I Can't Let You Go, short story, by Erik Pierro

I Can't Let You Go by Erik Pierro

Part I: Observations

A gentleman, perhaps in his mid-thirties, sits at his living-room chair - his favorite chair. This is the chair where he not only unwinds, after a long day of work, but also conducts business over his telephone. That very same telephone, in his hand at present, is the telephone we examine; the telephone that is containing of a conversation, this very moment, which will lead to the events soon to unfold. The gentleman's bearded chin set in motion, beneath his mustachioed upper lip - short and highly risen, for a man of his age - conveys words to the effect that may now be stated. "Brian? Yes... yes, hi. It's Eddie, from the office. Yeah, I know. Hey - I wanted to ask you something. The thing is that my cats had kittens and... well, I don't know what to do with them. I was wondering if... Is that right? Well, it was worth a shot. "Hey, by the way: the vic from earlier. Yeah, the autopsy. Her boyfriend was at the office, before I left. Poor guy was in sorry shape. Yeah, he was asking what happened - I don't think anyone told him. Oh, that's right, too. Well, that'll do it. "I felt really bad for him. It was just... heartbreaking. Yeah, I guess they were engaged before she... Yeah, I had a brief conversation with him. I ended up giving him some details... Do you know, it's funny because those kittens were born the same day she died... actually I estimated it to be about the same time frame, too. "Give him one? I'm not sure that would be appropriate. Yeah, that's a good point. It would be a nice gesture, too. I can imagine the guy is going through hell. I'll have to get in contact with him. That's a thoughtful idea, Brian; thanks. "Oh, your wife is on you, again, huh? Alright, Brian... alright... yeah... I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight." The man places the phone on the base, while he strokes his beard with the other hand. His eyes gaze into the console-style television set, as he mulls over his day. A rigid, grave brow shadows his eyes. He is still, like a sculpted and molded thinking-man, reminiscent of the way someone's grandpappy might be seen to be sitting at the front porch, gazing out over the fields. His eyelids fall shut. These were the proceedings following a day of postmortem examination. The man - the medical examiner. His conversatory companion - a coworker and close friend. The subject of conversation - kittens, a dead fiance, a heartbroken counterpart, and a nagging, admonishing wife. To follow - Eddie: spiraling into the oblivion known to mankind as imagination and, perhaps to say in an exact and common sense, dreamland. It follows that, on the next day, Eddie will contact the victims fiance. It follows that he will offer him a small, furry creature. It follows that Eddie will attempt to kill two birds with one stone, as one would say, by ridding himself of one more kitten and helping a fellow human being to cope with the crushing emotional roller-coaster one is wont to ride following the death of one so beloved - that crushing emotional roller-coaster who tends to dash forth at break-neck speeds, at times, seemingly of its own twisted volition; almost as if it means to play a terrifying game with its patrons and guests, whom are unwilling participants - players in a game whose sole purpose is often to destroy any sense of happiness that might arise. To continue, we will look now to a younger lad about twenty or twenty-two years of age. His wrinkle-free face is seemingly cherubic and shows us a portrait of youthful inexperience - the portrait of one who is in unfamiliar territory. Thrust into the deep waters of lost-love, his unkempt appearance is the best indicator that he is a young man, indeed, 'going through hell'. Shoulder length, mid-brown hair; a strand or two cross over his face and he brushes them out of the way to see his unexpected door-guest better. The transaction commences, as the young man holds the box, indifferently. He peers into the box, as Eddie speaks to him. Any other day, our young friend would have been overtaken with a mixture of surprise, happiness, confusion, and wonder. Today, this is not the case. His face remains in a state of rest and displays his indifference, perfectly - he is, to phrase it poetically, dead inside. A few moments pass, as Eddie continues to talk at him. As Eddie places a hand on the young man's shoulder, our young friend's chin quivers and his eyes are glossed. This is the moment, we will find, that something magical happens. This very moment, we see that this small, furred and curious and claw-bearing creature climbs from the box and scales up this young man's shirt. Tears roll down the young man's face. His mouth opens a bit, as he gasps for a proper breath. It is an attempt to choke back the grief and overwhelming rush of emotions. His hands drop the box and reach up to embrace this tiny and elegant creature. Eddie stands before him, silent and empathetic. This holds for a moment, until Eddie says a quiet, "Best wishes, Jason. Goodnight," and walks toward his automobile. Streetlights shine an alien yellow glow over the sidewalk and across Eddie's physique. There stands a tall, dark shadow behind him. A shadow like a specter, with a voyeuristic nature - simply lingering about to watch the events unfold. This specter disappears, as Eddie enters the white '95 Lincoln. He is gone, now. A silent street; a silent breeze, following. Scraping of a dried-out maple leaf against the road breaks the silence, this Autumn evening. Jason watches it, as it tumbles about in a fluid dance both effeminate and masculine. It finds its way down that destined street, toward its own fate. A door slams and, on the inward side, Jason carries an innocently pure creature to a warm and comfortable new home. In this home we find nearly bare furnishings. The bare furnishings one might expect in a home newly purchased wherein a newly engaged couple might engage in newly engaged love-making, merry-making, family-making, home-making, and all around life-living. The bare furnishings one might expect to someday be decorated with their own coffee stains, tears and wrinkles, and aura of existence that might be expected to tell tales of good and bad times past; the good and bad times a newly engaged couple might be making, if one would expect this to be the fate which was in store for our young Jason and his passed beloved. Newly papered walls box in drab, brown plaid couches - probably given to them from Jason's parents or grandparents. This sort of furniture makes a perfect territory for a feline companion to perch, prowl, relax, stretch, and sharpen their claws. Suffice to say, this will apparently be the outcome. About the bedroom still lay feminine clothing. The source - the deceased. The present state - disarray. Jason spends many hours holding his new companion, sobbing and lamenting. His tears come to wet his shirt. Eyes, red, gaze vacantly into the wall, afterward... all the while, a sleeping predator lay upon his lap, dreaming of things perhaps beyond our understanding and awareness. Finally, Jason's trembling lips mouth the words, "I'll call you Allycat... that's what I used to call Allison," and he falls back into a fit of sobbing. Let us, now, speculate and examine what those dreams and thoughts may be. Let us peer into the mind of this elegant creature. Perhaps we may gain some insight into the proceedings that unfold.

