Two candels for the Devil

Cap 2

My name is Cat.

In fact, it's Catherine. It's the way my mother named me when I was born, although I didn't get to know her. My father didn't talk about her so much; perhaps it still was to hard for him. The information about my name is one of the few things he told me, and maybe that's why it was so important for me. When I was a child, I loved the name Catherine. I thought it was fancy and girly. The right name for a lady. Sometimes, when my father and I passed by one those super fancy schools where girls have to wear uniforms and everything is extremely expensive, I stared at those girls and dreamed about being just like them, having friends, living in a fancy house, wearing nice clothes and playing with Barbie dolls. Yep, that's right: I wanted a Barbie when I was a kid. All I'll say is I was immature and tired of traveling from one place to another all the time, with no where to call home.

That's why I liked to be called Catherine. It seemed to match the kind of life I wanted to live. But my father always called me Cat, and I hated it. I remember we got into fights quite often 'cause of it. Well, actually, I got into fights on my own. My father only looked at me like I was the most precious thing in the world, love filling his eyes, and messed my hair up. And he kept calling me Cat, because, apparently, when I wake up in the morning, I rub my eyes and yawn just like a kitty would.

But now my father's dead, and I don't want to be Catherine any more. From now on, I'm going to be Cat forever. For my dad.