The Rules of Life

Once I was three houses down, my hands scraped from climbing fences, I got out of backyards and started down the sidewalk. But I didn’t stop looking over my shoulder until I was two streets over and well away from being caught. Unless my dad decided to bust my door down. But I didn’t think he’d do that. He was cooling down and mostly, he’d just let me sit up in my room, undisturbed, until I was ready to come out. Then he’d sit me down and we’d Talk. And by Talk, I meant that he’d mumble that he was sorry and how he loved me and blah blah blah, and I would sit there and say nothing until he stopped and then I’d leave. It was sucky communication, I know, but talking was annoying. Fighting was more fun.

Used to be, Mom would be the one who would bring the peace. She’d sit us both down in a room and play therapist and we’d work everything out and it would end in hugs and laughter. But she’d left us and so Paul and I were left with how to work things out on our own. He was too prideful and saying sorry was a hardship so it never felt very sincere. I didn’t like talking about matters in general so I never said anything at all.

A rage, the same I felt whenever I thought about my mom leaving us, roared inside my body. Small as I was, the amount of anger that could build was surprising. When I’d gone to a real, live therapist, she’d told me that I was a very angry child and that chances are, I’d always be that kind of person. I just needed to learn to live with it. I told that therapist that she could shove that theory up her ass and go fuck herself, that I was not angry, thanks. I didn’t go to therapy anymore after that. Now I realized that, yeah, I’m probably an angry, fucked up individual but I live with it and it’s kept people away from me.

I don’t like people. I never really have but when Mom was here, I used to pretend. It was easier to put up with people and for the most part, people liked me. I wasn’t one of those smelly weird kids or the annoying kind. I was nice and funny and I thought up fun games to play. Those elementary kids freakin’ loved me. I had lots of friends and play dates all the time until we got older and they stopped being called play dates and just being called “hang outs”. But Mom left the summer before seventh grade and after that, I really just didn’t want to deal with anyone. I pushed my friends away until I had none left and even though I was already alone, I pushed more so everyone knew that I didn’t want to deal with their shit or anything and people avoided me like the plague. I stopped calling my dad ‘Dad’ and started calling him Paul, which at first, he was against but I didn’t stop so he gave up trying. And that’s how I got to where I am now. Fighting in class, snapping at people, calling them sluts, and purposely trying to ruin people’s day.

I was halfway through sprawling suburbia and into town when something interrupted the silence around me. Still upset about my mom, I wasn’t feeling very friendly, even towards innocent strangers, and even by my normal standards, I braced myself. The noise continued and it sounded pathetic. Little pitiful whiny noises that I realized could never belong to a human. I walked closer to the sound and it led me to a sticker bush. The berries had long since been picked by bored housewives hoping to cheer up their cheating husbands and make them love them again.

The noise stopped suddenly and then returned more as a whining noise, like a moan or the equivalent. I peered into the bushes but it was dark and hard to see, even though the sun was out. Something moved and whatever it was, yelped in pain and started crying. It was definitely an animal. The noise was way too high-pitched to be a dog so my guess was that it was probably a rodent or maybe a cat.

“Shh,” I said softly. “It’s okay, little guy. I’ll get you out.” The sound stopped again and the bushes rustled a bit before a small white paw appeared, followed by a tiny orange body. The kitten mewed again. Its coat was dotted with blood from the thorns and a particularly nasty vine had wrapped itself around the poor thing’s back paw, preventing it from getting out. My heart panged painfully in my chest, the first time in a long time I’d ever felt sympathy for anything. I reached into the thorns and ignored the pain when they scratched through the thin layer of fabric provided by my jacket. My fingers brushed against the kitten’s soft fur and I moved closer, getting a few scrapes on my face, until I could wrap my fingers around its body. It whined louder as I tried to get it out of the thorns but eventually I managed to get it loose and maneuver it through the thorns and back out. The kitten pressed itself against my body, shaking and bloody. I stroked its fur, murmuring soft noises until it calmed down enough to stop shaking. Then I got up and cradled it under my jacket. I jogged home.

There was no way I could climb the tree and get on my roof carrying a kitten, especially one that wriggled around so much. I’d tried not to jostle him so much but he moved so much and it was hard that he got bounced around a little bit. He mewed pathetically when I stopped a few feet from the front of my house, where the grass met the sidewalk. By some stroke of luck, the car was gone. Relief flooded my body and I gently pressed the kitten against my stomach.

“Almost there, little guy,” I whispered. I walked up to my house and hopped on the porch, peering carefully into the windows. Nothing. The house was quiet, too. No sounds of pacing or creaking of boards. There was no sound of slamming cupboards or rattling dishes. It had seemed that my father had checked out. Where he had gone, I had no clue, but I was grateful. Except…

“Fuck!” I swore, aiming a kick at my door. It replied with a thump but the only damage that was done was the light throbbing in my foot. The door was locked and when I left through the window, I figured I’d be returning through the window. There was only one thing I could think of to do so I pulled the kitten from my jacket and placed him on the porch. He sat there and cocked his head to the side. “Stay,” I commanded, even though I was sure he didn’t know what I was saying and cats couldn’t learn tricks anyway. He didn’t move as I got on the railing of the porch and hoisted myself onto my roof. My window was still open, thank god.

In my race to get downstairs and grab the cat, I hadn’t noticed that the door to my room had been opened. I’d locked it before I left but I was too preoccupied with grabbing the kitty before it ran off. The whole house had been cleaned, spotless, and that, too, was weird ‘cause usually the remnants of Paul’s rage remained for a few hours. It was even weird that he was gone. I was glad he was but he didn’t leave, not before we’d “made up” and the fact that he was gone should have clued me in in the first place. The sirens blaring down the street also could have clued me in. But no, my mind was elsewhere. So when I opened my front door and frantically searched around the porch for the kitten, I could honestly say I was surprised when I saw the cop car pull into my drive way, with its lights flashing and sirens screaming. The guy on the passenger’s side got out first and ran he up to me and slammed me against the wall. My face hit it first. It made my nose hurt but didn’t break it. My lip split open again, though, and blood filled my mouth. I swallowed it, thinking that if I spit right now, it’d only get in me in more trouble.

The other cop came around and clipped cold handcuffs around my wrists. They were annoying and my arms hurt at this angle. “You have the right to remain silent,” the cop droned, like every bad detective flick. My mind, however, was still on that cat. I strained my neck to looked around on the porch and I finally spotted him, cowering beneath one of the porch chairs. My heart fell. He’d be gone by the time I got back. The second cop gave me a push towards the car and the first cop opened the door, ducking my head so I wouldn’t hit it. How thoughtful.

As we drove away, we passed a really familiar car with a really familiar person driving it. Our eyes met through the glass and my mouth dropped open, spilling some bloody saliva onto my jeans. That wasn’t important. What was important was that my own damn father had called the cops on me.