Part II: The Eyes Of The Allycat

Squeaking, twitching, and fidgeting. These things are a bother and serve only to start her awake. Why must she awaken, now? A hunt, after a chirping prey that flits in the air as a leaf - similar to the creatures she has seen through the windows, during the morning hours. They are the last remaining ones that tweet and sing about and on the bows and branches. Feline dreams seem to follow in that vein and this, too, for this particular Allycat: flashes and blips of memories, are they hers? Are these human hands... of course they are not hers. These human shoes, slipping around a human foot; these human sheets of fabric - what use are they, to a feline? Even considering, still, one feline may wonder why these thoughts have a sense of familiarity. These nostalgic imaginings - can they be named so? Jason is readying to leave for the day. He goes out for several hours, for several days in a row, regularly. Every five days, he stays with her for two days excepting the brief outings he may make to hunt for them at what he calls the 'grocery store'. She finds it odd that the skins of these animals are inedible, shiny, and smooth but she does enjoy their texture. What shall she do, during the day... this is a recurring thought she apparently ponders. Many days she typically will meditate in deep thought. Some days she simply enjoys the present. Other days she will entertain herself by watching the other animals outside but, with the air becoming colder, she is noticing that less and less are around to be seen. Today is the day, she decides, that she will take another tour of the house. Jason tends to move things around, arbitrarily, and she must find where he puts them. It is good to know where these things are in case, at least, of emergency... if not to simply satisfy curiosity. She has even speculated that he is playing a subtle game to keep her entertained, while he is away. The fabrics he wraps himself in - he tends to leave them about the floor for her to remember him by. After they lose his scent, usually, he'll wash them and fold them, then place them inside of the large, wooden box. She has always wanted to get inside of it; to see what wonders hide within. What corners and crevices can she explore? She makes her way to the closet. It's not sealed completely, so she pries it open. Inside, nothing has changed. The pile of fabrics he doesn't wear sits stilly, stacked up in a corner. She has noticed that he seems to become sad, when he looks at them. She pauses, while a thought strikes her mind. Allycat, our current subject, wonders if this is a thought or a feeling. Perhaps - yes: it is a feeling; a strange feeling. This feeling is nostalgic. It's a feeling of home-ness. She has seen this before but cannot quite place it. That fabric with the red dots all over it: it is so familiar. A flicker of visual - she sees it being tossed on the floor, by the bed. How very strange, to her, that she should imagine such a thing. Why upon the floor? She has been staring at this fabric for far too long and it is time that she decides to make her way to the place she saw in her thoughts. It is by the bed. This is not the side of the bed which Jason typically sleeps on. She looks at the bed, briefly, and back at the floor. This is so very strange to her and she can't help but fixate on this thought for quite some time. The door closes. Has it really been that long? He's kissing at her and calling, "Allycat!" She runs to him to find just what we see - Jason squatting in the kitchen, holding snacks for her! These aren't her favorite kind but they are, apparently, all he seems to think she likes. If only she could tell him... Of course, this is where we find this dear creature to come across a novel idea. This is where we find that Allycat will make her first attempt to communicate with him. She knows, now, that she is a brilliant genius. The snack lay on the floor, in front of her. He is poking at it. She acts as if she doesn't care, staring indifferently in the opposite direction. She blinks her eyes and stares vacantly at the wall, as if Jason is not even present. "So no more of these, I guess? I thought you