HAYNTA-8
Ohhhhhh! Furious, sad, unbelieving, helpless, empty-chested—you name it, I was it, as I stormed out of the building. Emerging into a day I had considered pleasant and cool but which now seemed noisome and oppressive, the layer of clouds overhead, which had added an appealing white coziness to the pleasantness of the day now seeming dingy gray—and an annoying dingy gray, at that, like half-melted snow in Spring—I rounded to what I considered the “back” of the Institute. That is, the side of it opposite the main gate, in front of what I considered the third Classrooms building, where among a smattering of oaks and souses and an uneven layer of acorns in and atop waves of lush yellow-green grass, a waterless stone fountain was surrounded by rings of flower bushes, prickly and flowerless in late summer.
Here, there was less foot traffic than anywhere else on the grounds. It was, perhaps, the most private place inside the Institute wall. That was another thing I hated about Clarks Hill: people were everywhere; even in your room, you had to put up with your roommate, and your roommate’s friends. Here on the back side, though, you could be relatively sure that at worst, a solitary student would wander by, or a couple of lovebirds would come along hoping for gropes or smooches. If the latter, they’d be disappointed that you were there, but would, in most cases, hurry away, the boy of the two perhaps gracing you with a sullen look as a parting gift, but no more. Even the janitors’ visits there were infrequent, to primp the flowers or scythe the grass, if it happened to get to “lebeeth length,” as some students called it—cleverly, in their own minds—because of the prevalence of those little biting insects in the Clarks Hill area. It was an unimportant, and therefore comparatively unkept, part of the grounds. The grass was allowed to grow to a respectable length there, the acorns were allowed to lay where they fell, the fountain and pool were cracked, and covered in black lichen. There were even a few crumbling areas and a hole or two in the wall, above which, adding to the vague feel of disrepair here, you could see the tops of the small, stickly, trees that comprised the brushy thicket that was beyond the wall.
Finding myself alone in this private area, I gave vent to my frustration. In a muttering growl, directed at everyone, no one, and Existence, I ranted, “Why would they get rid of him? He was the best of them! By far! And not just as a person; as a janitor even! The bastards!” and such like, repeating myself over and over again with slight variations and in an increasingly agitated voice (e.g., “Why would they fire him? He’s better than any of them, by a long way! A better janitor, a better worker, let alone human being! The craven swine!”).
My query went unanswered, and in fact everyone, no one and Existence seemed wholly unconcerned with my hardship; and more than that, the edifice of the Classrooms building itself, along with the great orange wall, the pathetic treetops above the wall, the smattering of oaks in the area, the cracked stone fountain, all seemed unconcerned as well and perhaps even happily unconcerned, self-satisfied and content in the lack of effect my anguish had on the enduring unchangingness of their existences.
The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. One person, in all of the world, who I really wanted to talk to, to be with, to know, and he was yanked away from me. “One person!” I said, aloud, to everyone, no one, and Existence, to whatever deities, creators, or fateplayers there be, “Is one really too much? Huh? HUH!!!” And then, mere words unable to satisfy my thirst to vent my helpless frustration, I picked up a large brick that had crumbled from the wall, and hurled it as hard as I could at the building—at Clarks Hill Institute, at everyone, at no one, at Existence.
In the moment that I did, in a coincidence of events that was impossible to believe—as if, in fact, it had been Existence’s plan all along to work me up to the point that I would throw that brick at precisely that place and time—a tiny black and white kitten, who (further mockery from Existence) had probably gotten onto the grounds some time earlier through one of the very holes in the wall from which the brick that I threw had fallen, darted from the shadows of an oak, crossing between me and the building. I let go the stone a split-moment before I saw the kitten; and in another, horrible, split moment, I could see by the trajectory of stone and kitten, that they were going to reach the same spot at the same time. And they did, like two magnets, their collision accompanied by a horrid, fleshy, crunch that somehow accentuated the humidity of the day, making it seem stuffier.
I ran to the kitten, trying to slide to a stop beside him, as I’d seen athletic people do, but instead almost falling on top of him. I was expecting him to be hurt, hoping whatever injuries he had sustained weren’t bad. My hopes were dashed at first glance. It was clear his back was broken. He wasn’t even yowling, he was struggling to pull himself forward with his front legs. His skull was partially crushed, one of his eyes bugging out as he looked up at me in utter incomprehension.
