One spring day a cat wandered into the archery range.
There wasn’t anything remarkable about that. Cats wander where they wander. But it was a change in the air, an inciting incident. The cat became a target; a victim to the dissatisfaction of others.
Normally he wouldn’t say anything. No matter how much of a mess of the place they made, no matter how mad it would make Keito, no matter how much he wanted this place to remain his untouched sanctuary, he would never say anything. But those boys-- older, restless, forces of nature with nothing of value to call their own-- had found a new game. A different game. One he couldn’t just shut out by filling his head with fantasies and symphonies.
It all happened so quickly. When one of the delinquents had grabbed one of the archery bows from its stand and levelled an arrow at the cat, his stomach turned. He moved without thinking. They jeered at him, yelled at him to stay out of it, it was just a cat, what was he getting so worked up for? Put it down! Let it run! If it really wants to live so badly then it shouldn’t have crossed their path! They were angry, frustrated, and all they wanted was to take out their frustrations on something-- anything.
So they started chasing him. Pushing him. Trying to get him to let go, trying to force him down.
He tried to run, still holding the frightened cat to his chest. He tried to be careful of the fresh burns singing its paws and tail but it was such a big cat, he thinks even Sena would have trouble holding it up while on the run.
But then suddenly he fell-- no one even pushed him, he just slipped-- and gravity pulled him ruthlessly to the ground.
When he regained consciousness after a while he was all alone. Except for the cat in his arms meowing loudly over and over and over, help us help us help us.
He couldn’t move. His arm, the arm he had landed on, was screaming, burning, throbbing in pain. It was bent in an odd way that he’d never even seen before, and the warmth seeping from it was red and sticky. The cat kept meowing and that was all he could hear in his head. He was grateful that she was still there with him, she hadn’t left him alone. Her meowing, his wild heartbeat in his ears, the steady pulsing pain in his arm, all together it sounded like a song. He wanted to write it down. He couldn’t find any pens or paper so he would have to make due with what he had, or else surely it would go from his mind and never return. He would use the sticky red on the ground-- truly he was really lucky for it to be here!
Lucky… he was lucky…. The cat was safe now, and at least one of his arms was still working. More importantly this experience-- all this pain that he felt-- he had never experienced such pain before. It wasn’t a tragedy at all, but a valuable source of inspiration. He was happy! Grateful, even!
That he could write such a beautiful masterpiece out of such a painful experience!
He didn’t want to be mad. He wanted to get along, so.
Definitely.
Truly.
He was happy.
He had to be happy.
If he wasn’t happy about it then he would have to cry.
[ IMPORTANT NOTES
- if the memory is confusing in any way it's just because his memory is bad i swear it's not because i'm bad at writing this is written to be intentionally confusing promise - this is the cat. she's okay now she's leo's cat now and her name is Little John she has kittens later she's a good girl. ]
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FOR PRETTY PRETTY PRINCESS
There wasn’t anything remarkable about that. Cats wander where they wander. But it was a change in the air, an inciting incident. The cat became a target; a victim to the dissatisfaction of others.
Normally he wouldn’t say anything. No matter how much of a mess of the place they made, no matter how mad it would make Keito, no matter how much he wanted this place to remain his untouched sanctuary, he would never say anything. But those boys-- older, restless, forces of nature with nothing of value to call their own-- had found a new game. A different game. One he couldn’t just shut out by filling his head with fantasies and symphonies.
It all happened so quickly. When one of the delinquents had grabbed one of the archery bows from its stand and levelled an arrow at the cat, his stomach turned. He moved without thinking. They jeered at him, yelled at him to stay out of it, it was just a cat, what was he getting so worked up for? Put it down! Let it run! If it really wants to live so badly then it shouldn’t have crossed their path! They were angry, frustrated, and all they wanted was to take out their frustrations on something-- anything.
So they started chasing him. Pushing him. Trying to get him to let go, trying to force him down.
He tried to run, still holding the frightened cat to his chest. He tried to be careful of the fresh burns singing its paws and tail but it was such a big cat, he thinks even Sena would have trouble holding it up while on the run.
But then suddenly he fell-- no one even pushed him, he just slipped-- and gravity pulled him ruthlessly to the ground.
When he regained consciousness after a while he was all alone. Except for the cat in his arms meowing loudly over and over and over, help us help us help us.
He couldn’t move. His arm, the arm he had landed on, was screaming, burning, throbbing in pain. It was bent in an odd way that he’d never even seen before, and the warmth seeping from it was red and sticky. The cat kept meowing and that was all he could hear in his head. He was grateful that she was still there with him, she hadn’t left him alone. Her meowing, his wild heartbeat in his ears, the steady pulsing pain in his arm, all together it sounded like a song. He wanted to write it down. He couldn’t find any pens or paper so he would have to make due with what he had, or else surely it would go from his mind and never return. He would use the sticky red on the ground-- truly he was really lucky for it to be here!
Lucky… he was lucky…. The cat was safe now, and at least one of his arms was still working. More importantly this experience-- all this pain that he felt-- he had never experienced such pain before. It wasn’t a tragedy at all, but a valuable source of inspiration. He was happy! Grateful, even!
That he could write such a beautiful masterpiece out of such a painful experience!
He didn’t want to be mad. He wanted to get along, so.
Definitely.
Truly.
He was happy.
He had to be happy.
If he wasn’t happy about it then he would have to cry.
[ IMPORTANT NOTES
- if the memory is confusing in any way it's just because his memory is bad i swear it's not because i'm bad at writing this is written to be intentionally confusing promise
- this is the cat. she's okay now she's leo's cat now and her name is Little John she has kittens later she's a good girl. ]