(Bitter)sweetheart

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I’m fasting, not starving. Fasting to make my family whole. I met a rogue once, Cherry, who fasted for the last moon of every leafbare, back when she had a family. Cherry thought the earth was dry of home. She hated drought but never searched for rain. In this sea of white snow I fall back on color. On memories. On Cherry’s sky blue eyes, she was idyllic greenleafs and burning sunsets. Cherry wanted a home and I thought her home was with me, I could be her family but she said no. Cherry wasn’t even her real name.

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My mother won’t talk to my father because my father was caught with someone else. It’s leafbare and we’re all hungry in more ways than one. My brother, Patchtail, was the hungriest. He was hungry for the adult he would never truly be. Patchtail was the type of tom who always played and never fought, who fell in love with everything. He made the world softer around the edges but now he was tired of being gentle. I remember him as a flower who grew thorns. The boy who wanted to be bloody, not beautiful, who cringed at his own cruelty.

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I want newleaf and Cherry. I want my parents to talk and I want my brother to laugh, not snarl. I want to break my fast and I want to melt the snow. The snow is soft but it breaks us, tears us apart. The sun shines but it is cold and unfeeling, all harsh lights and no heat. The cold is biting off my paws like my brother bites my ears. There has to be someone, something, to distract me from pain and desire. Someone who isn’t Cherry. The only thing that keeps me from devouring myself is the fact that all leafbares end eventually. But this leafbare is different and it will stay with me, always in the corner of my eye.

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Once upon a time, Cherry and I both had functioning families. We were both kits who played mossball, if rogues played mossball. I became an apprentice and I hated the elder’s ticks but loved the stories. Cherry went through whatever coming-of-age things rogues do. I don’t want Patchtail to come of age. He equates masculinity with violence. I equate it with fragility. Patchtail has made himself delicate. Our family is on the verge of collapsing. Cherry’s already did.

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It was never Cherry. It was Cherie. But I don’t know what Cherie means, and important cats shouldn’t have gibberish names. She promised to tell me what it meant, but she didn’t. I was more in love with her than she was with me. She disappeared on her quest for a home, but really she was looking for herself. I hope she succeeded. I hope she comes back, but I know she won’t.

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I broke my fast with prey my mother caught. I took bite after bite and my eyelids grew heavier. She watched me the whole time, made sure I ate the whole thing. I fell asleep, realizing there were poppy seeds in the prey. She was gone when I woke up.

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We are officially broken now. A chunk of us is missing. My father is always gone, probably seeing the same sidechick that drove my mother away. Except now the sidechick is the mainchick. It doesn’t count as cheating. I’m left with my brother who is either ruthless or sobbing. I want to be kits again. We would play, and Patchtail wouldn’t try to act strong and I wouldn’t want a ghost. But we can’t go back, because The End is never the same as Once Upon A Time.

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Sit on the roof and consider eating kittypet food. Sit on the roof and see if I can stretch my neck far enough to find my mother. Sit on the roof and cry for my brother. Sit on the roof and pretend Cherie is there. This isn’t my fault, it’s my father’s. Always telling Patchtail to stop being so emotive. At least Patchtail tries and doesn’t cheat. Who cares if Patchtail pines after toms, at least he stays faithful. Sit on the roof and hope I survive leafbare. Sit on the roof and wonder what Cherie means.

By Cypresswind