Revised October 11th, 2014
Yomiel knows no more. Nothing, except the yell he would throw all over the world, if he only could – if only his voice weren't dead in his throat and the wish to spill tears stopped drowning him in his useless misery, when all he feels like is a desperate can of garbage.
It must be his punishment, to always be late – too late to watch his skills turn into his ruin, too late to realise he had been holding a girl and a gun for minutes, to become blind with terror. Of course this is, and this was the last of his delays.
From now on, he will always be there at the right time, and will let the world stab his back exactly when he has no strength to face it.
It was too late to stop her. But now is now, here is here. The attic she lived in is too vast to bear her absence – he has escaped on the terrace in horror, and would throw himself on the street anytime, except that there is no point in trying to kill a corpse.
He lets his life lie all around him, in shards. No reason to pick it up, to cut his hands. He just cries without tears, trapped in roaring silence; he has no way to move in that tempest, with so many waves of nothingness and so many questions that cannot be answered.
No one could explain where his place in life has gone, nor why those golden eyes are staring at him nearby, motionless, as if they were mourning her death too.
He can only process a few thoughts, his sight erased by pain. It is him, yes. Sissel. The little stray has made it up there, no idea how. Sissel. There he is, sitting and filling the stage of a tragedy in the clueless – or careless? – way that cats only can have. Sissel. Sissel.
Once again, Yomiel can hardly believe his eyes. A puppy so small and frail, a kitten he had left in a forgotten road he doesn't even remember. A moment later, right beside him, a cat is splitting the moonlight in half with his meows, as if all the lives the world depended on their sound. And that sound is of sheer pain and loneliness, a pain and loneliness he had never known just ten terrible minutes ago.
There is no reason to try any longer – Yomiel surrenders and falls to his knees, ready to accept the truth as he will find it.
The questions only arise late in the night, when he lies on the terrace, with the cat tight in his arms. The little cat's heartbeat is quiet enough to let him talk.
"Really, I don't know how in the world you ended up here."
He can't help wondering if there is any sense in talking to a cat. Well, of course, as long as there is any sense in being alive when you are dead.
"There is nothing left here for you. Won't you go away?"
Not a move in the nightly air. Apparently, just like Yomiel's life, time on this planet has stopped, and the cat is part of it all.
"All right, little boy. If you have an eternity to spare, you can stay with me. Until you get tired, that is."
He smashes his head back on the floor, lowering his eyelids in the bed of a false death. The cat won't move from his chest, either – he meows in his sleep while the city awakens, deep within its concrete bowels.
They stay, still tight in their sunrise embrace.
They will have plenty of time to get on their feet again.