Forms of peace

𝟑

[TW] slight domestic abuse

...༻❁🝮❁༺...

A stray cat, lurking in the shadows, bites, hisses, and meows. It causes harm, or at least that's what people say. Who isn't scared of stray cats? They roam the alleyways, their fur unkempt, their eyes glimmering with a mix of curiosity and hostility. As the whispers of the townsfolk echo in your ears, they seep into your consciousness, transforming the unkempt feline into a monster—an embodiment of distrust and negative energy.

"Mommy, isn't that the evil Okkotsu girl?" The frightened voice of a child cuts through the murmurs of the crowd, tightening the noose of anxiety around your heart. "Yes, honey, stay away from her... She's bad luck." The words feel heavy and oppressive, a label that sticks to you like the dust falling from aged shelves. You become aware of the way people distance themselves from you, their whispers traveling through the air as if seeking a target to strike.

A black cat—a creature intertwined with superstition and cultural stigma—always seems to embody bad luck in the eyes of the community. Their presence is avoided, a precaution many take to safeguard themselves from calamity. There are many rumors that fly around about them, but have they ever been true? "I heard she has a nasty scar on her back, maybe that's why she's still not married..." The jibes sting, a reminder of your own reality. Some of these rumors ring true—they hiss and bite, but aren't all cats capable of such behavior?

"Get out of my shop, lousy woman! We don't need your seducing here!" A disdainful voice reverberates through the air, the words laced with contempt. Yet beneath the surface of that aggression lies fear—a fear rooted in misunderstanding. In reality, black cats are just normal cats; they hiss and bite, but they also love and yearn. The only reason they become aggressive is that something or someone has given them a reason to lash out.

"so weak, you can't even defend yourself," the man laughed loudly, slamming a metal rod onto your forearms time and time again. "Tch," he said, pressing his foot against your ribs as if trying to crush any remaining spirit left within you. The pain coursed through your body, each strike echoing the ridicule of the world that saw you as nothing more than a stray.

Stray cats are the same. They have no home, and while there are buildings that can provide shelter, none offer the warmth of a true home.

"Cover these marks; we don't want the guests knowing, do we?" The woman smiled sweetly, but there was nothing affectionate about her gaze as she dabbed powder on your forearms. "Okaa-san," your voice came out frail, like an echo in a dark, empty hall. "What is it?" she asked, her tone laced with feigned concern.

"Do you care about me?" The question hung in the air between you, fragile yet potent—an acknowledgment of the pain you both felt, an acknowledgment of loneliness.