Lyssia was five years old. She had bright, mischievous eyes and was
quick to anger, as well as to laugh. She
was naturally strong willed and inquisitive which, coupled with the fact that
her father was wealthy and indulgent, made Lyssia somewhat of a difficult
child. She could be sweet as candy, or
as ornery as a badger if the mood struck her.
Her moods were wont to change with the quickness of a breath, and she
could go from kicking and raging to docile and cooing when allowed whichever
thing was currently her fancy. Lyssia
was not a bad child, but certainly spoiled, and in need of firm yet gentle
guidance. Which is why it was such a
shame that she had been born to Odette.
***
Odette was a front-lines nurse
during the war, where she first met Henry.
He ended up in the hospital with the bottom half of his leg blown off
after stepping on a land-mine. At first
she found him rather tiresome. Despite
the pain so evident in his eyes, as well as the sweat on his brow, he refused
to complain. Often, Henry wouldn’t take
anything to ease his suffering, saying that there were others who needed it
more than himself. Odette was a
pragmatist and so had trouble believing that his concern for the welfare of his
fellow soldiers was anything more than bravado.
She changed his dressings with precision and swiftness before moving on
to her next charge; no emotion showing on her delicately featured face. In her heart Odette felt that war was a
nothing more than a messy version of little boys playing at heroes. Whoever the victor, the history books would
reflect their righteous reasons for its pursuit. At day’s end her job as a nurse kept her
clothed and fed and gave her a modicum of satisfaction for she was skillful at
it. The fact that she took no joy in her
livelihood was of little consequence.
Henry’s recovery was long and slow;
the only break in the tedium was when he was tended by his pearl skinned, ebony
haired nurse. There were a few who had
charge of his care, but he lived for the times when her pale, slender hands
were the ones that deftly saw to his wounds.
Many of the nurses were buxom, many more were chatty, and a few were
more traditionally beautiful. The other
soldiers, recovering from various degrees of damage, tended to focus their
attention on ones such as these. The
nurses would titter, not out of earshot, that you could tell the ones who would
soon be recovered by their propensity to flirt, or pinch a nearby bum. Henry was much less overt in his attention,
all of which was reserved for Odette. He
would follow her movements around the room with his eyes; unabashedly watching
her perform her duties. Studying every
nuance of her movement as though it might reveal something of her true
nature. That, above all, was most
appealing to him, the slight air of aloofness and mystery with which Odette
conducted herself. Had she ever chanced
to look him in the eyes she may have known how he felt, but she did not, and
eventually he was discharged from the hospital.
It was half a decade before Henry
and Odette met again, by chance. The
only thing of note with the time that passed was that while Odette’s life
continued on down the well-trodden road of mediocrity, Henry (now a decorated
war hero) used his skill in business and negotiation to become exceptionally
wealthy.
***
When her job became less vital after the war,
Odette moved on to work as a typist. The
pay was slightly less, the tedium vastly more.
Still, it afforded her the ability to rent a room from a squat Ukrainian
woman who ensured she ate regularly. If
the truth were told, the food was terrible, and the accommodation spare and
cold. The impetus behind Odette
accepting the room was the fat, tortoise shell cat with which she shared the
space.
Of all the creatures of the Earth,
Odette loved cats the most. She had
done, since she was very small. One of
her earliest memories was of spending hours in the musty barn loft playing with
a litter of freshly weaned kittens. It
was one of but a few precious moments she looked back on with fondness, and she
held it locked deeply within her heart.
Odette’s father, a widower, was a poor farmer at best; largely due to
his fondness for the bottle. It was he
who had insisted on drowning the kittens once they were discovered. The idea of this was more than young Odette
could bear, but she had learned early that crossing her father would leave her
bloodied and bruised, and in the end he would still have his way. She did, however, manage to sneak away one tiny
white and orange kitten before the rest were roughly placed in a potato sack
and forced to perish in the creek. The
devastation of the situation was well tempered by the survival of this one
perfect creature, who she named Una.
Though stealthy to a fault at
first, the longer Miss Una went undiscovered the bolder and more careless
Odette became. Her father, in general
paid her very little mind, and Odette had not yet reached the age where her
developing womanhood became of great interest to him. On the whole, it was easy for her to sneak away
to spend time with her treasure. The day
that all changed, Odette’s father had been gambling in town. He did this often and generally stayed until
well after sundown. On this particular
evening, he had been drinking moonshine, and had lost the little he had almost
before he had played it. He returned
home just at dusk in a black and inebriated state. Odette had made a toy for Una and they were
absorbed in play on the uneven front steps of the house. She had been giggling so hard at her little
cat’s antics that she had failed to hear her father shambling up the dirt road
towards the house. When his shadow
loomed (seemingly out of nowhere) over her, Odette froze. A wide-eyed look of terror crossed her face,
and her mouth opened without sound. As her
father’s cruel gaze honed in on the frisking kitten, adrenaline kicked in and
Odette scooped the tiny cat up in her arms and cradled her protectively. Glaring up at him with all the fury a child
has ever mustered Odette said,
“Y’can’t drown ‘er papa. Ye jes can’t!” He sneered at her, and wove to the side a few
steps as he lost his balance. Then as he
bent down and put his face near enough to hers that she could feel his reeking
breath when he answered ,
“Naw Lord’ll know I cain’t drown
the little feller. Why that’d be down
an’ right cru-el.” He swayed again before flashing her a smile that was like
the grimace of the reaper himself.
“Course I cain’t have yeh disohbeyin’ me neether.” He winked, and as
quick as a flash reached out towards the trembling ball of fur in her arms,
snapping its tiny neck with the flick of his wrist. He then stumbled up onto the porch, as though
it was just an average interchange, before slamming into the screen door and
cursing loudly. A trail of harsh
laughter floated outside before he was swallowed into the house, and the night
was again silent.
Odette sat down on the top step
with a heavy thud and stared down uncomprehendingly at the now lifeless
creature in her skinny arms. Giant,
painful tears welled up in her young eyes and rolled down her face with no
sound. Her dead cat’s eyes frozen in
unseeing terror, Odette held Una until her body became cold and rigid; the
final insult to a life so thoughtlessly extinguished. It was from this point the Odette’s feeling
for her father changed from fearful indifference to a deep and lasting
hatred. When he wasted away slowly in
hospital, a great many years later, she attended his bedside but once; to
ensure he was at last and finally, dead.
Una’s untimely death was solely his doing and she refused to associate
her love of cats with this truly evil man.
They became somewhat god-like in the eyes of the young Odette, and ever
after cats were representative of purity and joy. Though she never again gave any cat a name
for fear of tainting it by her blood ties to that unholy man who sired
her.
