I Chose Me

Trigger warning: this story contains depictions of a toxic relationship.

He padded around the kitchen in his bare feet, dragging them in that slow, deliberate way he knew got on my nerves. The greasy pan he’d used for breakfast clattered on the hob, sticky with bacon fat, butter and charred crumbs. The smell of it hung thick in the air, laced with cigarette smoke, burnt crumpets and something else I couldn’t quite pin down - something sour.

She pressed her face closer to my chest, nose twitching under my arm, her soft whiskers drooping. Her small heart thundered against mine. It made me anxious.

“What were you thinking?” he barked suddenly, reaching out for a pack of cigarettes—his second today. He slammed it onto the table. The box bounced once, then toppled to the floor. He grabbed a cigarette. The lighter hissed.

She wriggled nervously in my arms.

“Shh, it’s okay,” I whispered, running my fingers gently through her matted, beige fur. She’d been left on the doorstep in a plastic bucket. No blanket. No note. Just her, trembling.

“She was left on our doorstep,” I said again, louder this time. “What else was I meant to do?”

He exhaled hard and slow, watching the smoke curl lazily towards the yellowed ceiling, eyes cold and unfocused.

“It’s either her or me,” he coughed, eyes narrowing. “See? I’m probably allergic to that damn thing.” His voice took on that half-mocking tone he used when he knew he was being unreasonable but refused to back down anyway.

I rolled my eyes. Before I could reply, he raised his voice again, louder, harsher.

“It’s probably ridden with fleas. And why would you even want it anyway? I get a dog — it could guard the place. And we’re already struggling with money as it is. You think we can afford a pet?.”

He flicked at an empty bottle of rum, and it clanged off-key against the counter. Everything he did made me grit my teeth lately - every movement too loud and every complaint too familiar.

“She could help with the mouse problem,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. “We’ve had to throw out so much food.”

“Bullshit,” he scoffed. “You’re replacing one rodent with another. Great logic, Steph.”

He clapped — three loud, slow claps. That awful mocking kind. I winced and shifted on my feet. I didn’t want to scare her.

He looked between us once more.

“It’s either her or me,” he said again. This time, he looked me straight in the eye. No sarcasm. Just the brutal tone of someone who expects to win.

“I choose her,” I said.

The words surprised me with how easily they came. He laughed. Thought I was joking, at first.

He left two days later. “You’ll regret it,” he said. “Fucking ridiculous.”

He packed half a bag, muttered to himself like always. Kicked my things around like a child. Slammed the door so hard my ears rang for minutes.

I didn’t say goodbye. I was sitting on the kitchen floor with her in my lap, stroking gently behind her ears as she purred for the first time - soft and hopeful.

——

She padded around the kitchen in her bare feet, though the markings on her paws made it look like she was wearing white socks. Her fluffy tail curled around my leg. Her greasy, metal food bowl was already licked clean. A big mouse lay on the doormat—her second today.

“Well done, Madam,” I smiled , as she licked her lips and lifted her chin with that regal air she always had after a successful hunt.

She followed me to the fridge, tail brushing my right leg, her own silent way of saying thank you. I peeled open a pack of ham. She miaowed, politely. When I turned, she looked up at me, blue eyes glistening in the morning light, pupils narrowing as she waited.

She inhaled the ham in one gulp and tiptoed out into the garden. The orchestra of summer and the warm tiles beneath my feet made me lose track of thought. I closed my eyes and breathed in. Bees hummed. The wind lifted the laundry on the line. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. But it didn’t disturb my peace anymore.

Madam disappeared behind the terracotta strawberry pots, her tail waving me a casual goodbye.

I didn’t know it would be the last time I saw that fluffy beige tail. Or felt it brush my leg. Or saw the sparkle in her eyes at the sight of a slice of ham.

At first, I thought she was just out exploring. A longer walk. Maybe she got distracted. Made friends. Found a garage with more exciting mice. Or a pond with more fish. She always was curious.

I left food out. Her favourite ham. Kept the door open at night. Called her name — softly at first. Then louder. Then angrily. Then with that note of pleading in my voice I hated.

I asked the neighbours. I made posters.

But Madam didn’t come back.

It wasn’t the last mouse I saw in the kitchen, but that was the only thing that stayed the same. Some nights, I thought I heard her: scratching at her post, a clink from her bowl, a soft meow outside my bedroom door. But when I got up to check, there was only silence.

Maybe Madam chose someone else. A bigger house. With better treats.

Or maybe she found a mate. Had kittens. Who also wore white little socks.

Maybe she was really gone.

Wherever she was, she’d reminded me of something: to choose myself. To choose peace over tension. To choose happiness over some warped idea of stability. To know I didn’t need a dog to guard the house — I could make it feel safe on my own.

And sometimes, in the mornings, as I make my coffee and glance at the pile of terracotta pots, I think I see her tail waving at me.

I let myself believe it.

“It’s either her or me,” I remember him saying. I remember the moment. The weight of it.

The choice.

I chose me.

And although it’s hard, I still make sure feel the warmth of the tiles. To listen to the orchestra of summer, every time it comes.