Pomegranates

He was quietly removed from the town and sent here, to where I was.

A personal favor I wanted to grant.

A peaceful life, he said. It’s the least we could do.

Sure, I answered.

I lied, but I couldn't bear the thought of him hurting. Folks never said what exactly was wrong with him, just told me he was broken.

Didn't know what that means, but when I did, I wished that fucking hatchback just finished the job already.

So, I did what I always do. Remain silent. And stare, uncomprehending, half-asleep. A foot into catatonia.

Truth be told, he was a pitiful sight.

Couldn’t talk, couldn’t walk straight, and didn’t answer to complicated orders. But loved to just, lie down, laze around.

Like a cat.

I let him walk on all fours, and gave him food in a bowl.

Wouldn’t have it any other way, perhaps? I'm not sure. I hated it all the while, though I'm not sure if that ever mattered.

Eventually, when he was healed enough, he was half a wreck, half brave.

I never touched him, if you are thinking about that.

He would whine as soon as you put a hand on him, but I did need him to clean himself in the bath.

Nothing happened, but I still have nightmares from his cries. Unfortunate, but I don't care at this point. I hope nothing happens to him.

He cries at night a lot. Sounds like tinnitus. Whining, mewling, desperate to run away from something.

Tried to wake him up one time, when he was on the floor, looking like he wanted to rip his skin of himself with how much he was clawing his face and hands red.

Screamed and cried. He did it so loud I started crying too, like a dumbass.

...

We used to go to fish in a little lake close to the house, a few mornings a week, and we never returned home empty-handed.

I also took my shotgun, just in case I could get a rabbit or two.

When we returned, he would always go first and wait for me in the junction; there was a small rock, shaped like a small chair, a bit mossy, but it had this big tree a few behind it. Quite comfortable.

I have better memories of that stone in the crossing than I had of any person in my life, sometimes even greater.

We used to stay there for hours, seated, taking calming breaths while I nursed my neck and legs. Sometimes I sing to myself. Usually just humming and the occasional random lyric that won't leave the head, but eh.

It was cold here, but it was good for me. Really comfy.

Sunny, little cat, sat in front of me, barely able to stay down on his two legs.

He looked at me, with a tilted head, with those two lazy onyx eyes.

I spoke to him, even if I knew he doesn't understand a word, but I like to think the tilts of his head, and the small frowns mean something.

He never did, in fact.

When I was silent, which I usually am, he stood there or jumped around after a grasshopper.

When we left, I always felt a sort of pressure, to look back at the stone, like an old friend you are leaving never to be seen again.

I most likely never will if I continue breathing the dead autumn air.

One day, the feeling was overpowering, because I resigned myself and sat back down.

Sunny sat down in front of me and looked back.

Now, remembering the usual ordeal, I recognize that glister in his eyes, the look of the condemned.

Scrutinizing and cold… like a lynx, or so they say.

A trembling invaded his body; as if his bones wanted to flee the body through the limbs.

A single second, a plea for something. Eyes that wanted an end. Kept looking at me intensely, as if he had never seen me before, as if he was going to fault me for his misfortune at any moment.

I stared him down, thinking of the few years we shared. How I wished I never let him go, didn't tell him to go.

I still remember the graves. I'd probably just go back to playing dead on a bed.

I think I knew the news now, remembering the things they said about that town. About what's happening.

Maybe I'll pay 'em a visit today. Or not. Who knows.

I stare the kid down.

He looks at the gun in my hands.

I stand up, half-awake, I hope.

What do I do now? Should I say something? Stop myself? Point the barrel at my own head?

Fucks sake.

...

I sit down. Sunny stares at me, tears welling in his eyes.

I wipe them away, and hold him close. I know who wants to fucking die here.

I kiss his forehead.

I took the gun and shot someone.

The dark and sticky blood slowly filled the dirt around.