Storytime: In the Attic (Part 2)

The following will be a multi-part series from a book of short stories I wrote a long time ago. I shall record these stories exactly as they are written with no editing.

Many of the stories are of true events with some embellishments and sometimes a small amount of creative license. All names will be changed to protect the privacy of the individuals mentioned.

Without further ado, let's adventure into my 16-year-old self via our book pensieve. Here is In the Attic.

Goodbye Kitty

The pink and maroon walls of my bedroom quaver as if I am looking through an aquarium. The walls disappear with a flicker as the water escapes the glass and leaks onto my cheeks. A pair of small hands pound at the window--my hands. Enveloped in despair, my eyes follow the black Aerostar drive up the street, turn left, and disappear around the bend. The kidnappers got away! They stole my best friend! My favorite cat, my pet, my friend. Gone. Gone to far away place that, in reality, is not so far away after all.

My mother rests her hand on my shoulder. "We just couldn't keep them!" she explains. I jerk away from her hand and turn to glare at her with loathing.

"How could you!"

"Kyrie, they wouldn't stop peeing on the furniture. I mean look at what Tiger did to your beanbag."

"That doesn't mean you had to take them away from me!"

"Look, I know you miss them already, but--"

"You don't know what it feels like!"

"Honey, please--"

"No!"

"Just listen to me."

"No! You took my Tiger away! How about I take Dad away from you!"

"Please calm down!" She reaches out as though to hold me.

"Go away!"

"Fine. You can stay in here and cry your eyes out if you need to." She retreats into the den, and I glare after her.

"I. Hate. You. I hate you!" I shout at the closed door. I pretend my gaze can burn holes through the white particleboard. Then turning, I plunge my face into my pillow and sob in torment, and every once in a while, I lift my head to stare out the window in red, puffy-eyed desperation. Outside the van returns and the driver disappears into the garage as if he never left.

I cry and cry until, finally, I fall asleep. Dinner that night is awkward, silent, tense.

---

It took me 20 years to heal from this experience. At 16, I could remember it much more clearly. The details were still relatively fresh.

I thank you for your time. Adiamas.

​--Kyriel