liked these. Oh well. I'll get you a different kind, next time; yes I will, my kitty," he says as she looks him with wide eyes, unblinking. It's time to tell him what kind. She makes her way to the counter and rubs against that empty can he left by the sink. Its label - tunafish, with the silhouette of a fish depicted. It is to be covered in saliva, all about its edges. "Tuna? Oh, I don't have any tuna left but I'll get some tuna snacks on the way home, tomorrow." Yes! we see that he understands and Allycat, at this juncture, is clearly satisfied. That he would ever understand is a miracle. This worked but she will need to practice for more complex communications. Allycat spends her night with Jason. It's a typical night. It is a quiet, comfortable bliss of love-making and baby-talking, while she lays beside him on the couch. Stretching her limbs, rubbing all over his hands and legs, she is in ecstasy. She wonders: does he feel the same? We come to examine her, perchance, on a day that she has the most startling déjà vu. It is so startling that she is troubled for the remainder of the day. She can't stop running the thought through her mind - the thought of that feeling she had when she saw Jason climbing out of the bed beside her, in the morning, and saying, "I love you, Allycat. You're lucky you can sleep in." Her biggest question is along the vein of, 'Why, after all of these times of the same events, should one feel such a feeling?' The times that he's climbed out of bed, in the morning - nearly every day. She notices that this strange feeling surrounds, specifically, what he said to her. The bed is made, nicely. Jason always prefers it this way. Allycat is indifferent. This day offers a special dispensation, as she has the strange feeling that she might like it messy. This in mind, shortly before Jason comes home, she makes it a point to knead and tug on the sheets. The messier she can make it, the better it will look. She struggles and works at it, to the best of her abilities and until she is satisfied - and exhausted. Her masterpiece lay here to behold, when Jason should be ready to see what she has done for him. But this, too, brings further discomfort. Here is that feeling, once more. Déjà vu... how odd this is to her. She is far too tired to think any longer about it and stretches out, across the middle of the bed. Her dreams take hold and she dreams of nothing more than this very moment - her, laying upon the bed and sprawled out, waiting for Jason to come home; the sheets in disarray and chaotic as an ocean mid-storm. He will come home and smile, then climb into the bed with her. They will rub against one another and make sounds. Why are they doing this? Why is Jason behaving so strangely? Why does she enjoy it? Why is she so in love? Why is he calling her... Allison? Our feline awakens to the door slamming closed. Half awake and half dreaming, she sees him come into the bedroom, exhausted and tight-lipped. He must have been hard at play, today. Jason takes off the fabrics he wears five of every seven days, slipping into the ones that he typically wears when he is ready to sleep with her. She watches him, in a fog. He is beautiful to her and she loves him so very much. Three words repeat in her mind: "I love him. I love him. I love him." He climbs into the bed, just as she saw him do in her dream. Her hands reach out to him and press, gently, upon his chest. She strokes his chest, slightly, and then climbs on top of him. Déjà vu. She falls back into her slumber. It is midnight, now. Her eyes are slowly shedding their lids. This is her favorite hour of the day. This is the hour of the day when she can hear the squeaks and skitters about the house. This is the hour of the day that she may watch Jason sleep. Sometimes he stirs and calls out strange things but tonight is not one of those nights. Tonight is a night of early Winter silence. Tonight is a night of tranquility and, for Allycat, of reflection. Bethinking the dotted fabric, she pries the closet open. It is still there - atop the pile. If she is too noisy with what she plans, she may awaken Jason. What a disaster that would be. This must be a surprise.

