accept that they come with damaging risks. I, as a person with more foes than friends, cannot afford a thorn in my flesh."
If I tell you that I use to hate her guts, will you find it believable?
I do wonder at times when does the line between love and hate become but a blur?
Where does hate really end and love truly begin?
One thing I do know is that before I know it, I have started hanging onto her every word like a clingy little kitten.
How much of what she has said have been the truths and how much, the lies?
Then, when she hugs me suddenly, and my body is cradled close to her chest, I have half the mind to believe that buried in all those lies is at least a truth somewhere, or perhaps mixed between a few truths are lies everywhere.
"I have been taught that the only real effective way to deal with your weaknesses is to get rid of them once and for all. A wolf, after all, is never known to be merciful."
But at the end of the day, as I lie motionless on the frozen ground, the only source of warmth coming from the gradually increasing pool of my own blood, I decide how ironic it is that the hands that, once upon a time, have breathed life into me have essentially become the very ones that have all the intentions of plucking it right out of me.
"Say goodbye."
Will you think me crazy when I confess to you that while being cocooned in her surprisingly gentle arms, even taking a knife to the chest has felt more like a triumph than a downfall.
