Why My Teachers Hate Me

How to... I Have No Idea.

Write a short story in which a photograph, or a set of photographs, plays a part in the plot.

Solitude

Heart pounding; breath ragged; legs running.

                I couldn’t breathe properly, my breathing was sharp, desperately will air to fill my bursting lungs, trying to appease my need for oxygen as my heart screamed at me to stop by threatening to tear through my chest.my legs kept going through, never stopping, despite the burning they felt, running on their own accord.

                I kept running, pushing past family, friends, neighbours, and then acquaintances until I had run far enough so that the only people around me were strangers.

                My skirt billowed around my knees as my feet slapped on the ground, echoing loudly as I took random turns down alleys and narrow streets, getting lost, but not caring enough to wonder how I was going to find my way back… if I was going to find my way back…

                I had no way of knowing how long I had been running, but when my foot caught on a discarded, half-broken bottle and I went sprawling onto the ground, my hands catching on the pieces of smashed glass, the sun had already set, leaving me in an empty street with only the glow of a flickering tattoo shop sign to keep me company.

                In my haste to leave I had forgotten both my phone and money. I didn’t even have the energy to stand back up, settling instead for leaning against the dirty grey building that towered endlessly above me. I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them in a desperate effort to keep warm, the December cold hitting me hard now that I was no longer running.

                I ignored the stinging sensation in my bloodied hands, concentrating on my breathing.

                Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in breathe-

                “Holy Mary, mother of a baby in a stable!” I screeched, feeling something brush against my leg, causing me to jump up and press myself against the wall.

                There was a meowing sound and I looked down, my chest heaving heavily again – this time due to shock – to see the ugliest, shabbiest-looking kitten I had ever seen.

                Despite the lack of light, it was clear the kitten was missing large sections of its fur; it’s dirty, shaggy, grey fur. It had one blue eye and one green, both shining brightly under the flickering shop light.

                It hadn’t moved since my outburst, staring up at me with its head cocked to one side and eyes unblinking.

                Slowly, I bent down, still keeping my back to the wall, and I reached my hand out to the ugly creature. My hand was almost ghostly pale, standing out in the semi-darkness. My hand was only an inch away from the kitten but neither of us dared to close the space between us.

                An unknown amount of time passed before the tiny kitten gathered up enough courage and turned its head, gently brushing against my hand. It looked back up at me, assessing my reaction, and I finally thawed enough to pet the tiny thing.

                As one, we both relaxed, moving closer together until it had found itself onto my lap, huddling close to seek some form of warmth.

                I stared at the kitten for what seemed hours, wondering what had happened to it; how it had become so lost and alone. I imagined how it might have been loved, and that maybe the death of its mother caused it to be doomed to walk the streets alone, fighting for scraps of food in the bins.

                It wasn’t I saw until bead of water drop delicately into the kittens fur that I realised I was crying. I looked up to the night sky, disbelief informing me that it must be rain; it couldn’t possibly be my own tears that were falling. They fell rapidly, however, their saltiness lingering on my lips while I gazed down at the tiny creature, undisturbed, in my lap.

                “My mum’s dead,” I whispered softly, acknowledging the fact for the first time. The kitten stared up at me with its glowing eyes.

                “She died today,” I told him, “she was sick and now she’s gone.” As if it could understand me, understand the sadness - the grief - that overcame me, the kitten raised its head and nudged my arm, almost like it was trying to comfort me.

                “I guess you have no mum either,” I mumbled. There was no answer, not that I expected one.

                There were so many similarities between me and this little kitten, we were both motherless, both far from home, and both lost.

                Making a snap decision, I stood up, holding the kitten close to my chest and urging my frozen legs to move forward, heading towards the bright lights of the city. I could find my way home from there, even if I had to borrow a phone to call my dad.

                There was a pang in my chest as I remembered my dad. I had just set off, not even thinking about him. He was probably worried about me.

                I shivered in the cold, my dress not warm enough for the crisp December night. In my arms sat the small kitten, tucked in neatly as it fell asleep to the constant beat of my heart.

                I had never been an animal person. I had never seen the appeal of picking up poop from something. But there was just … something about this kitten, I had grown attached to it in the few hours we had met.

                Slowly, I made my way to the alluring bright lights of the city straight ahead.

Any thoughts?

The picture was of a guy sitting against a wall in an alley way, a cat staring up at him a few feet away.