Part III: Reflection

Sunlight blasts through the window, leaving flickering dashes of luminescence across Jason's eyelids. It is warm and comforting against his skin. An arm is cast across his face and a grumble or groan breaks out of his lips, like the slow release of liquid from a cracked vase, and, "Not today..." pours into the pillow beneath his mouth. Allycat sits upon the floor, beside the bed. She lets out her own fluid cries, in the form of an elongated, "Eyaooowww?" Is he ignoring her? Did he fall back to sleep? She tries it once more. "Morning, Ally." Déjà vu! "Eyaowww." "What?" "Eyaowwwww." Jason peers over the corner of the bed to behold a site of sights: a freshly groomed feline, gazing at him with suggestive eyes - pupils wide. She stands beside a red and yellow polka-dot shirt. Why is he suddenly grim? He picks up the shirt and places it in the closet, atop the pile of clothes. The door is shut, completely. No more poking around in there, for our furry friend. She, clearly, did not expect this reaction; she loves him, despite all of his strange behaviors and habits. That day was not too different from the day we examine, now. The day when Allycat is getting into the wooden castle, where Jason places his freshly cleaned fabrics. It is an exciting day for her, as he finally left a bottom drawer cracked enough for her to pry open. She opens it to find that there are no clothes in it. This drawer, evidently, is different from the rest. Instead of clothes, there are arbitrary items - perhaps keepsakes? But why they look so familiar to her, she cannot understand. She must get away from these things, for with them come into her mind a flood of incomprehensible thoughts, with that same feeling of nostalgia. And... sadness... She is fleeing, scrambling about the house, until she finds herself tucked inside of the enclave that lies beneath Jason's television stand, in the living room. She is curled up, breathing fast; her eyes widely peeled open like a peony in full blossom, taking in all before it. Her claws dig into some magazines. Her tail beats back and forth. Her ears twitch and her whiskers. Her backhairs stand slightly up. In her panic, she is caterwauling at the top of her lungs. What were those feelings? What were those items? Who was the woman in the picture and why does she look so familiar? Why is she upset? An hour or so has passed, during these reflections. She is now making her way back to the drawer. Her courage is finally come about. Gazing upon the picture that she found, along with the various other things, she begins to imagine the young woman looking at her through the bathroom mirror. She is talking to Jason, completely ignoring her. What a strange thought, to our curious creature. Jason comes into the picture and wraps his arms around the woman. Why is he kissing her? Why is he telling her that he loves her? She imagines that he must be speaking to her, not the woman. She feels a certain comfort, while he wraps his arms around the woman. She feels a warmth when he kisses the woman. She hears him whisper in her ear, "I love you so much, Allycat. Marry me. Let's make a family." Her heart drops. Is this... a memory? Allycat paws the photograph. She is curious to see what is on the other side of it. She has an inkling that there may be a clue to all of this. She must dig through these things - perhaps there might be more explanation. The back of the photo reveals the words, "Not even death can keep us apart. Love, Allycat." After some time of reflection, she maneuvers the photograph to the edge of the drawer and pushes it onto the floor. It will be there, when Jason comes home. She has to show him - she must. Hours pass and she waits, silently considering all of her findings. She thinks about those strange memories. She wonders what happened to Allison. Finally, the door opens and Jason calls out to her. She makes no effort to answer. He calls a few more times. She continues to make no effort to answer. After searching a few rooms, his head pokes around the corner of the bedroom doorway. Before his eyes sits Allycat, staring up at him and still, like an Egyptian statue. Her narrow pupils are demanding, scared, confused, and deep in though, while the photograph sits on the floor in front of her. He sees the drawer open and his expression falls to a sullen, peaceful disappointment. Jason makes his way to the photograph, picks it up, and gazes at it with down-titled lids and a flat semi-frown. He flips it over and smiles but it is not a smile of joy but mixed with sadness and remembrance. He places it in the drawer, pushes it closed, and picks Allycat up to press her against his chest. She is a fully grown cat, now. Well in her years. Much time has passed since she found that photograph. Almost every day she has opened that drawer, to remember. Many days, she has pulled out various items to show Jason. He's been bringing a woman to the house, sporadically, over the past couple of years. Allycat has been growing immensely jealous and makes it apparent, as often as possible. Jason has been paying less and less attention to her. We will find our way, through time, to the fateful day that makes our story one to tell: Jason has recently proposed to his new friend. They are close and Allycat has come to accept it. She has built a unique friendship with Jason's new fiance. She has come to the conclusion that she wants nothing more than for him to be happy, as Allycat is getting old. Her many years with Jason, she feels, have been a blessing to her. They have brought her much joy and she loved him deeply. It may have been only a part of his life but he was her whole life. She is tired, now. She lays upon the couch, watching Jason read a magazine. It's hard to breathe. She doesn't want to bother her beloved, so she lets out one final sigh and makes absolute certain that the love of her life is the last thing she sees before she descends into darkness. She thinks to herself that perhaps in her dreams, she'll find again some sweet memories and those she will embrace with joy and ecstasy. Finally, she can let him go.

The End

I own all copyrights to this short story, in accordance with US copyright laws. I do, however, permit the FREE sharing of this story so long as I am credited for the authorship, to the fullest.