My heart thudding, my body engulfed in an unpleasant numb tingle, a jumble of distinct and indiscriminate thoughts tumbled through my mind, one following close upon the other, and mixing and meshing with each other: What!?...He can’t live, the damage is too great…How can this be? What are the odds?...I’ll nurse him back to health…What, nobody’s allowed to get frustrated anymore!?...There’s surely a healer somewhere in town…You bastard!...What do I do?...How can this be?...The poor little creature…You’ve got to be kidding me! You’ve got to be kidding me! I lose my temper one time! One time!
Gradually, however, a cold realization descended upon me, along with an accompanying physical coldness that superseded the heat of the afternoon, that he, pulling his broken body forward in a seeming dumb fascination with the lack of response he was getting from his hind legs, as his breaths came quick and labored, accompanied by an occasional gasp, was suffering his death throes.
My brother told me once upon a time that if a creature was suffering, the merciful thing to do would be to kill it, if possible. I remembered his exact words: “Put it out of its misery.” Clearly, the little fellow was suffering, and yet the thought of killing him was abhorrent to me. I had already killed him! I knew my brother was right, though: killing him would be an act of mercy: My whole body hot as fire, hotter than the heat of this sultry summer day, I grabbed him around the neck, and…I learned that even near death, a creature is not done fighting. He scratched desperately with his still-working front claws, drawing blood from the fat of my palm.
“Sorry,” I said, “sorry!” I let him go and stroked his head gently, and he stopped struggling.
Maybe he will live, I thought, a gust of desperate hope blowing through me. I cradled him in my arms as gently as my shaking hands would allow, and carried him through the broken spot in the wall, into the brushy thicket beyond. After surveying the sparse collection of trees amidst the array of ferns and briars and ivies, I sat down with him at the base of a large elm nettle tree, where the day’s heat was curbed by ample foliage and the cooling effect of the elm nettle’s droopy, floppy leaves. The aroma of the elm nettle, wet like sage, but sweeter, lent vague comfort.
“You’ll live, after all,” I told him, stroking him, as he looked up at me with that horrible expression of incomprehension, “Yeah, you’ll live.”
I knew he wouldn’t though. If he had any chance of survival, I, well, I wouldn’t have known what to do, but probably I would have found some water for him, and then sought out Mrs. Camden in the teacher offices, and on my way there overcome my shyness long enough to rush around asking people what I should do; but an innate sense of the nearness of death held me, and I held him for what could have been an hour or three, until at some point I noticed his heart wasn’t beating anymore. I sat there with him another hour after that, allowing his spirit to slip from his skin, then I laid him in the first divide of the elm nettle, and stumbled home.
He never yowled; maybe he didn’t feel anything. Once in awhile, he would crawl forward a little way on his front legs, but tiredness overcame him quickly, or perhaps a wordless knowledge of some sort, and he lay there, still, even purring a little when I petted him, as his breath came slower and slower.
The gloomy glow, the dusty humidity, of late afternoon had arrived by the time I got back to my room. Once alone, I fell down on my bed, just crumpled, like a man hit in the head by a stone from a sling. I was spent; I couldn’t even summon the energy to be angry. There was no one, in any case, left to be angry at. The suggestion had always been in my mind, just calmly residing there, that the reason nobody liked me might just be because something was wrong with me, some essential ingredient missing or combination of ingredients awry. The distaste I had for others, the scorn I held for them, had always kept that thought at bay; but now, I knew for sure that it was true: I was contemptible.
I didn’t cry; I had cried hundreds of times, alone in my room, on my bed, at home or here at Clarks Hill, in unfocused rage, sadness, or frustration; but I just lay there today, silent, shaking, my mind shifting spasmodically between thoughts of the poor broken kitten, the knowledge and frustration of Nolk being gone, and an inchoate certainty that things would be changed, now.
I would fit in, now; I would cease being different. I was different because I was contemptible not because I was unique or special or enlightened or clearseeing about the foibles of societal norm. I would have friends. I had considered the possibility before, of fitting in by burying my natural tendencies in an adherence to what was expected of me, but the thought had been repugnant to me; but now, I didn’t know exactly how, but I knew things would be different. I would do what I was told, I would listen to my teachers and parents and peers and abide by their wisdom, as well as by societal norms. I would do what everybody else did; I wouldn’t kill any more kittens.
A low gasping whine escaped me, as if I was trying to breathe but couldn’t, as if I’d had the wind knocked out of me, or perhaps as if I were the kitten, himself, groping for one last breath, one last moment of life. Another gasping whine escaped me, and another; and that’s when the door opened and my new roommate entered.