Scribe

This story contains sensitive themes such as mental health, physical violence, and suicide.

I do not know why people are mad at me. They say things, yell things, that I think they think will hurt me. They seem to not be able to control this anger that they have. I have done nothing wrong to them, so I do not understand their reaction. It seems merely childish to me. They cannot think well enough, perhaps.

I have done a few things, I suppose. Nothing that is as bad as their yells, of course, but I think I might know why they are so deafening.

Once, my neighbor’s cat wandered into my home. I forgot to close the door. It walked in and around. It was okay though, because I found it. I helped it. It’s okay, and it will be okay now. I saw it in pain, and all I wanted to do was help. So I helped the cat, I picked it up. I brought it to my room. It was the first time I have ever felt the feeling they call love. It was so simple, but something about that cat intrigued me. It trusted me, and walked to me and rubbed against my leg.

I decided I was going to keep that cat. Nobody knew it was here, with me, happy and okay. My neighbor, John, just put up those silly posters with the pictures of the cat from years ago. I don’t understand why people can’t stay up to date on things like that. It’s not hard, taking a picture. Especially if you adore the thing you are taking pictures of.

Every day, I take pictures. Any time the cat ate a meal, I took a picture. Every time I changed the litter, I took a picture first. It’s not hard — not hard at all. Every time I feel that love, or something like happy, I take a picture.

On one Thursday, the cat I named Scribe tried to run. He tried to get out my door, and away. I knew he didn’t really want to; his poor brain just couldn’t control itself. He would have regretted it, so I went and caught him. He couldn’t run far, I probably should have exercised him a bit more. But my oversight helped me keep him safe, so it is alright. I forgive myself.

Luckily enough, John was at work. If he had seen his cat, and me… I am scared of what he could have done to me. John is a big man. Not fat, not especially muscular, just tall and dense. I have seen him chop wood in his yard. He is strong, and he knows how to use tools. He has axes, hatchets, machetes, and knives. Each day, he brings one out to sharpen in his garage. He loves his doors to be open. I suppose I do too, because that’s how his cat found me.

One day, Scribe would not stop meowing. He went on and on, nearly screaming each little meow. Silly cat. I know he cannot speak, but he tries. I think he knows I cannot understand him, but he tries. He hisses a lot, too much. I told him to stop hissing, but he did not listen. He never does, but that’s okay, because he is a cat and does not understand me.

I saw John entering his home. With another cat. A different cat. I see now that it can only be good that Scribe has come to me. John did not care about Scribe, just wanted a cat. When his cat was lost, John simply replaced. I would never replace Scribe. Scribe was the first to make me feel happy, and I could not bear to lose him, let alone replace him.

Scribe scratched me sometimes, on my leg. He did not mean to, I know it. He is a simple cat, and cannot think well enough. Most people don’t seem to think well enough, so it’s okay for a cat to not have self control. But I know he loves me, even if he never shows it. I know he does because I feel it, I love him and I could only love him if he loved me. Otherwise he wouldn’t make me happy.

Scribe is not forever. I know that cats must die. They must die much faster than people, even. And people die so fast. I have watched people die. I hear stories of people surviving catastrophes. But I see people die from things I could not fathom succumbing to. Something so small, I would never let it hurt me, let alone kill me. But it makes sense –- they cannot think well enough.

They don’t know things, but they are sure they do. They try to tell me they know, and so I stopped opening my door. I will not have food forever, but it is okay. Scribe will die before me otherwise, so I will make sure I die as well. Life without Scribe would not be the same.

I had no happiness before, but now I am scared. I think I am addicted to it. Scribe makes me happy. Nothing else does. I do not think I can go back to not happy.

Scribe has been stupid. Scribe clawed at a window. A window facing John. John had seen Scribe, and he had seen me close the curtain. I think I should have not been there, and said I had no idea Scribe had gotten in. Although it must have been recent, because he looks fed and I have not fed him because I did not know where he was. But, I did. So John saw me.

Of course, John wants Scribe back now. no matter the replacement. John does not love Scribe, just the idea of having a cat. He only wants Scribe back because people teach him that taking something from someone else is bad. He only cares about living in his idea of an ideal world, which was told to him. He does not think for himself. He cannot think well enough. That is okay though. He doesn’t need to think much now.

Scribe can’t seem to sit still. He keeps running or clawing, or hissing. If I weren’t so certain, I might believe he did not love me. It is alright though, I think I know how to help.

I helped Scribe. He is better now. He stays quiet, doesn’t run around, and allows me to pet him. He is so much calmer when he doesn’t think. John too. He never did anything good with his thoughts anyways. People have started asking around, if anyone has seen John. Nobody knew John saw his cat with me, or that he wanted it back. He wanted it back so badly.

Scribe is safe now. We are safe. I don’t have to worry about him running away, or hating me. Thanks to John I do not need to go get food for a while. And Scribe does not need to eat anymore. I thought it would be quieter now, but it is not. They are louder. I do not know why they are mad at me. I’ve done nothing wrong. But now new faces have joined the chorus, faces that I think aren’t really there, but I cannot be sure. I have no one to ask now but the faces themselves.

And the faces whisper back.