Let's call today: 'Wednesday, 22 November 2006'
wrote in the notebook:
I killed him
some of you didn't know that part.
The sensation of my wheel actually going over his small body is weighing heavily on me still.
The pathetic and unnaturally posed form that met my eyes when I looked up to see what I had felt pass beneath the car.
The beat and the breath that still, defiantly, pulsed under my hand when I had poured out of the car to run to see if he was alright.
The eyes that stared groggily up at me later on the steel table, asking me wordlessly why I was to kill him for this, as I sobbed with my arms around the mass of blanket and fur and tears.
The Rational versus the Emotional mind.
He was just a cat.
But he was my cat.
And it's not the losing him that disturbs me so much, I'd always said that when he goes it'd be my parents that take it harder than I, it's how it happened.
Not simply going to sleep and not waking, as I'd always imagined it, but on a cold metal table with a broken foreleg and half lucid from painkillers.
Everyone tells me it's not my fault, and I do truly know that. Mentally at least.
He was old and sick and didn't get out of the way, asleep under my car, I had no way of knowing he was there. His underlying problems, as the vet put it, kept him from moving when the car started and idled, like a younger healthier kitty would have done.
It wasn't my fault.
But that doesn't stop me feeling that way.
I wrote in my diary
crying like a child in true adult pain.
A child in far too much adult pain: That's how I feel about this whole mess.
And I feel stupid that it's all just for a cat.
What a seemingly and theoretically trivial thing to put me in such a dark space for the moment.
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