Subway Cat

As the subway whistled to signal its approach to the platform, the security guard, having completed his shift, gazed at the people rushing to work. Every day, a certain number of people, especially at this time, would arrive at this platform along with the others who were late, as punishment for oversleeping, rushing their children to school, and not hearing their alarms. The city was already crowded, but this line was the main hub for this part of the continent. This was one reason why it was so crowded at the beginning of the morning and the end of the evening rush hour. It was also due to the elderly who enjoyed using the subway at inappropriate times.

 The security guard, with his collapsible baton at his waist and on his phone scrolling through social media, didn't seem threatening to anyone. His job was generally limited to approaching tourists who seemed lost, explaining what was happening upstairs, and pointing out elevators to the elderly. He also occasionally fulfilled his age responsibility by guiding young people who were unaware they were in the wrong place. Generally, nothing happened at the subway station except suicide attempts, but that didn't mean drunks wouldn't start fights and pass out on the floor, or homeless people wouldn't quietly prepare a corner for themselves, at least until rush hour. Both groups disrupted public order on the subway for their own reasons. One reminded people of the violence of loss, the other of its tragedy and suicide was loss itself. The subway station was more than just a passageway connecting two different points on the line.

 Also, its ability to function as an underground shelter made it extremely important in the eyes of the security guard. When his relatives asked about where he worked, he proudly spoke of the many people at the station every day, emphasizing how crucial his job was. His relatives silently rolled their eyes, and his everyday stories weren't interesting enough for them, so they moved on to exchanging information about the daily routines of their acquaintances. The security guard would try to guess whether these relatively close acquaintances took the subway. Some owned cars, others felt they had transcended the subway. In their subconscious, public transportation branded people as "public." This "public" group, however, could get to work faster by subway than through morning traffic, they could read a book while seated, but because they lacked the status that a car conferred, they were deprived of the melancholic, enjoyable aspects of the journey. All they knew were the magnificent symphony of car bumpers and horns can be seen and heard through a large window.

 On another Monday, as the security guard was checking the station before his shift began, a colleague approached him. With misty eyes, he mumbled a good morning and settled down to make tea in their small, shared room. Feeling a little more refreshed from his morning walk, the security guard settled down, confident everything was working. At that moment, the station cat quietly descended the stairs. It was clearly going to be the first passenger, or rather, the first visitor of the day. With its characteristic walk, it rubbed its chubby face against the slightly ajar door. The security guard smiled at her and rolled the toy, given to her by kindhearted people, he started to fill her bowl. The cat, holding the furry mouse between her paws and shaking it, dropped the toy at the sound of the food filling and went to cuddle up to the security guard.

While the security guard was giving her her food, he overheard his colleague watching them and talking to himself. Hearing people's thoughts, while seemingly a blessing, could be agonizing for someone working in crowded places. Although having everyone's thoughts flowing through his head made him forget his own existential problems, sometimes the minds of teenagers, stressed people, and babies just learning to form thoughts could be exhausting. No one knew he could hear so much, and he preferred it to stay that way.

Hearing how dirty his colleague found the cat upset him; the poor creature was as clean as it could be given the circumstances, but the constant summer rains kept wetting its fluffy fur, so she could only clean herself when she found a dry spot. The subway station was one of those dry places. When the cat sat comfortably in her corner and began to lick herself, the security guard told his colleague he would be standing facing the Bosphorus’ side and left the room.

 The first subway carried few people, but the later ones would begin to handle the day's hustle and bustle. The times when passengers came and went were the hours when he played his game of trying to get to know people, guessing what they were thinking. He avoided looking directly into their faces, only nodding his head in greeting to those who said hello to him. Intruding into people's private lives in this way was embarrassing for a shy man like him. It was as if, if they looked into his eyes, they could read themselves there. Security guard was terrified of this happening. His power seemed to be his very shame as well.

He had drawn this power from a young man with whom he had fallen onto the tracks. The man had looked at him with wide eyes from where they fell, then gotten up, shook himself off, and, as the alarms blared, clung to the security guard, celebrating the silence in his head. Freed from the voices in his head, the man, unaware that the curse had passed to the security guard, thanked him and, still disbelieving his salvation, began talking to the arriving rescue teams. While the security guard was bandaged on his injured head, he said he had heard many voices besides his own, and when he was sent to the hospital for a head trauma scan, he began hiding the memory of the voices he heard so that they wouldn't doubt his sanity. He had been warned about his memory, his wounds had healed, but those strange voices didn't go away. Finally realizing that the voices were a special ability, not a disease, the man never spoke about it to anyone again. Although he sometimes tested his power on his elderly mother and sometimes on his colleagues, he never did anything that would change the world.

 However, during the days he worked, there were no suicides at the subway stations, and fights were stopped before they escalated on his posts. Drunkards would sometimes embrace him in tears, and sometimes, to the best of their ability, call him a sorcerer and run away. He would hear the silent lamentations of those contemplating suicide, appear before the danger struck, and, by disturbing them with his presence, dissuade them from their intentions.

The only problem was the guilt he felt. He heard the fantasies of aging perverts about innocent unaware people, but he couldn't intervene; his sphere of influence seemed limited to the subway station, as if his power and authority extended nowhere else. He didn't even call himself a superhero; the responsibility of making the world a better place shouldn't be something consciously imposed by some unwanted power. He saw no other way than continuing his current life, and he did his job perfectly after all. He noticed the lost lambs the moment they stepped into the station, answering their questions before they could even open their mouths and he did his part to ensure the homeless received the help they secretly needed, informing the authorities. But somewhere inside, there was a voice within himself screaming that he was never enough. That voice, louder than the others' thoughts, drowned out their voices: "You will never be enough!" He couldn't tell if this was for his existence and life, or for his job.

 Lost in the flow of thoughts of the passersby, he noticed a tiny shadow approaching too close to the tracks. It was as if an inexplicable voice was calling to him. The crowd was too focused on themselves to notice him; almost everyone's mind was on "me". At that moment, the shadow transformed into a cat, and the security guard, terrified of those around him, was running in the opposite direction, trying to push through the crowd as they rushed towards the stairs. The cat, frightened by the tall figures and the black bags in their hands, darted from side to side, trying to slip away, until the only safe and empty spot was the tracks. The subway had just left, and the next one was still some time away. By the time the security guard reached the cat, the thoughts of those watching them were already echoing in his head.

 The cat, startled by the man approaching, was about to jump down when the security guard grabbed her tightly, pulling her away from danger. Finding herself in a cozy but soft place to nuzzle, the cat looked around curiously from between his arms, and the security guard felt the dry noise in his head subside. 

 The almost muffled human voices had vanished, and the voice of the one who had been crying out in inadequacy had also been silenced. The security guard looked at the cat he had just rescued in his arms with a questioning expression. Could his power have somehow transferred to this tiny creature whose thoughts he couldn't hear? As they entered the security room with a questioning look, his colleague left the room without disturbing them due to the shift change. Left alone with the cat, the security guard watched it, hoping that if he looked at her for a long time, she might finally speak, but he realized that the cat couldn't hear anything because of the silence inside, and immediately began to string together words that might interest her. He tried a lot of things: fish, mice, birds, chirping, barking, meowing, food, play, water, but the cat didn't seem to react. Finally, taking a deep breath and sinking into his chair, the guard thought of the word "treat" one last time. The cat stopped, stood upright, and turned her ear towards him as if to show her reaction. She seemed to have understood the word "treat," for when the cat stopped and began licking her butt feverishly, the officer abandoned his experiment and poured himself a cup of the overly strong tea with a newfound serene.