Fall had always been my favorite season. From the crunchy leaves on the ground to the nipping cold wind that chills you to your bones. I loved every bit of it; the scent of pumpkin and cinnamon, the taste of Thanksgiving turkey and potatoes, the sound of the wind rustling in the trees. Fall had always been my favorite season; right up until I died. After that: not so much.
It was a little after Thanksgiving, when the cold was really setting in. We had just had our first snow and the ground was blanketed with the stuff. I was on my way home from my shift at ‘The Boutique Down the Street’ (I know the name is kind of awful), and was waiting at the bus stop for my ride home (i.e: the bus). I had pulled out my phone and sat on the bench, which was the only thing unaffected by the snow, and scrolled through Pinterest. I had been waiting for a few minutes, looking up occasionally, when I heard the small cries of an animal. Being a bonafide animal lover/activist, I jumped out of my seat and followed the sound. I followed it down a side street and an ally, the thought of getting home completely gone from my mind.
I found the kitten at the end of an ally, trapped inside a box. The poor thing was small and thin, shivering from either hunger or the cold. It had mostly gray fur and it’s paws were large and white. Smiling, I picked the kitten up and cradled her in my jacket looking for any sign that she belonged to someone. The little kitten looked barely a month old and was seemingly abandoned by her momma. I saw no collar on the kitten, or anywhere around the area, so I pulled her closer and walked back the way I came. A block from the bus stop I had been at before, a group of girls stopped me and asked what was in my jacket. I told them it was none of their business, and for a (and I quote), “...smart ass remark.” I was duly punched in the face. The girl was strong for being as thin as she was. The instant her fist connected with my jaw, my knees buckled and I fell to the floor. Remembering the kitten in my jacket, I twisted myself slightly to the left making sure I wouldn’t fall face forward.
My back hit the ground first, knocking all the air out of me and I heard the girl’s snickering and laughing as they watched. Next was my head, but instead of impacting with just the concrete, the tip of a rock, buried in the snow, inserted itself into my skull. The pain was excruciating, it was worse than the time I had broken my wrist when I was nine. I could feel the warmth of blood pool around my head and the breaths of the kitten on my chest. The girls quickly quieted, and one whispered, “Did we kill her?” a chorus of curses filled the air and suddenly hands were unzipping my jacket.
“It’s a cat.” the girl who punched me said in disbelief. “She’s dying because she didn’t tell us it was a damn cat.”
Even with my eyes closed I could see the looks of shock and horror that was no doubt on each girl’s face. I heard one of them turn and run, and then all at once, the rest of them fled too, leaving me and this kitten in the cold. I’m not sure how long it took me to die, or if it was from hypothermia or blood loss, but I do know that for the longest time in my life, I laid there unmoving. I laid there surrounded by my own blood in the snow, the air smelling and tasting of copper. I laid there listening to my own heart slow and watched my vision blur and darken. I laid there dying.
With a kitten on my chest and a hole in my head, I died.
