I think we were in 11th or 12th grade then…

All my days - minutes - years were running together-

Kat was digging through his closet trying to find a sketchbook he’d had left over since the last time he’d drawn anything - a decade back -

‘Because money,’ I guess.

They could just have things they didn’t need or use - closest-fulls even-

And of course it was meticulously organized - but there was just SO MUCH stuff that it would have been easier to find anything in MY closet than it was in his warehouse of paper and old toys.

“Lilith,” he told me, had given him some drawing supplies she’d had laying around for who knows how long at an all-day trade fair when he was like 8 so he wouldn’t die of boredom. 

I knew Lilith was his mother’s second secretary - number two of three or four - but he always just referred to her as “Lilith” without a surname, and with as little explanation as possible.

Only the first two pages of the sketch book even had anything drawn on them -

One side was littered with almost-anatomically accurate human and animal sketches that were most definitely the work of an adult - the other had half a dozen little cars with names like “T-bird” written under them in crayon cursive.

That was probably the first time in my life I’d ever been a third generation hand-me-down. 

Not that I was in any position to complain…

But I knew enough to realize the sheer fact that Kattar still had the book meant it must have mattered a lot to him. He and his mother seemed to throw away or donate hundreds of dollars worth of things they didn’t want anymore almost every other month.

We found the sketchbook in a big box of art projects - most of which looked like they were from even earlier than grade school-

He so could not draw…

“Why did you keep these ugly things hanging around?” I laughed teasingly, sorting through the box as Kat packed the small ocean of bobbles back into his closet.

“My mom wanted them. She likes to brag.”

I couldn’t help but scoff, looking at a little picture of two stick figures labeled “My family.”

“Not really much to brag about here, Kitty Kat.”

He looked up at me too quickly - 

I felt a moment's halt in both of our breathing as he glared daggers and those dark eyes seemed to burn holes through my head-

I think he thought I was talking about the family.

But then he realized that that’s just what he…was thinking-

“I was four years old,” he rolled his eyes, trying, and failing to smile casually. “She was proud that I could already read and write.”

I know my jaw dropped - only half with legitimate amazement-

“You could read at four years old?”

-And half because I wanted to change the subject - wanted him to stop looking like somebody had just stabbed him -

“You must have started preschool pretty early.”

It sounded a little too much like running out of air-

My turn to try to smile - to laugh - to breathe - and fail-

To turn his thoughts - make-believe away the shadow creeping over his face-

“Did you like art class a lot back then?”

“I’ve never liked school at all,” he muttered kind of bitterly, taking the picture back from me and squatting down to repack the box, “Art class was the worst.”

“Art is arguably the easiest class,” I laughed anxiously, “Considering how little you enjoy thinking it oughta be right up your alley-”

I never want - to relive-

The way his gaze locked on mine then - as he smiled angrily, waving his hands with mocking cheerfulness - his face burning with voracious fire-

“Oh! You’d love it too if you were me the day the teacher came out with those little plant diagram printouts, chattering away about the showcase we’d have at the end of the week for everyone’s families to see our art projects and clapping 'Okay everybody! Time to draw your family tree!’" 

*

Kattar…?

“It used to belong to my dad...” 

When he speaks again it’s a sob - with a gasp at the end like he’s drowning - 

My own lungs seem to burn and wither away to the breaking point as I’m strafed by the memory of all the times-

I opened up these floodgates -

And I did it again…

“My mom thought she’d cleared everything out after their divorce- didn’t even realize it was still in the house until I found it one day when I was like 7-”

Please breathe.

“She didn’t want me to have it, but she basically let me have anything I wanted unless it got in the way of her work or something, so she suffered to let me keep it…”

There’s an agitation - aggravation coming into the ends of his words like-

I think I need-

-An unpleasant kind of metamorphosis-

He’s crying, but his expression is anything but delicate-

“At first I just liked it because I thought it was interesting and cool. I was obsessed with everything that had to do with cats, ‘just like mami,’ right?”

Kat-

I-

“-But by the time I was like 10 it was because it was THE ONLY THING I HAD FROM MY DAD-!” 

It’s something between actual human language and a growl and a scream and it writhes through both of us-

I think-

“-But when it broke when I was like 14 my mom made me throw it away. Because it was just GARBAGE-” the tears are careening down his face now, in livid glass streaks-

“I’ve never begged her like that before - I had a meltdown in front of my mother and she just told me it was ridiculous to be crying when I had so many TOYS-!!!”

