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23. Forever fragile (Tobirama)

"Your T-shirt is inside out."

I looked down on it.

Yeah, and full of holes and two sizes two small.

But I didn't say that.

"Thank you", I said instead.

I didn't try to fix it. The veterinary, an elderly man that should probably have retired a good while ago, put his hand on my shoulder.

"I'm so sorry", he said.

It's just been us, I wanted to say but didn't because what made my case so special? It's just been us. For so many years. And now, it will be just me at home.

She had been so bad in the car, I had been prepared that they wouldn't try to do anything. Even so, I had begged. Begged. Begged for them to please try, to please operate, to please do anything to spare her life, I would pay any money, double, triple.

"It's not humane", the veterinary had said. "She's suffering, son."

"But she's not human!" I had said pathetically. "She's a cat!"

I knew that he was right and I was wrong.

I looked down on her, her fur tousled with blood that had come from her intestines. She had used every last bit of power fighting me in the car, trying to bite, trying to claw. It was the first time I had been angry with her.

"You shut up and stop biting because I swear to God, I don't have time to go to the doctors and get antibiotics for a bite!!" I'd screamed, upon which she'd reduced herself to pure resentment, ignoring me.

God, I had wanted to comfort her. I had wanted to comfort her so badly. To put my fingers in her fur, to clean away the blood, to nuzzle her, but I knew she wouldn't let me and I had too much respect for my life partner to even try. And beneath all of this, another emotion so strong, you could probably have extracted it from my heart and collected it in a glass in liquid form.

Guilt.

"Has she had any change of foods or eating habits lately? Any stress?" the veterinary had asked.

Her sensitive stomach combined with the delayed dinners as she refused it for so long before eating as well as the stress I'd put her through had caused her this.

"Have some alone time with her", the veterinary said.

"I'll be quick", I said; I didn't want to see her suffer like this for longer than necessary.

The door closed, and we were left to it, me with my inside-out T-shirt, and my beautiful white cat, the one I'd taken from the shelter because she'd been there for the longest, so ugly in her lack of fur, so pure in how she clung to me, desperate for human contact. Tears burned like acid in my eyes as I thought of how desperately she'd trusted me, and how grateful she had been for the normality I had provided her. That was the best thing I could have given her, really. Normality. So many of us strived to live extraordinary which made us dissatisfied with our normal ones, not being able to see the beauty within it.

"I'm sorry", I told her.

That, somehow, must have created a spark within her because she opened her eyes wide and turned her head looking at me, as if she'd been an outdoor cat scavenging for mice and had just heard a rustle in the leaves.

"I'm so, so sorry, Betty." Her ears flicked at her name. "I have loved you. I still do. I always will."

And that was the final straw.

I broke down to my knees, burying my face in her fur.

And she let me.

She let me and she started to purr, forgiving me.