I used to have a home. Now I don’t even have a name. I’m nothing but a number. Here we
are all the same . . . We waged a war with hell, and look we still survive. But just because we live
does not mean that we’re alive.
I shuddered, trying to shake the image of the girl I used to be. The girl whose spirit died
in this house.
My phone rings and brings me back to reality.
“Hello?”
“You’re taking too long over there,” the voice on the other end states. “I need you to
bring the mail and a bucket from the garage and hurry home.”
“Okay, Mom. Give me a few minutes.”
I hung up and went out the back door to the garage. I grabbed the rusted handle and
pulled the heavy door up. My nose violently assaulted with the foul odor of cooking blood.
“Oh my God. Did something die in here?”
I searched quickly for a bucket and maneuvered my way over piles and piles of books,
tools, and furniture. Stepped over the frightening dark stain in the concrete. Tried my best to get
out of there fast—that is, until a faint noise made me pause.
Soft meowing.
I followed the sound and reached the far back corner of the garage. Finally, after digging
through random objects, a little black creature with a skinny tail was visible and I had to force
myself not to run away. Rats do not meow.
The little kitten was on the ground barely moving and meowing weakly, its downy fur
slicked down its body with placenta that was never cleaned off. Its belly swollen and protruding.
I didn’t want to touch it, not without gloves at least, but I couldn’t leave it there dying. I
picked it up and examined the baby.
She had cloudy blue eyes that would turn green if she survived. Her entire body skeletal,
except for that swollen belly. And she squirmed in my palms, tiny enough to fit in one hand only.
Her little body enrobed in afterbirth cooked in the Texas heat.
And then her little body went limp in my hands.
I started to cry and ran with the kitten to the neighbor’s yard, found their water spigot,
and frantically turned the water on.
“Please, God. Please. She doesn’t even have a name yet.”
The water finally ran cold. With one hand I held her beneath the stream, and with my
second hand I kept the water from going into her nose or mouth.
She came back to me.
She started moving again. Stronger now. Her little lungs sucked in air and she began to
cry pitifully. The black water running off her revealed pale grey fur.
“I won’t leave you alone.”
Grabbing a stray cloth from beside the water spigot, I ran it under the water, rung it out,
and began to rub the kitten gently so her bladder wouldn’t burst. Her belly went down
considerably.
She had been abandoned for days.
“I’ll take you away from here.” I whispered to the wet, squirming mass of fur in my
hands.
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