At this, he stops and runs his hand sharply across his cheek like he’s trying to scrub out the anger - or pain, smiling violently-

“And here I go again. Crying like a baby. It’s stupid at my age but…”

I want to say something encouraging as he flushes miserably with fury and embarrassment but my words stick fast-

I just shake my head, but he sees it, and sighs, forcing the most tortured smile I’ve ever seen.

“When I started crying about it again a few weeks back I told myself it was so dumb to be carrying on again about a toy from ages ago - but I couldn’t help it. I just felt so angry and miserable I couldn’t even stop sobbing - just started rocking back and forth like a toddler and crying my eyes out - but then…the spasm…”

He trails off, covering his mouth with one hand as he stares bitterly at the carpet and for a minute - I think the storm is blowing over - but that-

“EEUUUGH!!!”

The sound is an indescribable mixture of a growl and a shriek as he pounds the sofa arm with his whitening fist and I watch him wide-eyed - shocked - 

I’ve never seen him so out of control - raving like he’s losing his mind -

“I don’t even know why it makes me so angry and sad at the same time-” he’s still shrieking - half weeping and screaming - and he’s so red all I can see is a volcano ready to overflow-

“She wanted me to have anything - but not that! Not that!!! I could have anything - anything as long as it had nothing to do with my dad!!! Because she wanted me to be her child!!! Hers!!! If she could have birthed me without my dad I wouldn’t even have one! I don’t even have one!!! I don’t even know his last name - don't know what he looks like except that I look ‘concerningly like that beautiful old fool!’ I’ve never even seen a picture - never had anything that had to do with him but that stupid cat mech and she couldn’t even let me have that!!! Maybe I want the stupid toy!!! Can I have that much?!!! Can I be allowed to have that much of my dad?!!! She went and bought me a whole set of new ones just like it when I was like 16 years old and I can’t stand them!!! The only reason I kept them was because I didn’t want to make her upset and I don’t even…!”

-Again the scream - but this time more lionish-  and he’s back to rocking again - the tears raging down his face in maddened torrents - his hair pooling in his lap like a puddle of old blood-

-And he’s so incensed I don’t even know what to say - hesitant to touch him like he might turn around and bite me like an injured dog -

I reach out one hand to place it on his shoulder - but before my fingers can even light on the cotton he turns on me rapidly and hugs me so tight I can’t breathe-

It hurts-

I lost the last of my air in the gasp of surprise and I feel my lungs burning as his hair licks my face and the hot tears pour down my neck - but something inside me says if I try to pull away - he’ll shatter - so I wait - trying not to break - for both of our sake-

My breath comes back with the force of a hurricane when he lets go on his own - shaking his head too quickly-

“I’m sorry. I know it was too tight-”

“It’s alright…,” I say a little breathlessly, but he looks up from under his hair with a look so miserable and gentle, and scared - his red face still spilling over with tears turning into fire on his cheeks-

I have to.

Kiss him.

I already am before I can second guess what I’m doing-

-It’s…too much like that nightmare-

-I can’t regret this again-

My breath comes and goes again too fast - almost clipping off - before it really feels like breathing but-

He doesn’t fight it this time either.

-But this time - even as I can feel his tears on both of our faces - I’m terribly afraid that I’m going to wake up - for the ten thousandth time - and find - I’m still just as petrified - until I feel him tapping my arm like he’s trying to tap out-

A…

Lise…

“I can’t breathe,” he almost laughs through the whispered gasp - reddening violently-

“I’m sor-” I start to say - burning from head to toe - but the look on his face stops me.

“If you say you’re sorry, you’ll make me think you regret it.” 

It’s barely a breath, but it’s something like terror.

“Then I’m not sorry,” I say too quickly, even as I struggle to keep myself from looking away - as Kattar covers his smile with one hand, laughing too nervously, his eyes disappearing in his face-

“I actually am awake right…?”

“What kind of dreams-?” I start to ask.

“Don’t ask me that,” he shakes his head, cringing before resting his arms and head on the upholstered armrest in mortification. “Ohhhhhhh, I’m going to be spending ages in purgatory…”

“I think you can get out of it if you marry me,” I smile a little teasingly - a lot seriously - as he lifts his head, glancing up at me slightly.

He smiles like he wants to say something - but then freezes - something I can’t see arresting his attention. 

Too quickly he looks at the floor again, his eyebrows furrowed in uncomfortable contemplation.

But this time I don’t think it’s because of me…at least…

“Kat?” he doesn’t look up. “Why have you never tried to get in contact with your dad? If it means so much to you…?”

Do we always even know why…?

“My mom would be so angry-”

But-

“You can’t live your whole life suffering like this just because it might make your mom angry-”

Who’s talking?

For the life of me, I can’t understand why I would say that - as he looks up at me a little baffled-

Maybe it’s just because I have mixed feelings about that word-

I know I’d get down on my hands and knees for Mrs. Moon if she wanted me to - but ‘mom’ is like venom when it’s said out loud-

He’s still looking at me dazedly, one elbow on his knees and one hand in his hair, as he keeps shaking his head, his gaze falling to the carpet in slow motion-

“You have no idea what you’re saying, Alicia…” I’m not sure if he’s even saying it or I just think I hear it - his voice is so quiet.

“Nobody can…” There's a long long silence as he contemplates the floor, “I can’t just go out of my way to make her upset with me - especially not now that she’s been paying for my necessities again - like I’m a grade-schooler. It would be irreverent...”

A new sort of anxiety washes over me for the first time at the word-

-An unnatural - almost inhuman dissociation I hear in his voice as he talks about Mrs. Moon - more like she’s his deity than his mother-

“I’m barely even sure if this life I’m living is mine from day to day…”

And I…

Really don’t like the way that sounds.

My stomach drops like I’m on a rollercoaster and there’s a cold-ache-

My shadows -

Stop-

-But for heaven’s sake - I-

-can’t separate my demons from his.

He feels more like he’s talking to himself than to me - trying to remind himself why exactly he’s still-

Liv-

Please no-

Don’t even think it.

“-I don’t even know if I’m as independent as I am because I want to be or because she wants me to be. Is that a dichotomy?” 

His hands -

“She’s always wanted me to be independent, so I’ve been as independent as I could possibly be for as long as I can remember. I started charging people for video editing gigs when I was like 11 years old so I could be entrepreneurial ‘just like mom’ - because she’s always wanted me to be tough - to pull myself up by my own bootstraps - but at the same time, I know I only exist because she wanted me to - and that feels like-”

He’s actually shaking, lowering his head into his hands, as he just shakes his head at the floor - baffled by his own existence.

“Is it wrong that I’m jealous of the kids who were ‘accidents?’”

Kids…

Like me?

“At least they don’t have to feel like a controlled experiment - a chemistry project - always studied, and pruned and preened to try to get the result somebody was looking for. At least if she never wanted me she wouldn’t expect anything from me.”

I still remember when Mom found out she was pregnant with Andrew…

“I legitimately live every day like I have to be careful not to do anything wrong - anything that would upset her - like she’s still watching me. Just trying my best to avoid seeing that disappointment in her eyes that never goes away. I’ve gotten rid of and given up so many things my whole life just to avoid that look. I’m…”

-How Tia Miguelina scolded her - told her - she was ridiculous, childish -

He looks up at me a with that same forced smile, and he sort of cry-laughs:

“When I was 5 or 6, I remember reading the part in the bible story before the flood, where it said that God ‘regretted making human beings on the earth.’”

I don’t want-

“And I wondered if she’d ever regret making me.”

I feel like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me as he just keeps talking like all these thoughts are normal-

Maybe they are. How should I know what ‘normal’ looks like-?

“Keep it together. Do it right. Anything to keep her from being disappointed, from feeling like I was a waste of her precious time. I kind of just want to have one part of my life that she doesn’t know about - so I can mess up and still keep on breathing…”

And that’s when I get it - 

And I can’t-

Resist the slight flinch as I grip my knees in both hands - my knuckles turning bone white-

“So we’re never going to tell her?” I whisper, though I don’t want to ask it out loud - don’t want to risk the answer being ‘yes.’

He shakes his head quickly…but I think he’s already…

“I’m going to tell her…”

Stopped breathing.

“I’m just sc…”

He can’t finish the thought - and I don’t want him to - don’t want to guess what he’s thinking - not today.

Please…

I…

Have to. 

…Reach out and take his trembling hand in mine.

He squeezes it too- too hard - but this time he just keeps on crying, and I don’t ask him to let go - just keep holding his hand until his breathing sounds a little bit less like a freezing rain and he calms down enough to whisper, quieter than anything, “Please, don’t go anywhere…”

I won’t.